Phases From Doorway to Dinner Table

 Phases From Doorway to Dinner Table

We tend to break our travels into phases.  It's not that everything is planned to the n^th degree or that every detail conveniently falls into place.  In the fog of travel, as in that of war, plans require the occasional off and on ramps, with Plans B and maybe even C kept close at hand.

Especially at the beginning of a getaway, we usually know what we’ll be doing, or at least what we must accomplish to get somewhere.  Our most recent adventure was no different, although it came right from the start with a less-than-enjoyable twist, one that probably deserves a descriptive word of its own.

Phase One began when with the usual phrase, “Bye house,” from Maria Elena as I locked our door and repositioned ourselves for an overnight stay at our daughter’s home, conveniently closer to our departure airport.  The next morning, Phase Two got underway with a bus ride to the airport.  Our

daughter drove us to the bus station, we unloaded our luggage, said our goodbyes, and waited for the bus to arrive.  That was when Maria Elena realized she had forgotten her tote bag containing her prescription drugs.  She wasn’t willing to take a chance to go without them.  Neither was I, especially since we’d be out of the country for two months.  She had worked too hard to make sure she had enough medication for the entire trip to leave it sitting at our daughter’s home. 

There we were, with about thirty minutes to go before our slated bus arrived.  I checked the schedule.  The next bus wouldn’t arrive for another hour and a half.  Plenty of time to retrieve the pills.  Yes, but doing so would eat into our precious cushion for getting through beltless TSA screening, not to mention eliminating any margin for the inevitable “What could possibly go wrong?” hiccup.

Then I realized our granddaughter was still at home.  She could shuttle the wayward bag to rendezvous with her mother, who was already headed her way.  Like a relay race, our granddaughter could pass the baton to her mother, who could then hopefully zip it to the bus station.  With a smidgen of luck, they could complete the transfer before our bus departed the station.  It hadn’t even arrived yet.  But time was ticking away, and me of little faith didn’t think they’d make it.  Maria Elena was confident, but then, she had to be.  Somehow, they pulled it off, likely aided by the police granting them a pass on the likely speeding involved and by the bus driver, who herself was running late.  When the driver heard of our plight, she seemed perfectly willing to move at a more leisurely pace while loading the luggage of her passengers.  

Before the bus doors closed and Phase III, the drive to the airport, could begin, our daughter pulled in front of the bus, winning the race.  Like a seasoned drug mule, she passed the bag to me.  We were back on our original schedule.  And now, finally relaxed, we had plenty of time for the Transportation Security Administration to do its due diligence.

    The last of our departure phases, call it “Up, Up, and Away,” had Maria Elena, me, and friends Joann and Leonardo flying nonstop to Roma.  As a perk, Delta offers drinks on its international flights.   And I thought it a treat especially for us for choosing to fly Delta over our normal carrier to Italy, Aer Lingus.  What we gave up was a 5:30 a.m. Guinness during our usual layover in Dublin.  Other advantages like one less takeoff and landing, and less opportunity to misplace our luggage in an aircraft swap, seemed like clear-cut bargains.  

Tailwind or not, whether Delta or Aer Lingus, the choice of chicken or pasta as an entrée seems universal.  But could it all be a ploy, preparing us for a greater appreciation for what lay ahead, the ambrosia of the immortal gods, Italian food?  We were, after all, enroute to Italy, the motherland of nonstop food, often disguised by the simple sounding word antipasto: a colorful assortment of cured meats, cheeses, olives, vegetables, seafood, or bruschetta served to stimulate the appetite before the main course.  As comedian John Pinette once put it when he described staggering into an Italian trattoria famished to ask: “Can I order?”  “No,” said the waiter.  “First-a we gonna bring out some’a food.  Then we come’a and take’a your order.”  By the time seven or eight plates of antipasti have arrived, you have to be more than affamato (famished) to bother ordering.  Well before we’d be fortunate to hear those cherished words, we still had miles to go, and following our landing, a little bureaucratic delay to navigate.

A big unknown upon arrival concerned the newly introduced European Entry/Exit System, or EES, inaugurated on 10 April 2026.  Get ready.  The EES will now closely monitor your stay in a majority of

Entry/Exit System Participating Countries

European countries by tracking your international arrivals and departures throughout its participating countries.  It applies to non-European Union and non-Schengen nationals visiting for stays of up to 90 days within any 180-day period.  That means American travelers, unless lucky enough to travel with an EU passport, will encounter the system.  This computerized system of digital records and biometric checks replaces the familiar manual stamping of passports we’ve become accustomed to through the years.  Frequent travelers will need to monitor their visits, so they don’t get caught short of the number of days they plan to stay.  Upon arrival you wouldn’t want to learn that you must leave in a few days because of an earlier visit when you had planned to stay considerably longer. 

We hadn’t been to Italy since the EES debuted.  We therefore anticipated that it would take some time to satisfy their data needs, which involves scanning our passports, having facial images taken, and registering our fingerprints.  During the rollout, some airports experienced 90-minute waits, and in extreme cases, two-to-three-hour queues had resulted in passengers missing connecting flights. 

To compound matters, we were seated toward the tail of the aircraft, predisposing us to becoming “tail-end Charlies” in any EES queue.  When we finally arrived at passport control the time needed for our initial EES registration could have added considerably to an already long day.  Fortunately, things worked out just fine.  Italy, being especially popular, was among nine countries allowed to delay full EES implementation because of concerns about queues and the potential for cascading operational problems.  Thankfully we weren’t delayed that morning. 

Medieval Calitri Borgo

The rows of EES machines stood idle like Stonehenge pillars in a cavernous room, perhaps for the last time.  It being six in the morning may also have played a part.  Instead, we had our passports stamped the old-fashioned way.  There was no need to push on an already open door.  Sometimes, even bureaucracy knows when to take a day off.

Our journey continued into additional phases, but they were less precise as to exact timing and largely out of our control.  We had arrived in the bosom of the motherland, Rome, but there remained several more hours before we would reach Calitri.  Fortunately, the morning was yet young.  We had landed early and saved time by bypassing the EES. 

Our dash to the finish line next involved a railroad relay.  Now with our checked bags in tow, our first railway jaunt took us from the Fiumicino Airport train station to Rome’s main rail terminal, Termini.  Rather than meaning “terminus” or the end of the line, Termini derives its name from the Latin thermae, or baths, referring to the Baths of Diocletian (Thermae Diocletianae), which once stood nearby.  About then, we’d all have appreciated a visit to the thermae.  But if as they say, “All roads lead to Rome,” they along with the train tracks, lead away.

Arrived at Termini, it didn’t help that we had to roll our luggage the entire length of the arrival banairo (rail platform) to reach the station.  We waited there about half an hour before learning the  number of the banairo needed to board our high-speed train headed south to the modern Naples area terminal, Afragola.  The platform was nearby, however, our seats were in the second car from the engine.  Reaching them, unfortunately, required us to once again trek the length of the platform with our retinue of unruly baggage in trail.  About then, I wondered if Maria Elena’s recovered bag of drugs

Ultra-modern Afragola Trai Station Outside of Naples

contained any painkillers and found myself yearning for a numbing Delta mixed drink.  By this point, anything would have suited my urge.  Once seated, I settled for a room-temperature Coke, absent the ghiaccio (ice) I’d asked for which seemingly is still a rare commodity even in first class.  Still, it was a pleasant ride, lasting about an hour and a half, which we all enjoyed in the air-conditioned compartment.

The new Naples Afragola terminal began another phase.  It was modern, beautiful, and judging from the activity we saw while pulling in, still expanding.  More tracks were being added, and storefronts were beginning to appear along the concourse.  For us, its primary advantage, and no doubt for many others, was that we no longer had to travel deep into Naples to reach Garibaldi Centrale, its central train station.  Afragola was so new that when we disembarked, we had no idea where the exits were.  We had arranged to meet our driver there.  But where was “there”?  I asked someone who looked to be a police officer where the exits were, and he went above and beyond, personally escorting us to an elevator.  In all our years of travel, it was yet another reminder of how hospitable Italians can be.  The elevator itself was a pleasant surprise.  It worked.  That may sound like a small thing, but after encountering so many elevators that hadn’t worked forcing us to hoist our bags up flights of stairs, this felt like a minor miracle.  And lo and behold, when the elevator doors opened another miracle materialized.  There stood our driver, Claudio, prepared for the final sprint.  

Claudio is part of a musical family.  His father, Benito, lived in Argentina for a time and sang under the stage name Roberto Luna.  Popular for a time, today the name Benito is less common.  At the time he took his first breath, however, parents were incentivized by the Fascist regime to name their children Benito or Rachele after Mussolini's wife.  Many seized on the 500 Lire offer and another Benito, a.k.a. Robert Luna, was christened.  I never learned whether Benito played an instrument, but his three sons do.  The oldest, Rodolfo, now the retired manager of Calitri’s former SIGMA supermarket, proudly plays a cherished Gibson guitar.  The youngest of the trio, Daniele, is an accomplished drummer with a steady gig as the operator of a magazine shop.  Claudio expresses his musical genes as a low-frequency end of the spectrum base guitarist while performing with numerous area bands. 

Palazzo Clock Tunnel Leading Us Home

      Close on Claudio’s tail through the terminal, we were soon outside.  Minutes later, Claudio pulled up with his van that was already chilling down.  It had turned hot. The cool breeze in the van was worth the risk of colpo d’aria, a term that reflects the traditional Italian belief that a draft or sudden exposure to cold air can give you a sore throat or other illness.  We were soon on the A16 Autostrada, in familiar territory, headed east from Naples, across the Apennines and into the verdant fields of Campania, closing in on Calitri.

We had approached the finish line or at least the place where we had to leave the van.  To reach the actual finish line required us to roll our luggage just short of a quarter mile into the borgo.  It is a cobbled medieval lane too narrow to accommodate automobiles.  Absent breaking a ribbon, our finish line is marked by the insertion of a very long key into our door.  This final walking phase is the part Maria Elena dislikes most, especially after hours upon hours of travel.  About all we have in common with a footrace finish line is that we, too, are out of breath when we finally arrive.  In need of rest, we found our

Len & JoAnn's Room for a Much Needed Rest

rooms and each in our own way implored Morpheus, the god of dreams, to allow us to escape the reality
of our fatigue and find refuge in the refreshing sustenance of sleep.

Claudio served as more than just our driver.  Pulling into the tunnel entrance to the Borgo from the town hall piazza, he didn’t just drop us off.  Instead, like The Hulk superhero, he transformed into a strongback as he hoisted luggage on his shoulder and to the clitter-clatter of the wheels across the cobbles proceeded to tote an overage of luggage to our door.

We’ve been incredibly lucky to cross paths with some truly wonderful friends here in Calitri, like Claudio.  The English-speaking community has become a tight-knit group, and we love getting together whenever a quorum is in town.  On this visit, our foursome had the opportunity to catch up with four dear friends visiting from the UK, while also welcoming the niece of one of the regulars.

The trick was finding a night that worked for everyone and securing a prenotazione, a reservation, that could accommodate our gathering of nine on a busy holiday weekend.  As luck would have it, the only time that fit everyone’s schedule was the very evening the "Fab 4" (Mary Elena, Leonardo, JoAnn, and I) had arrived.  An empty refrigerator on a Sunday arrival only added to the appeal of dinner at L’Antica Grotta. 

At the moment, now pedestrians, we were coaxing our seven suitcases past the L’Antica Grotta on the way to our door, when our good friend and the restaurant’s owner, Enzo, flagged us down.  He excitedly showed us a magnificent Bistecca alla Fiorentina he was saving for the “Fab 4 grown to Nine” that evening.  Complete with a characteristic

Enzo's L'Antica Grotto

T-bone shape from a Italian Chianina bovine, it looked almost prehistoric in scale, often weighing well over two pounds and standing several inches thick.  Just the sight of it made our already weakened knees weaker.  While we always say the company matters more than the food, the incredible aromas drifting out of the cave’s restaurant caused us to question the validity of this long-held tenet.  It was pretty clear this meal was going to be an absolute treat for both hearts and senses, especially after a long 20-plus hour journey covering 4,300 miles by bus, plane, trains, and automobiles, to finally conclude on foot.  More than relieved, we’d finally made it.  It was a finish marked not by the wave of a flag but instead by the brandishing of a steak.  Minutes later, as I turned the key in our door, the first multi-phased segment of our Italian adventure officially concluded.

Later that evening, after much-needed naps and showers, we were shown to our beautifully prepared L’Antica Grotta table.  In true Italian style, the food and wine kept flowing, along with the conversation of long-distance friends.  I’m not sure if we were mended or spoiled with carafe after carafe of Enzo’s delicious house wine that paired perfectly with every course throughout the meal.  Since our UK friends had never been to L’ Antica Grotta, we knew the incredible menu Enzo had put together was guaranteed to win them over.

The antipasti was a feast in itself, but none of us had the willpower to slow down.  Honestly, who
would blame us?  It began with fresh buffalo mozzarella, each a globe about the size of a tennis ball, one for each of us along with hard cheeses.  We were then treated to a savory frittata, and three different pizzas sliced into small wedges to share with wine.  Together, they formed a novel antipasto.  Every pizza had a unique flavor, and each proved better than the last.  This motherland of nonstop food had only begun.  Now Enzo came to “take’a” our orders.

A Serving of Calitri's Famous Cannazze

      For our primi piatti, Enzo brought out two huge, family-style bowls of the local favorite, cannazze, tossed in a rich, velvety meat sauce.  For those who have never had the opportunity to enjoy cannazze, it’s a wonderful homegrown Calitri specialty made from Italian durum semolina wheat.  The term “durum” derives from the Latin word durus, meaning “hard.”  Initially, long pasta tubes resembling hollow candles are snapped into five pieces before being cooked al dente, making it perfect for catching rich meat sauce complemented with heaps of a 50/50 combination of Pecorino Romano and Parmigiana-Reggiano cheeses.  High praise for the town’s deserved culinary claim to fame.

The sauce had been simmering for hours before our arrival and was further enhanced with beef braciole, that classic Italian dish of thinly sliced meat rolled around a savory filling.  Additional cuts of tender pork added to its incredible, savory depth.  According to JoAnn, who contributed this description of our feist, “Enzo makes the absolute best cannazze and ragù in all of Calitri.”  

As if all that incredible food wasn’t enough, the staff kept shuttling additional plates back and forth, one following another.  The feast continued with grilled sausage, those tender beef braciole, and cotica.  For those unfamiliar with cotica, it is a traditional dish made of thin pig skin stuffed with grated cheese, cracked black pepper, fresh garlic, and parsley.  Each is rolled, tied with string, and simmered until tender.  I’d never heard of it, but for JoAnn it brought back many happy childhood memories.  Surprisingly, it was the very first time she had ever seen it served during all her years of travel throughout Italy.  It was also a lifesaver after the bland fare of airline food.

Just when we thought we were approaching an end of the repast, the pièce de résistance was wheeled out to the oohs and aahs of all the grotto’s patrons.  It was the steak Enzo had flaunted before us earlier that day, the

magnificent loin of Bistecca alla Fiorentina, now grilled to sizzling absolute perfection.  It was so tender you could cut it with a fork.  Just thinking about it still makes my mouth water.

Totally satiated by evening’s end, we were nevertheless not quite across the finish line.  We were soon showered with fresh biscotti and a lineup of digestivi.  Bottle after bottle was set on our table for everyone to enjoy, completely gratis.  It's such a warm and wonderful tradition.  As the night wore on, the staff even pulled up chairs to join us in a toast.  One of the absolute highlights was a cooled mela or apple liqueur, that was so crisp, refreshing, and delicious, that we couldn't leave without buying a bottle for home.  But then, this being Italy, it wasn’t simply about the food or the drink.  It was about warmth.  It was about friendship.  And it was about the remarkable ability of an exhausting journey with forgotten medications, buses, trains, planes and endless terminals, biometric systems, luggage marches, elevators, hot weather, and more than a little uncertainty to somehow arrive exactly where we wanted to be.  Around a table savoring the moments and flavors with friends.  Eating and drinking in celebration of our arrival in Calitri in the architectural intensity of Enzo’s ancient grotto. 

Maybe that’s the real lesson of travel: its phases don’t always go according to plan, they need not.  Sometimes they go sideways, stall, speed up, or threaten to derail altogether.  But if you don’t let them phase you, and as my dad professed, “Don’t make-a the worry,” there’s usually a wonderful something waiting at the other end: that bowl, the plate, the pot at the end of a rainbow.  And sometimes, it’s a two-inch-thick Bistecca alla Fiorentina.

From That Rogue Tourist, 

Paolo