Paolo & Maria Elena's Italian Adventures

2012-01-31T08:02:00.012-05:00

Tales of a Hitch-Hiker Searching for Perfection
Part IV – Time Bandit

We, all of us, may believe we've been to Italy but until we've experienced the rural countryside and its people, we've essentially been circling the airport. Rome, Florence and Venice, in any order, are no more representative of Italy than New York City, Chicago, LA or that Disneyland for adults, Las Vegas, are representative of America. Here, real America lies outside these megaplexes in the apple-pie small town burgs found throughout the USA. The same carries over to Italy but forget about the apple pie and think more along the lines of torta (cake)! So once again we were off, continuing our journey south toward our home in Calitri, all along the way taking in the perfection and hopefully the reality of life in real Italia.

Departing San Marino we soon left its rolling mountainous terrain behind and headed back toward the 'leg-vein' of the A14 Autostrada running down the calf of Italy like the once upon a time seam of vintage silk hosiery. Reaching the coastal city of Fano, we took up a more westerly heading, cutting across the peninsula toward Rome but with our destination this day being the medieval hill-town of Spoleto. Spoleto lies on ancient Via Flaminia, which originates in Rome. It lies east of resilient Todi and south of Saint Francis' Assisi in the eastern Umbrian foothills of the Apennines. Inhabited since pre-history, it became a Roman settlement in 241 BC. Remains of this Roman period are still sprinkled throughout Spoleto's compact historic center.

It was late afternoon by the time we saw the first exit sign for Spoleto. The confusion of a modern city soon stretched before us as we did our customary search, this time not only for the old part of town but for a place to stay the night. Contrary to that time-worn portrayal of manly quirks, I'm not one to hesitate about soliciting directions. I have no qualms about asking. I can explain this; I simply hate the inefficiency of being lost far more so I pulled over and spoke with a gentleman conveniently passing by carrying his groceries. Lucky for us he spoke English though at first he discounted his ability. Surprisingly, he confirmed we were on course to the centro storico (historic center) and recommended a stay at the Hotel dei Duchi located there. As he advised, up ahead through the arches of what appeared to be a Roman aqueduct, we made a hard right turn and ascended into the historic section of Spoleto. From there it was anyone's guess where this particular hotel was located. Our GPS assistant 'Margaret' certainly didn't know because we could provide her no address. As we rounded a corner, however, we emerged into a small square. As with most piazze (squares) in Italy, they are not complete without a church. True to form, there was a church where the Sunday afternoon Mass was about to begin (here was yet another opportunity to thank St Anthony for his intervention - read Part III). Again, I hesitated long enough to ask an approaching parishioner about the Hotel dei Duchi. She instructed me to go around the left side of the church (‘a sinistra’) and then continue straight ahead (‘dritto’) along that street. It wasn't far and by the end of the street we'd found dei Duchi. This had been easy. Easier than we'd expected, for we knew how much time it could take finding a place without reservations in advance. It being October and a week or so into the off-season had helped. They had plenty of rooms available and for a four-star hotel, at a very affordable price. Other than ourselves, there seemed to only be a bus load of Australians on a two month tour staying there. It's superb customer service and relaxed atmosphere distinguished it as an incredible find. It was only later that we discovered the Hotel dei Duchi ranked sixth out of thirty or so similar Spoleto establishments. No wonder, for it had a true home away from home atmosphere, mostly due to the staff. This extended from the courteous manager at the reception desk, who was always there to help with our every need, through to the entire staff, all evidently concerned with the image and reputation of the Duchi. Jumping ahead to breakfast for instance, our waiter brought me a cappuccino which included a caricature of me made in the frothy cream. I’ve seen animals made from towels on cruise ships but never my face, glasses and mustache included, staring up at me from my cup! Should I say hello or take a sip?

Everything of interest in this medieval gemis accessible from the dei Duchi on foot and we wasted little time getting started. Following a brief visit to our room (see photo album), which was gorgeous and rather spacious by European standards (nothing like that unimaginative, depressing room, lit by a naked 40-watt bulb, once upon a time in Lucca!), we headed off to explore the area, eagerly joining the noisy conviviality of the street. The picturesque walkways of a medieval town soon enveloped us. Roman ruins intermingled with shops offering all sorts of modern finery including art pieces and beckoning restaurants. Amidst the street theater of acquaintances hugging and kissing the air beside each cheek, we wondered and quickly came upon the Piazza del Mercato where a bazaar of sorts was underway, then along Via dei Duchi lined with medieval storefronts selling local products, the rose-windowed Cathedral of Santa Maria dell'Assunta, the nearby Ostrogoth Castle and the Caio Melisso Theater where events for the Festival dei Due Mondi (Festival of the Two Worlds) take place each summer. All that was lacking were the premature old women and widows, perpetually dressed in black, so commonplace in the South of layered Italy.

It was while walking in Spoleto, that memory once again turned the wheel of remembrance in me. Have you ever thought about going back in time or better still having someone from the past hang out with you in present time? I've thought about this from time to time, triggered by an event or where I was at the moment, as in this moment in Spoleto. I'm talking about drafting a subject from way-back and showing this time traveler something like a light bulb or an automobile. Just imagine Beethoven's reaction listening to an iTune? The complexity of the technology as in an automobile for instance, would I think be like having an ant try to comprehend its place in the universe (aren't we still working on that?). Maybe it was that 1949 Bing Crosby movie “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court” (trust me, I first saw it much, much later!) or more likely that mid '50s TV series hosted by Walter Cronkite, “You Are There”, that laid the seed in me. “You Are There” took an entire network newsroom on a figurative time warp each week reporting on past historic American and World events in dramatic recreations. Modern dressed reporters, holding ‘mics’, would describe the action as if in real time and interview central characters like Caesar or firefighters at the Hindenburg dirigible disaster in each thrilling episode. Wikipedia reminded me how...

“Cronkite, from his New York anchor desk, would give a few words on what was about to happen. An announcer would then give the date and the event, followed by a loud and boldly spoken "You Are There!" At the end of the program, after Cronkite summarized what happened, he’d remind viewers, "What sort of day was it? A day like all days, filled with those events that alter and illuminate our times... and you were there."

I was hooked, my mind plucked from the present to wonder in time. My time bandit penchant has been with me many times since. I’ve imagined what it had to be like to walk Paestum's Via Sacra amidst the bustle of daily life among the temples, feel the cool metal of a sickle-shaped strigil scrape my skin in the baths of Pompeii or cross the mosaic threshold of the House of the Fawn and hear the trickle of the atrium’s fountain. This type of thing had to have had an influence on me because while in high school I recall a history class project where I interviewed classmates and asked them the following: “If you could go back in time to some historic event and observe it on a non-interference basis, what would that event be and why have you chosen it?” Using an old fashioned reel-to-reel tape recorder I captured their responses. Sure it was geeky by today’s standards but some of the choices and their reasoning were amazing. It was fun though and if I have it right, time travel got me a good grade!

This predilection was with me even then as we walked past a Roman theater, circa 90 AD. It smelled of time. I wondered what the performances had been like and what the concessions may have offered and on and on and on. Where was Cronkite when I needed him? A little further along, as we approached the Santa Maria Cathedral by way of a grand avenue, I happened to peer through the iron rails of a fence into the cool privacy of a lush garden. I was taken by surprise to among all places come upon a robotic mower (see photo album) going about its task. We were joined by others equally fascinated to watch it travel back and forth, reversing its direction with each obstruction it encountered. The juxtaposition of this ultramodern device, in this garden, in this medieval setting, was striking. My mind slipped into the long past to visualize this scene if it had unfolded then. "Sorcery" would have been a common comment captured by Cronkite's man on the scene. Matters would have gone viral fast - a burning of the whirring demonic thing surely. Biased by superstition, no amount of explanation, laid on ears ill-equipped to comprehend, would have sufficed.

We rarely take our dinner in a hotel. Though the staff praised their cuisine to high heaven, we prefer to sample the local fare in the town’s restaurants. We’d seen an English couple in our hotel and while continuing our rambles through the town later that evening crossed paths with them once again. They had a few days of Spoleto experience on us so when they recommended we try Ristorante Apollinare, we didn’t hesitate. Located in a building built into Roman walls and once a former 12th century Franciscan convent, it retains the charm, elegant ambience and intimacy of the past. We enjoyed a quiet dinner selected by the chef under the fading sheen of autographed photos of past celebs like Italy’s Sophia Loren and Terence Hill. We first enjoyed puffed pastry with Umbrian cheese in truffle sauce followed by sliced pork with pecorino cheese and apples. Dessert, a real surprise, consisted of yogurt and prune paste topped with chopped pistachios. Free to alliterate, I'd say Spoleto had been splendid! It is a city of visible history and telling from the caliber of our hosts in the Duchi and Apollinare, it will continue to enjoy a remarkably success story based upon its antiquity and beauty, graced with hospitality.

It was a very nice room indeed with a spectacular bath, nevertheless, we decided to move on the next morning. Barring too many more stops, we'd make Calitri by late afternoon. Once again on the road, we made for the A1 Autostrada then circumnavigated Rome as we roared-on southward as best you can in a little Fiat. It was around Aquino that the prominent mountain bluffs off to our East first began to appear. Ahead, another dozen miles along this range, loomed a mountain peak crowned by the very visible Abbazia di Montecassino (Abbey of Monte Cassino). During WWII, aerial bombardment, artillery and the ensuing ground battles obliterated this Benedictine abbey and the town of Cassino at the mountain's base. British, New Zealand, Canadian, Indian, Gurkha, Moroccan, Polish, Free French, Italians Royalists, American and German forces clashed here for months. It was a Pyrrhic victory in the truest sense consuming 55,000 Allied soldiers and 20,000 Germans, either killed or wounded. The somber graves of thousands of Polish soldiers, each marked by white crosses and a candle, lie just below the abbey mount (see photo album) in visible testament to the ferocity of this 1944 siege. We had passed this historic monument many times in the past but now I wanted to see it.

We sigged and zagged up the steep airy mountainside that had seen so much agony and bloodshed. The views became more spectacular with every turn of our wheels. Snow topped mountains loomed farther east while to the west another range and whiffs of misty clouds hid the sea. The abbey, a physical manifesto to Italian artisanship, has been totally restored to its original majesty. St. Benedict himself founded this monastery and it was here above the ruins of a pagan temple to Apollo that the orders of Benedictine Rule were written. It is a massive structure. From the outside, its lofty white stone walls emote the intimidation of a true fortress. An arched castle-like entry with enormous metal doors, close by a sign proclaiming "PAX", served as the entry. Inside were a series of stately courtyards and gardens. Arched open colonnades divided these spaces which showcased ornate fountains and statuary. In the central plaza a staircase led us to three bronze basilica doors. In 1066, while the English were occupied holding-off the Normans at the Battle of Hastings, portions of these doors were being cast in Constantinople. Inside, the ornate detail of this basilica is staggering. The richly adorned alter is overshadowed by the 5000 pipes of a massive Baroque style organ. Above these in the spandrels of the domed ceiling are depictions of the vows taken by all Benedictines - Chastity bearing a lamp, Stability with an anchor and column, Poverty leaning onto the Cross while dropping money and Obedience standing in a listening position. Looking back from the alter, my attention was caught by a massive fresco on the wall above the entry to the Basilica entitled "The Benedictine Paradise". It is a brightly-colored crowded scene of St Benedict in a misty halo of religious mystery surrounded by a host of monks, nuns, bishops, and popes (see photo album). Above this evident masterpiece in the triangular spaces either side of a window flanked by putti angle heads are the patriarch to Christian and Moslem alike, Abraham. Opposite him is a frightened Moses, tablets at his feet, shielding himself from the radiant glory of the God. Notably missing throughout our visit was the presence of any religious. A property this massive could have easily housed hundreds but when I asked a guard how many there were, it was a surprise to hear him reply - sedici (sixteen)! We drove away wondering if the golden age of the monastic lifestyle, epitomized in this structure, had ended with a triumph of secularism? It would have been wonderful, putting dissimilar eras aside, if Abbot Benedict could have put his quill down and related his thoughts to us on this subject. Could even he have comprehended?

It is never too early to reminisce on life's events. We spent the remaining final hours of this journey, begun days earlier in Ramstein, Germany (or had it been Dover, Delaware?) reviewing our experiences - a bus trip through the Alps to Vicenza, a subdued Riccioni by the sea, a rainy day in lofty San Marino, splendid Spoleto and that day's journey to the lofty heights of immortal Montecassino Abbey. Our search for perfection, worthy of the Borg (read Part I) was well begun. We had unearthed gleaming nuggets. Here the alluvial soil, watered with time, is rich with the treasured ability to imagine then as now. This is our time, our time in Bella Italia and the world. As we travel and attempt to imagine that it was like when the original inhabitants occupied the ancient places we explore today, we only follow in the footsteps of many before us who have done the same. Many have been here before us and many are to follow. Finite as we are, let us breath-in the patina of our world and enjoy what time here we have.

Later that afternoon, as I inserted a long key into the door located in the shade of a tiny courtyard we think of as ours and entered our piece of history in Calitri, I turned to Maria Elena and channeling Cronkite said, “Finally, You are there.” to which she replied, as she always does "Hi house!". We were home at last to continue our walk through time together.

THE END

From That Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on a photo album entitled “Search for Perfection - Part IV”.

2011-12-31T17:18:00.012-05:00

Tales of a Hitch-Hiker Searching for Perfection
Part III – Saints Be Praised

The next morning, we awoke to a threatening sky - an ill omen? Once again over breakfast we made plans for our day. There are two countries which reside inside Italy. Can you recall their names? One is Rome's nearby neighbor of course, almost a suburb, the Vatican. The other is probably better known to the stamp collectors among us, San Marino. With Riccione being relatively close to San Marino, we decided to head that way but not before some drama and renewed heartburn.

I clicked to unlock the door of our rental car and began to organize and rearrange things, finishing by finally loading our suitcases. Not a problem. All packed, we got inside and when I went to start the engine, I couldn't find the key. With the car being our lifeline, all I could imagine in my momentary panic was how long it would take to get another key, especially this being Sunday morning. That would surely be a story to relate. It was almost the equivalent shock you feel when you discover your wallet or purse missing. Then, recalling that I'd unlocked the door only moments before, I knew that although the key was not in the ignition, it had to be nearby. Together we looked around ... on the floor, under the seats, behind the seats, under the car, on the roof, in my pockets ... no success. Next we began to unpack the car hoping to find the key under the very next item we removed. Again no joy. I was getting more nervous by the minute with images of what might be involved to get a replacement key. I fantasized on how I'd have to explain and hopefully get "the daughter" to call EuropCar for us, the long ensuing wait we could expect, possibly even the need to stay another night until Italy returned to a normal workday schedule once again. The only consolation to my imagined scenario was that at least we knew where to eat (Gambero Rosso) and that we could easily get a room (Albergo Astra). I also knew I should have gone to church that morning! There was still time to go and pray to Saint Anthony - the patron saint of lost belongings. Just the thought must have helped for when I checked again, there on the floor carpet between my seat and the parking brake handle lay the errant key. Though I couldn't really distinguish the black key against the black carpet between black vinyl seats, I finally felt it. Whew, our relief was palpable. Thank you St Anthony! After what seemed like a long frantic delay, but really only minutes in duration, we were at long last underway. The key hadn't gotten far after all and neither had we. On to San Marino.

The ride from the coast to San Marino under the brooding clouds of an incontinent sky was all of about 10 km. We were heading West along the San Marino Superhighway toward Mount Titan (Monte Titano), a prominent ridgeline in the Apennine mountain range rising starkly ahead of us. These mountains were in harsh contrast to the flat plane of the coastline. The Republic of San Marino is dominated by rugged terrain. In fact and hard to believe, it has no natural level ground; it is entirely composed of hilly terrain. As we climbed from one country into another, nothing seemed to change - the houses, the architecture - everything about us appeared the same. We were in Italy by another name. This was nothing like the difference we sensed when entering Italy from Germany two days earlier. A simple pennant above the road announced our distinction - without fanfare we had arrived.

The mini-state of San Marino is all of 24 square miles, about a quarter the size of Boston. With an equally diminutive population of just over 30,000, it has the smallest population of all the members of the Council of Europe (note: San Marino is not part of the EU). We were headed for its capital, San Marino City. As the continuation of a monastic community founded in 301AD by a stonecutter of the name Marinus, San Marino is the oldest surviving sovereign state and constitutional republic in the world. Tradition has it that its namesake, Marinus, left the island of Dalmatia (then Rab) in present-day Croatia in 257AD looking for work. His destination, as ours had been the day before, was Rimini (read Part II) where he worked as a mason. Roman Emperor Diocletian had issued a decree calling for the reconstruction of Rimini's city walls, which had been destroyed by pirates. This was also during the religious persecutions by this same emperor. Marinus was eventually forced to flee Rimini to nearby Monte Titano following sermons he shared on the Christian faith. Safely atop Monte Titano, a community soon developed around the small church he built that over time became the seed for the sovereign state of San Marino. Since that time and largely due to its inaccessible location, San Marino has managed to survive, prosper and preserve its cherished independence. Even Lady Luck played a hand as for instance when, following the French Revolution, Napoleon pushed through Italy. Emperor Bonaparte promised to guarantee and protect the independence of the Republic but only due to the quirkiest of circumstances - he simply seemed to like and had befriended the head regent (think President) of San Marino. So much for the value of friendship, especially if you have friends in high places! Much later during the Italian unification period, San Marino served as a refuge for many people persecuted because of their support for unification. In grateful recognition of this support, mercurial Italian general Giuseppe Garibaldi accepted the wish of San Marino not to be incorporated into the new Italian state. It also helped when during both WWI and WWII that the Republic remained neutral. George Washington's counsel to avoid foreign entanglements and stay out of foreign wars surely seemed to work for lilliputian-like San Marino!

We were following signs displaying a sort of black and white bull's-eye, an indication throughout Italy (and I guess San Marino) of the centro storico (historical center). We continued our ascent all the while following these markers turn by turn as we passing through Borgo Maggiore lying at the foot of Monte Titano. Previously called Mercatale (marketplace), Borgo Maggiore is one of the nine communes of San Marino and remains today faithful to its name as the most important market town in San Marino. In addition to the bull's-eye pointers we soon began to notice signs for a tramway. We could see cable filaments in the distance with an aerial tramway rising above the rooftops. This cable car allows Monte Titano to be scaled to the town of San Marino. This became our new destination adding to the befuddled confusion of our GPS traveling companion, Margaret.

Following our cable car ride to the top, we exited into a scenic park accented with life-size statues among its greenery. The park overlooked an aged though well maintained stadium where at just that moment a troop of youthful scouts, armed with their pennants, was entering for some ceremony. Like scouts ourselves, we had free unstructured time to explore and headed off toward the center of the city. I couldn't help but feel that the tram had transported us to some Tuscan hilltop village. Everything about us reminded me of a Cortona, a San Gimignano or, following a similar tram ride, petite Certaldo Alto. It was a beautiful place to stroll - the rusticated cobblestones ageless, the narrow streets boarded by shops and restaurants inviting and the views from the crenellated walls over the valley below and toward the distant sea something reserved for soaring eagles. It's worth coming here just for the view, but save it for a good day, for the only thing out of joint was the weather. By then the pewter sky, minion to the arbitrary whims of Mother Nature, in naked abandon decided to empty its considerable store on San Marino. With our own umbrellas forgotten in the car, we soon retreated into a cafe to idle over frothy cappuccinos waiting for the right moment to emerge. Growing impatient, we 'awning hopped' further down the street until we eventually gave up on the sport and bought an umbrella!

The inclement weather put a crimp to much we could do in this amusement park of the past. One of our first stops was at the majestic Basilica del Santo located in Piazza Domus Plebis and built in honor of St. Anthony. A mass was underway, which gave me an opportunity to thank St. Anthony for his earlier 'key intervention' and see what he could do about the weather! Before turning back, we walked the cobbles as far as Porta della Fratta on the back battlement of this fortified capital stopping at the first of the three well preserved castles dominating the city, La Rocca o Guaita. Like the other two it is perched on the rim of Monte Titano, but with two defensive walls surrounding an inner tower keep, it is the largest. Our only purchase was of a miniature Degas sculpture entitled "Little Dancer of 14 Years". We had seen one of the 23 existing, life-size Degas bronzes at the Musee D'Orsay in Paris years earlier and had never forgotten its haunting appearance inside a glass case. It was in a window and beckoned to Maria Elena, who had to have it. Actually, at first we bought a smaller one only to return for the larger subject moments later. Speaking of window shopping, the citizens of San Marino must love their guns. Store after store displayed all types of automatic rifles and handguns (see photo album). Let me tell you there were many to choose from. They covered the gamut and included the ubiquitous AK-47 with banana clip and all sorts of other military assault weapons and related paraphernalia. It was hard to imagine these weapons were actually real or anything other than simply gas-powered look-alikes shooting BBs or pellets. Some no doubt were, yet others, may others, were the real mccoy. I wonder how far I'd have gotten, following a return ride down the cable car, with a few bandoliers crisscrossing my chest and assault rifles slung over my shoulders?

The rain couldn't diminish our appetites, however. In fact, what better way to dawdle as we waited out the rain? As we had in Riccione, we window shopped eatery menus and settled on Ristorante Pizzeria Da Pier. Truthfully, they all looked similar but this one was particularly beckoning when it began to rain harder! The Da Pier dished-up everything from pizza for the less famished to ravioli, gnocchi, lasagna and wood-oven roasted meats for the starving. Maria Elena is fond of reminding me "this isn't your last meal" but I knew deep down that all my meals in Italia were limited and therefore numbered. I recall a heaping bowl of home-made ribbon pasta in meat sauce topped with parmigiano cheese while Maria enjoyed her reliable rainy day comfort food, steaming soup. Along with salad and a basket of crusty bread with just a welcomed hint of salt, we made a serious meal of it under a clash of clutter decor that included what else but weaponry ... decorative crossbows, flint-lock pistols and spear-tipped axes. I wouldn't want to shy them on the bill and attempt to make a run for it!

By then the rain had quieted down but the sky remained threatening. Following lunch, we waddled to the tramway once again through the park. More interesting art and somewhat unusual statuary bordered Contrada Omagnano (see photo album) including one I thought artistic, though not at all its intent. After all the formal sculptures along this avenue, there lying in, of all things, a bullet-shaped trash container sprouted the curved handle of a discarded umbrella. It reminded me of the ending scene from that Christmas classic, "Miracle on 34th Street", when a cane leaning in the corner of an empty house gave genuineness to a child's belief in Santa. You can neither demand a miracle nor ever push a saint but I know just then that St. Anthony had finally come through for the sun appeared. The umbrella had be a segno (sign). Saints be praised, we were off in search of Spoletto in the foothills of the Umbrian Apennines under dazzling sunshine, a good omen.

From that Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on a photo album entitled “Search for Perfection - Part III”.

2011-11-24T07:40:00.017-05:00

Tales of a Hitch-Hiker Searching for Perfection
Part II – Fleeting Plans

It's strange how little events in our lives, decisions or actions we make or fail to make for that matter, however seemingly minor, can result in unexpected life-defining consequences. Each event on its own may be quite unremarkable at the time. Looking forward it is almost impossible to see where life will take us but with hindsight, the impact of earlier choices (or lack thereof) are as easy to spot as a midget on a basketball court. As we look back on life events, followed in turn by events in consequence to a previous event, it is possible to cull-out from our decision string those that molded our lives and brought us essentially to where we are today. It is absolutely true that how we live our days equates to how we live our lives. We are reflections of those life choices and experiences. This is especially the case when we are young, when our lives are basically still in their 'initial condition’ formative years. Case in point …

I had a paper route as a kid. Every afternoon, along with other carriers, I'd pick up my newspapers from the back door of our town's local newspaper office and make the rounds to my 50 or so customers. I worked my way back and forth across the lower part of Main Street. One of my stops was at a sporting goods store run by the basketball coach of the local Italian parochial high school. I was a tall kid and during the season I put it to good use playing basketball at my grammar school. When it came time for me to enter high school, however, I was looking for something different. I guess I'd attended the French parochial school because my mother was French, and moms do have their influence, but by then I wanted to see what public high school would be like. Besides, I also felt there would be greater opportunity there. This was counter to expectations however. My dad, a local sports hero, was Italian and it was expected by everyone, including my stakeholder customer, that I’d attend the Italian parochial high school and play ball there. Would my dad assume my 'paperboy role' and deliver? Thankfully he never did. Looking back, that decision, which had its rough moments, was formative to my life. If I’d gone to the Italian school, who knows where life may have taken me. I might today speak Italian better but I doubt that I’d ever have met Maria Elena. To hear her tell it, with her own set of life's decisions ahead of her, from that very first day of freshman classes when we met, she planned on marrying me! How could I have expected that a decision on where to play ball would determine who I would marry? Since then, our life of transformative events together eventually led to a 1999 trip to Italy and from there to a leap of faith moment that today finds us as property owners in Calitri. Getting to Calitri through Germany this time, though roundabout, was nowhere as convoluted as on our first discovery visit. That decision behind us, Calitri is now knitted into the fabric of our lives. There is a Frost poem about two roads diverging in the woods. Which path we choose makes all the difference - choices do have consequences.

Mare tells me there are few women willing to travel freestyle as we were, relying on standby military flights going who knows where. Firm travel plans like you’d expect on Delta or Alitalia are non-existent. What substitutes for anything approaching a firm itinerary are a series of Plans A, B, C … modified on the fly depending on the situation. Having arrived at Germany’s Ramstein AFB (read Part I), we were into at least Plan B by then. We were close but still not “home” in Calitri, our final destination. On this visit, part of every plan, however fleeting, included taking our time getting to Calitri. We wanted to explore parts of rusticated Italy we’d never before visited. It would be part of our ever deepening excursion into celebrated Italy.

We spent the night at the Air Force Inn on-base but not before venturing into downtown Landstuhl. In the dark of the taxi it seemed a little place, no more than a few streets in the rolling countryside. We'd asked the taxi driver to bring us to a typical, but very good, restaurant in the area and soon he deposited us at the Alt Kundenbeleg restaurant. Oktoberfest was over but we still enjoyed the beer and wiener-schnitzel. Our only real surprise was the bowl of what we thought was a butter concoction. After sampling the mélange we were curious enough to ask the waitress exactly what we had here. We were informed it was lard. After that single misguided sample, we agreed to pass on the rest.

We learned that the next day there was a flight headed for the Italian air base at Aviano, north of Venice. Just what we needed, it was scheduled for an early 0700 departure. We returned to the terminal with time to spare, signed up and were waiting to go when a loudspeaker, announcing its cancellation, decapitated that plan. Now what? An alternative was to take a train to Italy, maybe to Trento or 'fair Verona' before renting a car. The travel agency, just across the street, could help with this option and would open soon. It was about then that while I was getting a cup of coffee, a lucky break came our way. It quickly became Plan D.

The USO is a world-wide institution whose goal is to provide comfort and support to American military personnel. There happened to be USO center in the terminal manned by volunteers who do everything possible to provide a home away from home for our servicemen. I happened to mention to the USO hostess that our flight had evaporated and our desire to somehow get on to Italy. Like a fairy godmother she produced a bus schedule. This particular bus happened to shuttle weekly between the hospital at Ramstein and the hospital in Vicenza, Italy. The magic of it was that it would leave within the hour from right across the street and no tickets were needed! Like an NFL player following a touchdown, I looked up to thank God before sincerely thanking my newfound fairy godmother, surely one of His roaming free agents.

Our luck continued. There was space on the bus for us and a few other likeminded stowaways. We had envisioned something like a school bus. Imagine our pleasant surprise when a full blown tour bus pulled up. It even had a toilet aboard. This made sense for it would be an eleven hour journey through the Austrian Tirol, crossing the Alps via the Brenner Pass, before descending through high Alpine pastures to the Trentino-Alto Adige plains of Italy. It was an amazing ride; the road a ribbon cleaved from the mountains. We were fortunate that our ride was mostly by day for the views were spectacular. All that was lacking was a tour guide on a mike sitting up front to point out the sights such as that amazing six lane 'Europe Bridge' we crossed. The Brenner Pass was far more than the mule track of olden time. It was a major highway and clearly a vital artery of commerce. Though it was early October and the weather just great, nearby peaks there already salted with snow. There were frequent stops - about every two or three hours - mostly to give the contracted driver a chance to relax. A few of these surprisingly were at "McDonalds". The pervasiveness of Yankee capitalism continues to astound me. They featured the "Big Mac" and "Filet of Chicken" sandwiches of course, but there were also offerings called a "Chicago Classic" and a "Miami Grilled Chicken", each for an astounding 7,49€ (about $10.50)! I guess it was expensive towing all that chicken and beef up into those hills. Mare visited the restroom at one stop and insisted I stop in myself and take a picture of the toilet. With a flush, an arm would miraculously extend from the fixture's frame and as the oval toilet seat rotated before you, it would wash and dry the seat for the next patron. German ingenuity indeed! I doubt there was a sign saying so (though in German I'd still have no clue) but I'm sure glad I was standing when I flushed!

We arrived in Vincenza around 10 pm. Our lucky streak continued when travel companions sitting just in front of us offered to take us to nearby Hotel Victoria, conveniently located along their route home. The next morning, as part of our stay, we enjoyed a generous breakfast before taking a taxi ride to the base. We needed to now rent a car for the remainder of our visit. I'm conceited enough to believe I'm actually important but the Europcar agent seemed bored as he went through the motions at a comatose pace. For all I knew, I could have been his thousandth tedious customer but for us it meant independence again. I'd been forced to put off renting something until we were in Italy. It seems that if I'd done so in Germany, I'd have to return it to Germany. This was counter to any plan I could imagine since returning to Germany was not in the cards. And here, all along, I thought it was all one big happy EU family! Now we were free to explore on our terms. By this point it had been three days since we departed Dover. The tough part of the trip was definitely in our rear view mirror as we departed the base for the Adriatic coastline.

We were free-styling now with no reservations or particular destinations before us. Looking over our map at breakfast, we'd decided to head for the seaside resort city of Rimini, the hometown of the famous film director, Frederico Fellini. We had never been there. The human fauna had lessened by this time of year. In fact, we found many of its thousands of hotels, bars and restaurants along the ocean drive already closed for the season. We were about a week or two late but all was not lost. It was quieter and less crowded than the unimaginable nightmare of August's heady Italian migration to the sea. Far more than enough remained open and the weather, on an idyllic binge, made it enjoyable. Our drive continued south through Rimini to the coastal town of Riccione. We made a few passes along one-way (senso unico) streets bordering the sea and finally settled on the Albergo Hotel Astra, not the greatest of hotels but the price was right, it was centrally located and clean. It was family run, which I like to see, with the youngest, "the daughter", relied upon to speak "the English". All told, to the best of my knowledge, in addition to 'the daughter' there was only a grandmother, an aunt, a mother, father and us about. It being off-season, they no longer offered dinner. In mitigating deference, 'the daughter' provided us with some recommended restaurants to choose from and soon we were off exploring Riccione.

We walked a commercial avenue a few streets in and parallel to the water. It was naked of cars, apparently reserved for pedestrians. I like this kind of civic treatment unlike some places void of even a basic sidewalk, instead relinquishing any pulse of humanity to our 300 horsepower chariots. Many shops were open though quiet, void of the hubbub of summer. Closer to the waterfront we began to recognize restaurants on our list. Lulled by the murmur of the nearby surf against the breakwater and the breeze tangled in the rigging of the boats moored in the marina, we decided to dine decadently over a seafood dinner on the peer. Looking at menus posted outside, glancing through windows and sometime going as far as taking a peek inside, we settled on Ristaurante Gambero Rosso (The Red Lobster). Roman, the owner, offers up a bounty fit for Neptune. We began with mussels with bacon and all'aglio (garlic) along with croutons served with sour cream and chive butter - no lard this time! For wine, we tried a strong ruby red "Ronchedone Vino Rosso" (from Ca dei Frati), a blend of lightly acidic marzemino, fruity sangiovese and tiny cabernet grapes. Even though we would enjoy seafood that evening, we still needed our red! Maria Elena enjoyed scallops au gratin with saffron. I chose the recommended sea bass baked in a sea-salt crust accompanied with grilled vegetables - thankfully the crust had been crushed and removed before it arrived. Only a whisper of salt remained. Dolce was a cream-filled torte with complementary Sorrentine limoncello. It got better.

Adjacent to our table-for-two by a window overlooking the harbor was another couple. Agusto and Nellie hailed from the grand duchy of Luxembourg. He greeted us with infectious brio and she with an apple-pie smile. Agusto owned a home theater and hifi business in Luxembourg. He had roots in the local area and was revisiting old haunts that included the Gambero Rosso. We were counseled that we had chosen well. If Roman had laid out place cards he couldn't have selected a more engaging couple to sit by us. Hopefully, they enjoyed a similar sentiment along with their meals. Life opens up when you do ... relying on French, Italian and English we conversed about the food, the town, Italy and family. Utter strangers at first, with only the edge of a table in common, I feel we departed more than mere acquaintances. Surprisingly when we interact with others we learn how miniscule the gradations of difference between us really are. In our travels we have learned that people whether across the globe or across the table are very much alike. Thus far our trip had taught us, through short lived bouts of agita basted in stomach acid, that best laid plans come and go, nevertheless, we definitely plan and look forward to someday returning to the near culinary perfection and dynamic panorama we discovered by the seaside of Riccione.

More in Part III.
From that Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on a photo album entitled “Search for Perfection - Part II”.

2011-10-25T08:26:00.027-04:00

Tales of a Hitch-Hiker Searching for Perfection
Part I – Getting There

There is a time to write and a time to travel. Yet there are also times when I find myself doing both. Sitting in one place for an extended period gets me itchy to move on and explore again. Thus is my challenge as I write this on the road, ill prepared to resist scratching my itch.

Someone recently said, “In a world of legalisms, resistance is futile”. For many of you, at least a portion of this expression will be familiar. The latter half is for me. It springs from the enormously successful and once very popular Star Trek television series, still around today in syndicated reruns. I grew up nursing my imagination watching Star Trek. It was a weekly staple, part of that amalgam of technology and imagination that culminated with the landing of Americans on the moon and a surge in all things scientific and space related. Automation, miniaturization and new-fangled things called computers, all byproducts of the "Space Race", were in vogue. Closely associated not with Captain Kirk but later with his replacement, Captain Jean-Luc Picard and his odd assortment of space adventurers, was the admonition “resistance is futile”, which had to do with the ‘Borg’. The Borg was a fictional race of cyborgs (computer enhanced humans – are we far from this today?) who operated with a single-minded hive mentality … to add the biological diversity and technological distinctiveness of other species they encountered to their own, all in pursuit of perfection. They inhabited vast regions of space, controlling expansive planetary systems and fleets of odd cube-shaped starships. They were a veritable "black hole", consuming everything new in their wake. The Borg exhibited no desire for negotiation, only to assimilate, with encounters characterized by matter of fact “resistance is futile” imperatives. As a result, the Borg have become synonymous with any juggernaut against which “resistance is futile”… thus the expression. But I stray too far from my initial point, which is simply to say it was futile of me to resist my desire to return to Italy. Maybe the Borghese, not the Borg, were really in control.

Even after all these trips, I was once again weak and ill equipped to resist searching for and assimilating the undeniable beauty of Italy – experiencing the generosity and friendliness of its people, their resigned and stoic approach to life and the beauty, natural and man-made, of the countryside evident throughout their revered peninsula. Italy called! I had become Borg-like though with the sole, non-surgical cyber enhancement of a notebook computer at my disposal!

Getting to Italy once again would be the challenge. We lacked a starship of any shape, let alone intergalactic speed, to whisk us there. What we did have was a limited budget and willingness to hitch-hike. So once again we were off to Dover, Delaware hoping to catch a ride on a military transport headed that way. When we arrived, surprisingly there were three aircraft advertised on the TV monitors heading for Europe within the next nine hours. What luck! What seemed too good to be true soon evaporated as flights were scratched. One just vanished from the board as if swallowed-up in the Bermuda Triangle while another slipped a few days. Even though there may be flights posted, there is also the question of seat availability. Seating is dependent, among other variables, on the amount and type of cargo onboard so although an aircraft is scheduled to depart, seats at first usually appear as “0T”, shorthand for “zero tentative”. The terminal personnel eventually get a call from operations on the actual seat count and that night the call dashed all hope for a quick departure when the available seating for tag-alongs like ourselves went to “0F”. You hate to see this for it indicates that there are now “zero firm” seats available. Ouch, especially after all those hours of waiting. As we departed the terminal to get some rest, our only remaining hope was for an evening flight the following day to Ramstein, Germany. Close enough.

With hopes renewed, we joined our fellow would-be travelers the next afternoon in the passenger terminal. Spirits were high for the board had changed from “0T” to “73F”! It couldn’t get better than this. Seventy-three seats were more than enough for there weren’t that many of us hoping for seats. It looked like we’d all make it. But we all know how appearances can deceive. Within an hour of the scheduled roll-call, the schedule once again shifted like a linebacker in motion just before the snap. Roll-call slipped by six hours to well past two in the morning. No reason was given; doubtful the airmen managing the facility even knew. Dreaded maintenance was suspected. Not a way to run an airlines, but then again, the USAF isn’t an airlines. As with all fairy-tale stories, eventually good gets the upper hand and vanquishes evil, or in our case, a smooth takeoff overcame the recurring flight delays and we arrived in Germany after an uneventful eight hour flight, a penny to the good. From there, by hook or crook but mostly rental car, we'd make our way south to Italy, then gradually further south to our place in Calitri. It was early October, 2011 and the Borg in me was now free to assimilate!

More in a while, after we unpack back home,
From that Rogue Tourist, Paolo

2011-09-28T17:40:00.016-04:00

Lagoon Island of Lace

Knowing full well I am nowhere near the esteemed caliber of a Mr. Samual Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C.* in describing the authenticated accounts of his observations, sometimes misadventures and from time-to-time remarks on the deportment and manners of acquaintances in the social scenery to fellow members of the 'Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club', I nevertheless remain in danger of being anointed a 'piccolo' Pickwickian for my persistent relation, even now, of adventure within travel adventures, as I continue aboard the "Fortuna" to distant shores, this time to the environs of exotic Venice. Whew, wasn't that one long sentence worthy of Dickens himself or at least an editorial rebuke from my readability critic, Maria Elena. Yet I continue ...

We had been to Venice before ... once by train and then again by plane, but never by towering skyscraper! Stories high from the top deck of Costa's cruise ship 'Il Fortuna', we were presented with a slow motion panorama of resplendent Venice stretched out before us. It was as though we were on a moving sidewalk. We slowly made our way down the Canale di San Marco from the sea toward our berth on the western end of the Sestiero Dorsoduro, a Venetian district whose name references the dorso duro (hard back) of its subterranean structure. Stretched out before us lay the city, a carpet of faded walls of earth-tone pastels capped with aged terracotta clay roof-tiles. I doubted that even the Doges of old had ever seen their Venice this way. Oh, they could have gained a lofty advantage from the campanile (bell-tower) in St Mark's Square but this would have been a fixed perch and from personal experience, the clang of those bells can raise havoc with your head. The unfolding scene opened a warehouse of memories.

* General Chairman - Member Pickwick Club, from “The Pickwick Papers” by Charles Dickens

We turned slightly to port at the triangular tip of land referred to as Punta della Dogana o della Salute (Customs House and Basilica of Santa Maria della Salute) located at the prow-shaped end of Dorsoduro. High above the customs house towered ageless twin bronze Atlases bent beneath the staggering weight of a golden globe representing the Earth. Fortune certainly was with us that day because the elaborate weather vane rising even higher atop this suspended orb is dubbed, like our ship, the 'Fortuna'.

On passing this headland, we had officially entered the wide Giudecca Canel running the length of southern flank of Dorsoduro and known as Fondamenta Zattere (Zattere Anchorage). This long promenade by the water's edge was christened Zattere for the rafts (zattere) moored along these docks long ago. They were used to unload timbers which today underpin Venice. Nowadays, they have been replaced by floating restaurants and an occasional vaporetto (water bus) station. One of the stations, in fact, is named ‘Zattere’ in their memory. In years past we'd stayed in Dorsoduro so it wasn't long before we began to see familiar places. Pointing here and there, we reminisced over places and recollections ... the mirrored wisteria shrouded door with its bank of brass doorbells; where we'd eaten sepia pasta for the first and very last time; the ATM where my sister, after a struggle, got her first Euros; the street where we lived along Rio di San Trovaso, cutting through Dorsudoro to the fabled Grand Canal itself, and the adjacent gondola repair yard at Squero di San Trovaso.

With the gentle pushes and nudges of a tugboat, we soon docked at the Terminal Venezia Passeggeri. This was the end of the line for many of our fellow passengers but not for us since we'd boarded in Bari, giving us a one day reprieve. We had the day in Venice! Since we were somewhat familiar with Venice, our quest on this visit was Burano, an outlying island in the Venetian lagoon. Getting there and back would be the trick.

Once ashore, as expected, we found ourselves in the industrial port section of the city. There was a bus waiting to take us to Piazzale Roma, the main bus terminal, but after sitting onboard the bus a while, we realized how long it was going to take to fill before getting underway. We decided to walk to the bus plaza. A block or two away, we found an automated tram of sorts that quickly brought us there. We had checked our vaporetto map and identified the various route numbers we needed to take in order to get us to distant Burano. You could get there by an expensive water taxi in about 40 minutes. By vaporetto, with the route changes involved and the waiting at each stop, it took us over two hours. Thanks to a helpful soul who pointed out the correct alleyway we needed to follow, we eventually came upon the station for the first leg of the trip. This water bus took us around the island to the Fondamente Nove stop but not before filling to tip-over-full along the way. Fortunately, we had no luggage. At Fond. Nove we jumped ship for a water bus headed to the Colonna stop on the 'glass island' of Murano. We had been to the glass works of Murano once before so we did not linger. To my surprise, the map I was following was out of date and we had to make our way to another Murano terminal in order to continue. With time a consideration, we could not afford to dawdle as we made our way down the Fondamenta dai Vetri and across the Rio dei Vetri canal to reach at the Faro water-bus station. Once arrived at Faro station, it was another case of hurry-up and wait. About 30 minutes in fact, before the next boat, this one to Burano, finally arrived. This final segment of the outbound trip was the longest, taking another 35 minutes. We were earning our rookie legs on this on.

Once arrived, following our circuitous journey but now veterans of Venice's shuttle service, someone needed to pinch us as we walked through a waterside park. It was a calm and quiet place to stroll about as we made our way to Via Marcello. It would lead us to what I'd call the main portion of the city along Fondamenta Cavanella and Fondamenta San Mauro. You can't miss it, straight ahead from the dock. This promenade, with its quaint architecture and beckoning shady alleys, reminded me of a stroll along the walkway at Disney World’s Epcot Center, where a large manmade lake meagerly substitutes for Burano’s stunted canal system and a hodgepodge of street-fronts attempt to create a reality to the place.

This, however, was the genuine item. Angled poles extending from the green water up to and beyond the sides of the canals to prevent boats moored there from scraping their sides. There was life behind those storefronts and homes …the domestic look of drying laundry adorned fronts of houses and draped across balconies; shrines to the Madonna were peppered here and there; ‘shower-curtained’ doorways tempted you to peek inside; lofty balconied statues of Jesus with arms outstretched recalled Rio de Janeiro; while boatmen of various specialty busied themselves offloading every manner of sustenance and supply to this island world – everything including the tourists!

Though nowhere as intimate as Venice, Burano is alive with colors. Italians can never be accused of being timid when it comes to decorative color styles - take the interior of our Italian cruise ship for instance. True to form, the Buranese paint their houses in brightness. Everywhere you look, you'll see houses clad in blue, green, lime, pink, rose, mustard, lavender, purple, and yellow to mention a few. One with burnt orange stucco walls, bright blue shutters and a purple primo piano (first floor) might cause paint-makers Sherwin-Williams to turn over in their respective graves! They say that colors link God with humanity. If true, this place is heaven sent. Tradition says this custom may have had its origins in the local practice of painting houses the color schemes of local fishing boats. And if you think nowadays you can just get a ladder and go ahead and paint, think again. Big brother is watching! You must send a request to the government, which responds by notifying you of the authorized colors permitted for that property! Such is the price to live in an historic canvas.

Burano is not Venice. It lacks the jumble of ornate Moorish and baroque marble palace facades we are so accustomed to seeing in the floating city. Instead, Burano is more modest in every respect - even its canals are narrower, somewhat tempting to a long-jumper who might just make it across. The grand architecture of Venice is replaced by the simpler look and mood of a small Italian town with a population on the order of a cruise ship's manifest. Because Burano's houses tend to be small, the island presents a cheerful coziness. What it surrenders in grandeur it recoups in the quaintness of something on the order of a Dickens style movie set, making it for us "the best of times".

Surrounded by the sea, fishing is one traditional occupation; the other being merletto (lace-making), the reason for our visit. Lacemaking began on the island in the 16th century following the import of the technology from Venetian-ruled Cyprus. The industry waned and flowed through the centuries, at times relying on a Scuola di Merletti (school of lacemaking) to help it survive. Today this old school in Galuppi Square is also home to the Museo del Merletto (Lace Museum), one of the few attractions in town.

Yarn knitters stand by their pearl stitches while the counting-cross-stitchers perseverate over hoops of knotted threads, yet it is the minute ‘nano-craft’ and sometime convoluted bobbin controlled designs of lacemaking which truly astounds. Few today continue to make point lace in the traditional manner by needle and thimble protected finger. In fact, it is in limited supply. Today, machines and low cost workers in Hong Kong are replacing the Buranese women of yesteryear. Fewer and fewer are to be found sitting in a chatting circle with pillows resembling hand muffs on their laps working at this craft. You can just imagine how time-consuming and therefore extremely expensive these handmade items are. With fewer women in Burano willing to sacrifice the time or with the necessary skills to make these delicate works of art, less and less lace is actually handmade on Burano. Instead, much to their distress, mourning a life that is vanishing, everyone complains about the imports. We'd seen this movie before on an earlier visit to Murano. There too, "made in China" was ever threatening. Yet the machine-made pieces are themselves beautiful. Tainted only because they are made a lot faster by lower paid workers (which in itself is one big taint), they are nevertheless a complex chore to create and as intricate in design as anything fashioned by hand.

Though we were a little late getting there, we were still traveling in the footsteps of Leonardo da Vinci who visited in 1481. On that occasion, he purchased a handmade altar-cloth for the Duomo in Milan. It had to have been a bargain compared to today’s prices. Did I mention that prices are stratospheric? Let me reiterate it then ... a large handmade piece such as a tablecloth (somewhat on the order of an altar-cloth I’d say) can run as high as $4,000-5,000! Lesson to take away … better be sure to check on the table manners of whomever you plan to invite over!

Around and around we walked on a lace carousel. If the concept of a carousel’s brass ring existed here, it would certainly be covered, if not fashioned entirely of lace, for lace was everywhere. Lace is king! There were even hats made of lace accompanied by every imaginable accoutrement from lace parasols, pillows, doilies, handkerchiefs to everything imaginable for an infant’s christening. Lady’s lacey couture garments of intricate curly-cue patterns, many in subdued shades (see photo album) as though grafted from the rainbow color pallet of mythical Iris, adorned every storefront. If you hesitated to examine their elegant appearance, a diligent employee, often the owner, would pander for your continued attention while pointing out every detail of their exquisite merchandise and going to lengths to point out that their wares were the genuine thing. Much to my relief, our purchases were limited to a single item, and thankfully, not a table cloth! Infected with sticker shock, Maria Elena hesitated to consider buying anything. We had come this far so I urged her to get something to remember Burano by. She had seen a shawl earlier. Later when she saw the same item again, she bargained with the clerk and got it at a reduced price. Brava! If you ever see her with her purple and green peacock shawl accented with Morano glass beads, you’ll know exactly where it came from.

We walked as far as the Oblique Bell Tower where we sat and mingled with the pigeons before heading back toward the ferry station. We were hard pressed for time with a return trip in the face of a tourist population now wide awake. Conscious of this fact, we had budgeted our limited time. Unfortunately, and I know this will disappoint some of you, we were unable to sample proper Buranese cuisine, other than a horrid panini. As we waited once again for a return vaporetto, a cold Moretti beer somewhat came to its rescue. We should have opted for the fish!

A woman with us aboard the return ferry suggested that it would be just as fast if we walked across Venice's Cannaregio quarter as opposed to circumnavigating it, so once again at Fondamente Nove, we departed the vaporetto to travel cross-country. All the while we attempted to move as straight toward our destination as a crow might fly. Luckily none of the streets or canals had changed, for we still relied on our outdated map to settle on our route. We’d never been in this part of Venice before. Our detour was punctuated with quaint arched bridges so characteristic of Venice. This area's special sites include the Jewish Ghetto (the oldest in Europe) and the Church of Madonna dell'Orto, founded in 1350, but we were ‘flying south’ as it were and had little time to alight anywhere, at least not for long. This district had more of a residential quality to it but as we neared the Ponte Degli bridge (also known as the “Scalzi” or barefoot bridge ) the commercialism of Venice resurfaced. If we had gone straight ahead we would have passed in front of the Santa Lucia rail station and crossing a footbridge arrived once again at the bus plaza. Instead, we decided to cross Ponte Degli, our shoes still on, though careful to not step on the knock-off handbags, watches, sunglasses and other assorted merchandise laid out on blankets and peddled by teams of tenacious young men. We then walked the streets round behind San Simeone Piccolo church to emerge in a park and then a bridge later into the now familiar bus plaza. It was a sight that refreshes and this time, far less energetic and nowhere as perky than when we had started out, we took advantage of the bus provided to return us to the waiting ‘Fortuna’. Mission accomplished!

Burano had been special. I wish we hadn't been so rushed, but the reality of cruise-life gets in the way. Granted two wishes, my second would be to have experienced Burano by night. Burano lacked the whoring commercialism of Santorini and Rhodes where everything seemed for sale, the regimented prissiness of Dubrovnik or the sensuality of nearby Venice. Dickens once wrote, “He went to the church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro ... and looked down into the kitchens of homes, and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed of any walk, that anything, could give him so much happiness.” Symbolized not by gondolas and crumbling palaces but by the vibrant splash of colors surrounding you, this picture perfect village, adorned in a sea of lace ... may it always equally remain a statement of elegant, inestimable pleasure.

Taken down and dutifully reported by ....

That Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled “Burano”.

2011-08-31T13:56:00.029-04:00

Rhodes - a crossroad in time and cultures

I Don't Know When or Where exactly it happens, but it does. Somewhere mid-Atlantic, maybe as early as the Outer Banks, you'll notice forks begin to turn. By the time you arrive in Europe, Italy for example, they've completely turned over. The phenomenon is so obvious that if I were to cover your eyes and fly you for a few hours, even in circles for part of them, and then removed the blindfold in some anonymous restaurant, you could easily tell which side of the Atlantic you were on. Apparent though it now seems, of all the trips we've taken, we hadn't noticed this before. It was only while on our Greek isle cruise that I first noted this phenomenon. With eating being such a large part of cruising and with so many Europeans aboard, since after all it was an Italian cruise line, it wasn't long before I began to notice the maneuvers going on in their plates. Forgive me because as you know I'm not the greatest detective, even when the obvious is staring me in the face. For sake of a better name, let's call their technique "Continental" and ours "American" style. Doing the Continental, Europeans hold their forks in one hand and their knives with the other. This is our convention as well but a main difference is that they never seem to put their knives down! Well sometimes they do, but it's only long enough to pick up another utensil, such as a spoon, which they'll then grip throughout their meal. Theirs is truly a two fisted approach! Most apparent and a dead giveaway that you have arrived is how they manipulate their forks with the tines pointed down. I wonder if spy agencies like the CIA or Mossad teach their agents to avoid "out-of-place" forking so as not to give themselves away? In general, it's tines pointed up, American style, while the tines are pointed down, Continental style. When cutting, American etiquette is to hold the fork upside down. Because most forks have a curve, this positions the tines downward into the food and holds it for cutting. We then turn our forks over, pointing the tines up once again, as we bring it to our mouths. Continental style, the "tines down" to "tines pointing up" in the time it takes to reach your mouth just doesn't happen. Tines down is about it, all the time! It's fascinating to also watch how they direct food to their forks and the nonchalant maneuvers they perform to pile a bit more mash and one more pea onto their inverted forks, stabbed into a bite of meat, all the while using their knives in well developed plowing, buttering and flanking techniques. How did it get this way? Well I'm guessing we colonists left the Old World for the Americas well before that French invention of the tined fork was widespread enough for style to develop and transfer with our ancestors across the Atlantic. For better or worse, we each developed our own inimitable and now very characteristic styles. By the time I took notice of this behavior, we'd arrived at the island of Rhodes (again confirming how quick I am on the uptake!). While it was 9 AM inside the ship, it appeared to be 1400 AD in Rhodes. With a seaside panorama including idyllic windmills, brooding fortifications and mysterious mosques just beyond our ship's dining room windows, we were eager to put our breakfast forks and knives down, say "ciao-ciao" to our Argentine and Avignon tablemates and go ashore. The past was waiting for us.

The Greek Island of Rhodes marked our farthest away point since our cruise had departed Bari. From Rhodes, we would be heading back to Italian waters. Rhodes sits only a stone's throw off the coast of Turkey at a crossroads of three continents - Europe, Asia and Africa. Its beautiful Mandrake Harbor was built by the ancient Greeks in 408 B.C. It is best known for once hosting one of the legendary seven wonders of the ancient world, the 107 foot high bronze Colossus of Rhodes statue. This statue was completed in 280 BC after twelve years of construction adjacent to the entrance to the seaport. Unfortunately, it lasted for only 56 years before collapsing when its rivets couldn't withstand the forces of an earthquake. As the story goes, though hard to believe, its remains cluttered the ground for over 800 years. When finally removed to be made into coins, it took some 900 camels to cart the debris away! Today, much much smaller statues of a doe and a buck, the modern symbols of Rhodes Town, have the duty of protecting the harbor. One sits to either side of the entrance to the old port atop a slender column. Their representation is just about everywhere, even found underfoot on manhole covers (see photo album). Rhodes' combination of old and new makes it a unique place to visit. With its windmills, mosque minarets and towering castle walls, it borders on a vintage 3D foldout storybook, with something new popping out at you with each page turn. The old city begins by the shore of the port and is surrounded by stone fortress walls. St Catherine's Gate with its twin crenellated turrets leads you directly into the heart of the city, so rich in history. This imposing entrance was built in 1478 by Grand Master Pierre d'Aubusson as part of his efforts to strengthen the fortifications against a much feared Ottoman (think today's Turkey) attack. He must have been clairvoyant because the attack actually occurred two years later. Today Rhodes Town has been transformed from fortress into a vibrant, compact cosmopolitan center of over 50,000 inhabitants. I loved its pillared windows with colonnade arches so reminiscent of Venice, its cafes each with its own flamboyant color pattern of chairs spilling into the streets and the terraced rooftops throughout town. Even the small alleys of this alluring city, some paved with river stones on edge in pebbled mosaic patterns, are appealing.

The Knights Hospitallers captured and established their headquarters on Rhodes when they left Italy after the persecution of the Knights Templar. They used Rhodes as their base of operations from 1309 to 1522 A.D. The most beautiful and interesting part of the old city for me was the related 'Street of Knights', an important street during the medieval phase of the town's history. It stretches from the New Hospital-Archaeological Museum at the bottom of the street to the Palace of the Grand Master at the top. This late Gothic period cobbled street is completely restored and lined by the buildings that these religious warriors once occupied. The street is flanked by 'hostels', many still sporting original marbled coats of arms, shields and heraldic emblems on their curbside walls. These ancient hotels were used by the knights for lodging, separated according to language or nationality. Walking along this historic avenue, I imagined how it may have appeared in the 14th and 15th centuries, vibrant with life and crowded with knights, footmen, horses and hawkers. The Knights of old have long since been replaced by camera toting tourists like ourselves. With its diverse architecture and rich history, stretching from the dawning of civilization to more recent bombardment during WWII, it has survived to become a veritable fairytale amusement park for visitors.

His Name Was Demitrius and he was a full blooded Greek and himself a hawker of sorts. We were in the back streets of Rhodes by this time, very close to the back wall of the old town. We had strayed far and realized it when we came upon sprayed graffiti which read "Freedom in Palistine". Demitrius' shop, or I should say his very young wife's shop, was named "The Greek Connection". It had nothing special to offer, just him. We were passing the place and he was sitting outside in the sun, on the corner, just across from his doorway. Our interchange began when on passing him I offered a "buon giorno". My inflection must have been way off for he was quick to reply "You are not Italian". That's all it took, I was interested. He was a character, the only character in this spontaneous street theater, and I liked him. We sat together, the three of us, and chatted for some time. He claimed to have once been a university sociology teacher until he lost his job. In fact, he was fired over a student's complaint, having struck him, but as he claimed, for cause. He had been insulted and had demanded an apology, which not forthcoming, concluded with a blow. Since then he had dabbled in flipping real estate here and there. He claimed he was a student of physiognomy. Ever heard of that one? I surely hadn't. It's a combination of the Greek word physis, meaning 'nature', and gnomon, meaning 'judge' or 'interpreter'. Figured it out yet? A 'physiognomisist', if that's what they are called, is someone who can assess a person's character or ethnic origin from their outer appearance, especially their facial appearance. The TV series "Lie to Me" revolves around an eccentric, in-your-face doctor with similar abilities who helps the police solve cases. Demitrius could have used a TV gig like that or at least a reality show. He prided himself in his ability to do these interpretations thus explaining why he had correctly challenged my "buon giorno". For a man with a supposed pulse on mankind, he mentioned how he didn't particularly like Russians or Germans and would not engage them when they passed by, following their physiognomic appraisal of course. Maybe it was their "stiff upper lip" outlook toward things but he also found the English seemingly frightened of emotion. We'd covered a lot in a short time. He was at once eccentric, quirky and evidently volatile, but then what would people say of me! He was on the mend at the moment from an injury to his foot, which he displayed to us. It had a nasty deep gash in it, administered by a startled family cat. This would-be Henry Higgins of sorts was sunning his foot at the moment. Being diabetic, it was healing slowly. Apparently physiognomy did not extend to assessing the character, let alone the intentions, of the family cat!

Another Business Person, this one a tall, lean, mustachioed sculptor, also did a brisk trade. His little shop was crowded with attractive busts, figurines and plaques of what else but the pantheon of mythological Greek gods and goddesses. Like the majority of those we talked with, he spoke English very well. Clad in a dusty, full length apron (see photo album), he was quick to tell us about a recent article published in an international journal about him and his studio. We already owned a Bacchus, the Roman god of wine and winemaking, which bedecks a wall in our kitchen and were excited to find a bust of its Greek equivalent, Dionysus. We'd seen others that day but his depiction was far superior to any of the others we'd seen. Luckily Dionysus, though lacking a passport, made it home in one piece and now adorns a wall in my home office to remind me when it is that 'happy hour' for a welcomed fruit-of-the-vine elixir. Corralled as I am by these two godheads, thus far my liquid diet is going just fine - I've already lost two whole days!

All, However, Is Not Rosy in Rhodes. For us it was a day of shopping and pleasurable sightseeing, yet for some Rhodians it is a question of day-to-day survival. We came to realize this shortly after seeing a tee-shirt proclaiming "Same Shit, Different Day" on sale outside a shop. I commented to Maria Elena how the shopkeepers are the ones who should be wearing them. A nearby saleswoman, overhearing me, asked what I meant. She was Belgian and had married a man from Rhodes and now made a living selling T-shirts and souvenirs. I explained what I'd meant ... that their lives must be numbingly the same day after day as one ship after another arrives in Rhodes, disgorges its load of tourists, gathers them up again and soon departs. How easy it must be to become anesthetized to the human traffic passing by each day. On that she related that she had seen a lot and some of it unfortunately had in fact been "shit". She described the hard times the Greek people were experiencing as a consequence of the belt tightening government actions then underway. Her words were a reminder of how a government, big enough to hand out entitlements was, also big enough to someday take them away. Case in point was that although there are but twelve months a year deserving, you would think, of twelve monthly retirement checks, Greece's entitlement state attitude had gone so far as to nonsensically legislate thirteen and later fourteen annual payments! During the "giving times", if twelve distributions were good, thirteen or fourteen had to be even better, especially if subsequently followed by "thank-you" election votes. Along with some corruption involving secret bank accounts, they had legislated themselves into poverty through loose fiscal policies. She said she was fortunate to have her business in a place like Rhodes. The tourist trade, though not as robust as in past years, thankfully still reliably flowed daily past her door. The unfortunate were current retirees who were seeing the government pensions they had been receiving, cut. Here in the US, we are thankfully only talking about government social security modifications for future recipients, not those currently receiving them. Hopefully it will stay that way. She, like many of her compatriots, was no stranger to sadness. She related how some, distraught because they could no longer make ends meet, had committed suicide. Peeling the veneer away had revealed a darker side to life here. I wonder if the next day she had donned one of her own T-shirts in silent protest or maybe even affirmation.

Tired From Shopping along busy Socrates Street and out-of-the-way places like Demitrius' "Greek Connection" lost among narrow cobbled alleyways, we decide to find a place to relax. It was not difficult, for tucked among the trendy boutiques and designer shops are an excess of eateries. We soon found 'Gaorag' (George?), or to be accurate, he found us, which was after all his job. He hooked us into the "Golden Olypiade Restaurant" and became our waiter there under the trees by an archeological site in the middle of Evdimou Square, where roads and cultures cross paths. We started with ouzo which was soon enough followed by white "moschofilero" (mos-ko-fee-le-ro) Rhodian wine, some fish, and because we enjoyed it so much in Santorini, a heaping of tzatziki with pita bread. To really fit in, we tried very hard to eat with our forks upside down but couldn't do it, at least not consistently. We'd blown our cover I think due to the ouzo or maybe it was the vino! Men in trench coats may have taken notice!

Our Time Up, we pivoted from the streets to back aboard ship. Heading back, we walked along the same shorefront that an assortment of invaders, each in their own time, had stormed in their attempts to besiege this city, some successfully, many not. Mare stopped to walk in the sea and combed the beach for tumbled pieces of colored glass smoothed by the waves and sand. Back aboard "The Fortuna" we rested on deck before dinner as preparations to depart were underway. Below us in the exercise area of a lower deck, the Spanish lyrics of Choo-Choo-Wah were pumping through the speakers as toning cruisers writhed to the beat, pumping their arms, thumbs up of course, in keeping with its catchy lyrics. Relaxing there, enjoying the view of Rhodes one last time over the heads of the exercisers, I thought of two things I failed to do in Rhodes. The first was to try the layered, Greek oven-casserole dish called "moussaka" (moo-sah-KAH). Layers of eggplant slices, cheese, and a meat sauce, are topped with a thick white sauce. It is something akin to Italian lasagna, with eggplant substituted for the pasta and white for a red tomato sauce. My other failure was to experience a true Turkish bath. If the cruise line had offered a land tour featuring a Turkish bath followed by a stop-off for some moussaka, I'd have signed up. To correct these oversights, we'll just have to dream of returning here once again, at once a fortress, world bazaar and, with forks upside down of course, a foodie's paradise.

Our Aquatic Life Afloat was nearing an end with only visits to Dubrovnik and Venice remaining. I didn't want to see our adventure end, but it had to. Looking off toward old Rhodes, sloping up from the water's edge to its far back walls, in the gossamer light of late afternoon, we attempted to retrace the streets and areas we'd traipsed through. We could see there were many more we hadn't explored, and needless to say, countless people we hadn't somehow interacted with or accidently met, for it is not just the place but also its people. There was so much more but no more time. Long anticipated as they usually are, our travels seem to fly by in a blink. We count down to their long awaited arrival and just as quickly, but reluctantly, begin to count up, keeping track of how many days remain - "Just arrived, still lots of time", ... "Gosh it's already Wednesday", ... "Oh no, we go home tomorrow". This lends weight to the notion that there is pleasure in anticipation alone. There is simple enjoyment in imagining and dreaming of what some experience will be like, what may lay ahead or what exposure to something or someone new will bring. Here for instance we had met three; a philosopher, an artisan and a shopkeeper. Though we may never be able to pass by and say "buon giorno" tomorrow or the next day, time and circumstance had allowed our paths to cross, however briefly, and for this we are grateful.

From that Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled “Rhodes”.

2011-07-29T08:33:00.020-04:00

Santorini ... Pompeii of the Aegean

Recently Maria Elena and I witnessed the aftermath of one of the greatest manmade disasters of our time. We were in New York City at One World Trade Center, once the site of the Twin Towers. Some ten years later, like a phoenix rising, the new Freedom Tower reaches for the sky from the footprint of one of the former towers. Starting from a cubic base, its square edges quickly chamfer back, morphing its outward appearance from square into eight, tall, elongated triangles. Like a newborn bird being nurtured in its nest, massive birdlike mothering cranes today relentlessly feed their young steel, concrete and glass. Steadily it grows, its glassy mirror-like feathers transforming the blemish of devastation into a shining example of man’s creativity and determination. Only weeks before, we visited another site of catastrophic disaster, this one at the hands of nature long, long ago …

The day began like any other Ura remembered with a turquoise sea lapping the shore of her island under a cobalt scrim sky. Though still early in the day, she was already hot as she sat in her robe by the shore watching intently as her father cast his net onto the sea from a jetty of rocks. She knew this to be his favorite spot to catch fish. By some intuition though, she sensed things were not the same today. Somehow her world was changing. The ground had shaken occasionally, sometimes violently, for one, two, three, and for lack of knowing a greater number, ‘many’ days now. Though young, she recalled that this had occurred often in the past but not with this much intensity or frequency. Her father had brought news from Thera that the priests in the temple there had offered sacrifices to appease the Mountain Mother Goddess. Yet the shaking and heaving had continued through another night and now a plume of threatening grayish-white smoke belched skyward continually from the mountaintop. Only rain fell from the sky but this rain was like none she had ever seen, nor had anyone in the village, even the old ones. She knew no single word to describe it. They could only noddingly agree that it resembled the white powder left from a fire. Now it was falling on the grain fields that covered the slopes behind them. Had the goddess who ruled over nature not heard their plea? What could it mean? Strangely, up until now, her father's net had been empty. Now as he hauled and tugged at the net, his loincloth shifting to match the movements of his straining legs, she knew he had finally been successful. One look at his used face, however, told her something here was also not right. She saw his expression instantly change to fear as he realized that his haul was a bounty of death. His catch neither struggled to breath nor flapped against the net. All the fish were already dead. Her father turned looking from the net toward Ura and beyond her to the mountain that dominated their island. He had a meaningful look as if trying to tell her something. She saw his eyes widen in disbelief, just for a moment, as his lips attempted to form a word but there wasn’t enough time remaining in their world. Behind her a thunderous cracking sound of cataclysmic force exploded into the air from the summit. It was the sound of the closing of life. Her last conscious image just as she was caught up in the super incendiary blast itself and hurled into oblivion was of her father vanishing from his rocky perch. In seconds, the ground ruptured ejecting tons of earth miles into the atmosphere with a force thousands of times more powerful than an atom bomb. Her world had changed forever.

I have no idea what native Minoans like Ura called their island approximately 3,600 years ago when this imagined human tragedy played itself out at the site of one of the largest volcanic eruptions in recorded history. If there was sufficient warning of what was going to happen, there was still little chance of escape for the blast affected the entire Aegean Sea. In doing so, it reshaped Santorini (a reference to St. Irene) into an enormous crater like those on the moon, though too distant for us to appreciate. Distinct from the moon, however, the ensuing crater filled with the sea to create the Santorini we know today. Unlike Ura's, this would be our first conscious image of Santorini as we floated to a halt inside the caldera itself aboard the Costa "Fortuna", just arrived from Katakolon (Olympia).

Today sea joins together what remains of land. Crescents of stark terrain encircle the tranquil waters of this lagoon, once the boiling heart of a volcano. From the ship what strikes you are the incomparable 1000 foot high volcanic cliffs of the caldera which surround you. Its rocky walls are broken in but two places allowing access to the lagoon for ships like ours. Yet even more striking are the towns (Oia and Fira) perched defiantly along the rim of these lofty pediments forged in fire. The majesty of the scene remains this awesome panorama. Looking at this grandeur is humbling. It makes you feel small, bordering on insignificant. Like frothy vanilla ice cream confections with blue-domed sprinkles scattered here and there, they seem to drape over the chocolate colored precipice, threatening to plummet into the sea far below at any moment. They speak in true testament to the creative ingenuity of man. Beyond the rim on the opposite perimeter facing an exterior shore and sea, the terrain, in striking contrast, gradually slopes away. Here can be seen vineyards, even the 6000 foot runway of a local airport connecting Santorini with the world. There are no docking facilities for a large ship like ours. To transit the distance from ship to shore, we relied on hired local shuttles and our own ship’s tenders. Approaching shore at the tiny port of Skala Fira, the unmitigated sheerness of these stark cliffs is amplified even further.

Once again 'feet dry', we discovered there are two primary ways to ascend to Fira, which draped over the lip of the caldera high above us. One was via the modern technology of a funicular, the other in more traditional style atop a donkey. I opted for the zigzag hee-haw assent on donkey-back, but however I tried to assuage her fears, I could not convince Maria Elena to give it a try. Even the near vertical ride in the funicular, dangling on a cable thread, had her nervous enough to question whether our insurance policies were current!

Safely arrived, we discovered a scene appealing to all our senses. We found lively Fira to be a cobweb of whitewashed streets punctuated by an occasional blue dome or blue colored fenced courtyard. White and blue, the colors of the Greek flag, dominated all that man has created here. In addition to the road connecting Fira with Oia, we came across two general pedestrian thoroughfares running parallel along the lip of the volcanic cone. Closer to the inner edge is a street basically dedicated to private residences and boutique hotels with bijou swimming pools intermixed among coffee shops and patio-size restaurants. Occasionally, we'd have to make way for an overtaking donkey and its elderly wizened-faced owner coming up behind us, fast! The other route, higher up, runs through the colorful chaotic heart of a busy commercial district. Here, interspersed among the bustle of tee-shirt shops, souvenir enterprises, restaurants and nighttime hotspots were some finer outlets offering locally crafted products such as handmade linens and works of art. I doubted that the Greek helmets we saw at one stop (see photo album) had seen action with the ‘Three Hundred’ at Thermopiles, but they certainly looked authentic!

We're lucky sometimes, maybe a lot. Like that time outside enchanting Montalcino in Tuscany when we happened to visit the Abbey of Sant'Antimo. That morning, we were early enough to chance upon a handful of monks chanting in the dusty, early morning shafts of light streaming into the chapel. It was only Maria Elena, myself, the monks and no doubt God who were present. The stone-fed acoustics and haunting monophonic mantra of Gregorian chant were of heaven. Circumstances were somewhat similar as we walked a back street of Santorini. Like Sant'Antimo, a faint sound, this time of an organ, disturbed the morning silence. It seemed to be coming from a blue-domed church just ahead so we opened the gate and went inside to investigate. In the cool interior, a lone man sat at an organ strangely situated right on the main floor, amongst the parishioners, if there had been any. Apparently he was diligently practicing and gave us no mind as we hesitated to listen. As to what he was mastering, not knowing my Mozart from my Bach, I'm no help. I'll blame my camera too. If its pixel count were only greater, I could tell you its title. Zoom though I try today, its title remains fuzzy. No matter, for in my mind the image of that empty church, the solo organist in among the pews and the gently wafting sound of his composition, remain vivid.

Always in need of good food to ease our way through life, we decided to try a place for lunch recommended by a local shopkeeper. We found rooftop “Parea Tavern” easily, up a flight of stairs and around a corner or two. It was about as authentic as a tourist could expect in the heart of a true tourist trap. Besides a mandatory cloudy-cold glass of licoricy ouzo, we tried the octopus tentacles preceded by that refreshing Greek treat that combines yogurt, cucumber, garlic, sour cream and dill into what is known world-over as Tzatziki. Earlier, while exploring a quiet lane, I was surprised to see what looked like tentacles dangling in a window. They were threaded on a wire like a necklace, interspersed between colorful yellow banana peppers and cherry tomatoes. At first, I thought they were some sort of tchotchke or plastic ornament, like those garlands of Mexican red peppers that light up or those humorous strings of rubber chickens. It didn’t say “do not touch” so when I did, gripping the rubbery shaft of one of the icicle-like "beads" of this necklace, the slimy surface and pungent fishy odor on my hand disclosed the obvious – these were real. I’d have never made it as a spy, or playing safe, even as a detective, even with the added clue that this was a restaurant window after all! Wow, they were like firm little bull-whips! So we ordered octopus! It would join our culinary annals of adventurous dining along with such exotic delicacies as rattlesnake and horsemeat. Contrary to all the evidence, the octopus wasn’t fishy at all but then it didn’t taste like chicken either. Each tentacle approached a foot in length. As you would expect, they were covered on one side with circular suction cups resembling reddish washers, some the size of candy “Lifesavers”. They came with no instructions but after a few mouthfuls, it was obvious that it would be much easier to shave the suction cups off beforehand, instead of maneuvering each in your mouth before picking them out like a fish-bone. Now there's a tip for you. We loved it so much we'll be sure to order it again in maybe a hundred years! In the meantime, we'll stick with calamari.

Santorini is also a place shrouded in time with fact lying somewhere between science and myth. When truth is lost, myth fills in nicely. One popular speculation holds that the Minoan eruption of Santorini was the source of the destruction of legendary Atlantis - Atlantis and Santorini being one and the same. As with Pompeii, volcanic ash covered the entire island including the ancient village of Akrotiri. Excavations of its well preserved ruins reveal that the layout of this city resembles Plato's description, however limited, of the legendary lost city of Atlantis. And here all along I thought Atlantis was in the mid-Atlantic or at least in the Bermuda Triangle! Whether Atlantis or not, a recent documentary film, The Exodus Decoded (click to play), aligns the timeframe of the volcanic destruction of Santorini with the timeline of Exodus. Here it is postulated that this devastating volcanic event can account for all ten biblical plagues that were visited on Egypt at the hand of Moses. I find this a stretch. Fortunately, movie director Cecil B. DeMille had Charlton Heston (Moses) and Yul Brynner (Rameses) stick to the biblical script in his epic remake of "The Ten Commandments".

We never made it to Oia, home to many more of the blue signature domes for which Santorini is known. Limited time and distance made that a tall order since its perch was further along the island’s ridgeline. We understand it is the quieter of the two main towns with more of a quaint Greek atmosphere about it and absent the touristy metropolitan air of Fira. We would save it for a return visit, for we found Santorini worthy of return. It did not have a Trevi Fountain like Rome’s to assure your return with the toss of a coin. You might try but I doubt whether a coin tossed over your shoulder could make it all the way to the sea. For now, we’d just have to imagine what sunset over the caldera must be like - a brilliant disk in a peach-red western sky silently descending into the sea to announce end of day. Far, far removed, another sphere, this one in Times Square, yearly slips from its mast to announce a new year. One site is denoted by an awe inspiring hole filled by the sea, the other near an equally inspiring hole, is filled daily with fervent and resolute construction - both rising from the ashes of apocalyptic devastation, never to be forgotten.

From That Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled “Santorini”.

2011-06-29T09:49:00.011-04:00

A Greek Odyssey

"Come closer, famous Odysseus, Achaea's pride and glory - moor your ship on our coast so you can hear our song." ... Island of the Sirens, The Odyssey

When Amelia put down the telephone at the DiMaio Travel Agency in Calitri, the last piece of the plan, begun months earlier, was completed. All we needed to do was “follow the signs to the parking”. We’d planned a cruise to the Greek islands, Croatia and Italy departing from Bari, located on the Adriatic coast of Italy. This port city sits just about opposite Naples and is about two hours from our home in Calitri, which itself lies about halfway between the two coasts. You can imagine that Greece, an island nation for the most part, offers many places to visit. With so many inviting venues, we were at the mercy of the cruise line gods on exactly where we’d put in, no matter how insistent the 'Sirens' might call to us from shore. So time was spent planning, mostly sorting through options, concentrating on the islands. Like any tour though, you get to visit a place for only a few hours before moving on. The idea being that if you find a place to your liking, make a note of it and return again with sufficient time to fully enjoy it. This particular sampling of the Greek archipelago would see us visit Santorini and Rhodes, following a stop at Katakolon.

We drove to Bari, giving ourselves plenty of time to meet the Costa Cruise Line’s “La Fortuna” enroute to Bari from Venice. Americans were expected to join this particular cruise in Venice, a fact confirmed by the American Costa Cruise agents in the US. If we wanted to catch the ship when it stopped for the day in Bari, we had to work through an Italian travel agency for help with reservations. Venice was just too far north for us and with Bari being so close, we opted for the Italian connection. We knew language would be a challenge, since all the paperwork and email traffic would be in Italian, but being retired, I had the time to work on it, so we dealt with Costa through an agency, from of all places, Monaco.

We departed Calitri with time to spare. I figured on being delayed by getting disoriented at least twice or seriously lost at least once but had not taken into account the Carabinieri police! Of course they wanted to give us a proper send-off so as we were making our way through Bisaccia, on our way toward the East-West autostrada, we were signaled to pull over. This time, along with all the other standard paperwork they require (passport, driver’s license, international driver’s license and auto rental documents), I included my military ID. Why not, it sometimes has the mesmerizing effect of speeding things up, if not terminating them completely. I have a feeling it did just that because only minutes later, another officer, apparently the senior officer, returned everything along with a bon-voyage salute! Maybe I’d been profiled right off their list but there is nothing like professional courtesy at times like this.

We’d had some sunshine on the drive to the coast. However, at the very moment I was unloading our luggage, before driving to the parking garage that Amelia had arranged for us, the skies parted and a deluge ensued, interspersed with growls of thunder. I only hoped this was not a harbinger of weather to follow for at this point in the Spring, it had been unseasonably cool and wet. The ship had arrived. Passengers were disembarking and heading off for adventures in the historic center of Bari. Hopefully, this would not include losing a wallet to some enterprising pickpocket. We checked-in and made our way to the embarkation area. There were not many of us joining the ship in Bari. Nothing like what I imagined Venice had been like the day before. While we waited for the call to board, we purchased a wine package - seven of the beet red kind and six large bottles of water for 99€. It was apparent that everything was à la carte, even water!

With so many nationalities aboard, ranging from French, Germans, Spanish, Italians, Japanese, Americans and Russians to name a few, you can imagine how confusion, brought on by language differences, could develop. Even what you’d think were iron-clad symbols didn’t always work. For example, I knew immediately this would be a fun cruise when two elderly women, arm-in-arm, walked into the men’s room in the embarkation building, fortunately, just as I was finishing up. No wonder they still give you instructions on how to fasten/unfasten a seat belt when boarding an aircraft! There is always someone who has no clue, or in this case, had yet to see a urinal. Trying to avoid 'Tower of Babel' confusion, public address announcements attempted to keep everyone informed. They were similar to a verbal "Rosetta Stone" since they repeated the same thing in multiple languages, one following the other. Maybe they did work but they also made for very long harangues, especially the repetitive "let’s all play bingo" ones and the customary lifeboat drill!

Once aboard, like any inquisitive passenger, we explored the ship to get our bearings. The bigger of the two dining rooms, "The Michelangelo", was aft. The smaller "Raffaello" dining room was amidship, while a massive theater, complete with a revolving stage for those evening performances, sat far forward. Lounges, cafeterias and a casino connected everything together. Navigating fore and aft we were fine but the twelve or so levels, some with tricky access between decks, made for something on the order of a hunt for the 'Golden Fleece' every time we needed to get somewhere. We cared least about our room. We only planned to use it to dress in and of course, sleep. The one thing visibly lacking, which we've enjoyed on other cruises, was a promenade deck. You would think Italians, especially on this, a premier Italian cruise line, accustomed as they are to an evening passeggiata (stroll), would insist on one! But maybe these were big city Italians who had given up on the passeggiata tradition long ago. Oh, there was a deck with a planked floor but it dead-ended at the front and back of the ship, preventing you from "promenading" with your lady around the entire ship. It also lacked the customary lounge chairs with blankets (it was still cool) we had come to enjoy on past cruises. What there was of this deck had lifeboats suspended above the railings. Here in static suspension, they only served to obstruct the view. I guess this benchmark of former sailing days has gone the way of the Dodo, apparently replaced by expensive rooms with balconies in accordance with a survival of the richest philosophy.

Before we knew it, it was time for dinner. As promised, we found our seating time and dining room assignment in our cabin. Something, however, had apparently gone wrong in the translation of our earlier request because we'd been given the early dinner session in the smaller of the dining rooms. We'd have to see about that, so off we went to the maitre-d' for help. The other specific request I'd made was that we wanted to sit at a table with Italians. This seemingly boggled their minds. We were looking for cultural immersion, even at dinner! Was I being too pushy? How else could we expect to meet any Italians and practice the language since they tended to travel in large close-knit family groups? We only hoped we had not been assigned a table for two or to a totally "American" table. Well we had. Seems the early dinner in the "Raffaello" had the American contingent herded together around large tables. We had to get out of this. Huffing an "allora", followed by several others (something equivalent to our "um"), to express his confusion over why we'd want to do that, the dining room manager told us to come to the later seating in the "Raffaello" and sit at a temporary table, just for that night. "But you are Americans!" was all he seemed to be able to say. Our out-of-the-ordinary request was apparently too much to handle on the spot. We'd find our new assignment in our cabin the next day. Fair enough. That night we shared a table with an Italian couple. Luciano was a criminal lawyer and his wife, Gabriella, looked like a double for actress, Helen Mirren. I almost asked for her autograph! Somewhere after the "Frittelle di Gamberetti" (Shrimp Pancakes) but before the "Anatra laccata al Miele" (Duck Breast lacquered with honey) we broke the ice and began to communicate.

The next morning, we were up early to watch our arrival at the small fishing village of Katakolon. A mostly overcast sky with random patches of bright sunlit water surrounded our ship as we watched man ashore lash the tie-down lines as we nudged alongside the peer. Katakolon is the gateway by sea to Olympia. The town's center had a souvenir shop main street atmosphere overlooking the Ionian Sea. To avoid any misstep or Cyclops encounter along the way, we had decided to take a tour of Olympia offered by the cruise line. We were headed about 50 minutes inland and thought it best to experience Olympia with an expert guide. We waited in one of the lounges for our call to board the bus. With various tours departing every 15-20 minutes, it seemed the PA rang out continuously until we realized it was our turn to go ashore when the English version came around. It was on the tour bus that we met our guide, Diana. She was a full-figured gal dressed in a black wrap-around jacket, shoestring-tied in front, over a light blue cowl-necked jersey and a brown ankle-length skirt. The fashion police seemed to be on vacation too. A pink purse hung from her shoulder and she carried a purple umbrella large enough to insure she was shaded, and for us, insuring we'd always be able to spot her. We loved listening to her voice. I swear it was right out of that comic movie classic, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”. It was reminiscent of the rhythmical, inflective voice of Greek-American actor Michael Constantine in his role as the proud to be of Greek heritage, Windex bottle-toting, Gus Portokalos. He'd say, "Give me a word, any word, and I show you that the root of that word is Greek". I loved Gus in that role and I loved our guide's Greek accented English with words stretched out in an exaggerated Gus-like fashion. She'd follow each sentence with a questioning "um?" much like the ubiquitous Canadian expression "ay?" tacked on to the end of just about every assertion, turning it into a question.

One of the most important sanctuaries of antiquity, Olympia is the birth-place of the Olympic Games, held then as today, every four years. The ancient Greeks flocked there for more than a millennium (776 BC- 393 AD) to celebrate the sacred games until Roman emperor Theodosius I abolished the games then considered reminiscent of paganism. Olympia is also known for the gigantic ivory and gold statue of Zeus that once stood inside the temple dedicated to him. In fact, the first games honored Zeus, the father of the gods. The statue was sculpted by Pheidias but more importantly it was later named one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

Diana took us down what was once the main street of this city, then a complex of temples, athlete houses, treasuries and public buildings. Of course, nothing but ruins remain today with much of the destruction due to earthquakes. The devastation was particularly evident by the Temple of Zeus where sections of its columns, once supporting this colossal building, lie about like pieces from a giant game of checkers. To get a better photo of this debris field, I climbed on top of one of the column pieces. I thought I'd stepped on an alarm, for almost immediately a whistle sounded and a plain clothes security person appeared to shoo me off the stone I'd mounted. I bet he had a brother with the Carabinieri! Though not roped off in any way and with no objection whatsoever to sitting on these broken column pieces, I'd somehow exceeded some ordinance. Needless to say, I got a lot of attention but never got the shot!

Our guide related an interesting story about one of the 293 games that took place there. Back then, women were not only not allowed to participate but could not even attend the games. If caught, they were punished with the terrible death of being dropped from a nearby cliff. However, such a horrific demise did not deter one mother from attending, whose son was competing in a field event in the stadium. While athletes competed in the nude, judges were clothed so this resourceful mother disguised herself as one of the judges. When her son did win, her cheering gave away her true identity and she was arrested. Their conundrum was that she was from a famous Olympian athletic family. Her father had been a champion, her husband a champion and now that honor had fallen to her son. How could this daughter, wife and now mother of champions be put to death? Being politically correct, even for that day and age, they sidestepped the issue entirely, changed procedures and made it a requirement that judges also attend in the nude! With four years between events, who would remember the turn about? It has a ring about it similar to our four year cycle of presidential elections!

One of the many other interesting tidbits had to do with word origin. Initially, the games consisted of a single event, a sprint along the length of the "stade" at Olympia. The starting line, where I lightheartedly readied myself for a mock race, is still there, in fact (see photo album). The length of Olympia's stade, therefore, became somewhat of a standard measure of distance, equaling approximately 200 meters. The Romans later picked up this unit of measure, though theirs was slightly shorter. Today, it is the origin of the word "stadium", from the tiered infrastructure surrounding a Roman track, a stadium in length.

As expected, we made the customary stop at a souvenir shop on our return. Personally, we got off course and made our first stop a few doors away at a café-like restaurant for an ice laden glass of ouzo, an anise-flavored Greek aperitif, much like Italian Sambuca. We'd come ashore, much like ancient mariners, not for water or some honey flavored mead, but to slowly sip licorice flavored ouzo, so symbolic of Greek culture. How could we visit Greece without sampling this cloudy (clear until you add ice) white nectar? They must have known the Italian cruise ship had arrived. It was Wednesday after all, and the “Fortuna” was expected to make its call. To entice any Italians there was even a buffet sign offering "meatballs with spaghetti" for 8.30€ or about $12 American (see photo album). We skipped the pasta! Though I guess it is considered poor form to drink ouzo "dry hammer" (drinking alcohol without eating), we were, after all, transients - tourists never to be seen again. We could, for a day, live vicariously. Following this taste that refreshes, reminiscent of a mouthful of “Good & Plenty” candy from our youthful days, we made our way to the gift shop. There I succumbed to what is called a "blue eye" and a string of "komboloi" worry beads, resembling prayer beads! My blue eye talisman consists of concentric blue and white circles on a wedge of glass. It is believed to have the power to turn away harm or ward off the curse of the evil eye by bending the malicious gaze back to the originator. Fans of the beads claim that flipping them creates a rush of adrenaline, followed by a soothing, calm sensation. Today, as I sit here clicking away at my keyboard, fresh from times of superstition, I'm well prepared to ward off evil and flip away my anxiety and nervous tension!

Back aboard the "Fortuna", we found our new dining arrangements. So far, everything had changed to our liking. With only a table number to go by, though, we were curious as to what we'd find when we arrived. How large would our table be? Some went as high as eight to a table. And would they be Italian? There were six of us in total - two Italian couples and ourselves, two Italian want-to-be's. To our surprise, the lawyer and his wife from the night before had also been assigned this table. Our 'Helen Mirren' had complained about the cool air in the Raffaello blowing on her from an overhead vent. For some reason, Italians seem always afraid of drafts. The other delightful couple, Maurizio and Rina, whom we got to know much better, were from the Veneto region. They had also been relocated, but exactly why, I can't recall. He was some type of police criminal investigator for the court system and she was a nurse. We appeared to be a table of self-inflicted, misfit transplants! Thinking about it though, we had gone from the Carabinieri, to a criminal prosecutor and had now added a crime investigator. What could it mean ... had I really committed some crime by stepping up on that chunk of sacred column? My twitch rate began to accelerate and it wasn't from the wine. Doubts came crowding in. Had I offended the gods or the head man himself, Zeus? I thought about it a while. When we got back to our cabin, I definitely needed to break out the blue eye and the beads. Thinking about what I was up against, I think what I really needed were extra strength blue eyed worry beads!

From the Rogue Tourist, Paolo

P.S. Our journey, far from epic, was for but 42 days, a handful of these on a Greek sea. It took Odysseus ten adventurous years to find his way home from Troy over these same waters with an Olympic challenge thrown in along the way for good measure. ... "Look here, friends, we ought to ask the stranger if he competes in something. ... At this, Alkinoos' tall son advanced to the center ground, and there addressed Odysseus: "Friend, Excellency, come join our competition, if you are practiced, as you seem to be. ... Enter our games, then; ease your heart of trouble. … He (Odysseus) leapt out, cloaked as he was, and picked a discus, a rounded stone, more ponderous than those already used by the Phaiakian throwers, and, whirling, let it fly from his great hand with a low hum. The crowd went flat on the ground - all those oar-pulling, seafaring Phaiakians - under the rushing noise. The spinning disk soared out, light as a bird, beyond all others. ... From "The Odyssey" by Homer

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on a photo album entitled "Greek Odyssey".

2011-05-31T15:08:00.020-04:00

Eat, Pray, Bug (Part II)

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine. ....”

Thus in the movie “Casablanca” did Humphrey Bogart lament (though maybe secretly relish) his meeting Ingrid Bergman once again. In similar fashion, the world proved to us just how small it really is. Life has a tendency to twist and turn, and like a Mobius strip, tread back upon itself in deja-vu episodes.

It happened to us while exploring the medieval “San Pellegrino” district of ancient Viterbo, once a home to Popes. Interestingly, but understandable for the times, a bridge separated the papal district from that of the common “contadini” (peasants). So we crossed the 'papal bridge' in this ancient hamlet ourselves, seeking the residence of forgotten popes but instead discovered a paradox. The irony of it was that although our paths in time and space hadn’t crossed, in fact they had. Let me explain.

It was in the garden of the “Il Paradosso Ristorante”, which in error I’d translated to mean “Paradise”, where we met Andrea. We’d been through the papal district by then and though everything looked closed for the afternoon rest period, we were lucky to find the Il Paradosso open. We were looking for something to drink, seeing it was a hot afternoon. A peek through the door of the Paradosso encouraged us to enter. Besides a main dining room, overlooking an extensive garden, we found a winding labyrinth of halls which make for those especially confidential and romantic moments we sometimes seek. We were soon in the garden, below and to one side of the once exclusive bridge, where paupers were transformed into princes. It was early in the season and things still needed to be set up and the area made ship-shape, but even then you could tell how this green island-garden of vegetation, set in the midst of grey stone arches, reminiscent of Bologna, and a fountain, home to a family of geese, was a pearl of a place. With drinks in hand, in company with a basket of chips, we settled in for a relaxing few minutes when our host, Andrea, came and sat with us. At the moment we were his only customers.

We learned that the name "Paradosso" is taken from the name of the valley in which his ristorante (restaurant) is located. This valley, indiscernible today, served as a boundary in medieval times between two quarters "Pianoscarano" and "San Pellegrino". He explained how he and his wife were the new owners of this restaurant and were making a go of it. They had some help, but from the looks of things, needed more. I can say that in general Italians don’t seem to be as concerned with the look of their surroundings as much as I happen to be. Out on a street, being a more common, public space, it can look at times as if you were in downtown Beirut, Lebanon, ravaged by years of war and thus neglect. Yet once inside a private Italian residence, no matter how fine or simple the home, orderliness and attention to detail are sources of pride. It helps me understand why Italians are so willing to invite you in, show you their homes and offer you coffee, unfortunately, something foreign to America these days where even eye contact is ill advised. I’m not the type willing to stomach an old refrigerator on my front porch or a derelict car the precious space of my yard, as opposed to some of my Americans countrymen. For better or worse, I’m just not comfortable in un-kept surroundings. For example, one of the first things I do after rolling our suitcases inside our home in Calitri is to pull weeds and sweep up the little cortile (courtyard) outside our doorway. Honestly, this syndrome has to be some sort of gene defect, which both I and my sister share. I can even recall my aunt Anita once emptying an ashtray and cleaning it while the last ash from the first cigarette still smoldered in the fingers of a surprised visitor! So with palm fronds lying about on the grass, ladders, hoses and broken planters scattered amidst overturned lawn furniture, I felt Andrea needed help and experienced a strong urge to help straighten up the garden right then. Thankfully, this passed when Andrea arrived.

He asked us where we were from and where we had been. I mentioned our stay in Bologna and he remarked that he’d lived there once. When I inquired if he knew where Via de Gombruti was, where we had stayed as guests of Sabrina, he laughed and said indeed he did, for he’d spent five years on this street as a soldier guarding a synagogue located there! The coincidence was just too much to dismiss and then when he explained that “Il Paradosso” meant “The Paradox” I almost fell off my chair to join the fallen palm tree branches. That’s about when that line from Casablanca about all the gin joints in the world slipped into my mind. How ironic that fate would bring our fleeting paths through life so close together. Or had divine intervention played a hand here by having us pick this particular door among all the doors available to walk through? You decide, but with all this papal and hopefully spiritual influence about, it seemed that in crossing that bridge we’d bridged an enigma bringing disparate travelers together, if only briefly.

Getting back closer to earth and onto a more familiar topic, that being food, I want to mention what I consider to be the best deli in the world. It is “La Vecchia Malga” on Via Pescherie Vecchie in the bowels of the Bologna market district. There is another deli touted on the Internet that my notes told us not to miss, but on inspection, it wasn’t in the same league. The boys with the white hats (recall that the good cowboys always wore white hats) in this delicatessen, just visible in the photo above, were more than helpful at serving-up bountiful plates of mixed cold cuts, cheese and marinated vegetables like olives, artichokes, sundried tomatoes all while surrounded by dangling legs of prosciutto, hefty salamis, massive wheels of cheese and crates of Italian wine. Beginning with the street-side window display and extending inside, it was difficult to take it all in. “Two of these” and “four of those” – no request was too small or out of the question. It was difficult to leave but we had reason to. We took our delicious purchases just a few streets away to an earlier discovery, the L'Osteria del Sole (on Vicolo Ranocchi, http://www.osteriadelsole.it/html/storia.htm) and what a find this place was.

While I have heard of “BYOB” (Bring Your Own Booze) before, “BYOF” (Bring Your Own Food) was something new. This tavern, wedged between the more traditional Bologna medieval flavored shops, remains much the same since its beginnings in 1465. The passage of time has seen ownership pass from proprietor to proprietor down to today's third generation of the Spolaore family. We were fortunate to become part of this history and join the thirsty troops at Bologna’s oldest inn, where you can eat whatever you happen to bring. We had stopped there earlier and were advised to come prepared and come early for a trip back in time across a glass of wine. Their 500-year history has enshrined some hard-core drinking, with regulars filling its pews from 8.30am on and with the liquids offered now whittled down to just four choices: red, white, still or sparkling.

Its appearance is deceiving. Out front, the marquee simply proclaimed “vino”. The “V” wasn’t even capitalized. You either knew where it was or you weren’t invited! We resorted to an old man sitting outside to help vector us in and confirm we’d arrived. I couldn’t tell if he was just arriving himself or had already been. Jokingly, I’m sure, he asked for five Euros when I took his photo. As he explained in respectable English, "I'm a businessman after all"! Inside we found an L-shaped bar, which boxed-in one corner just in from a double set of entry doors. The rest of the space saw a long narrow room shoot to the rear while a few side room spurs made up the rest of this ancient shrine.

Traffic was brisk with people coming and going, especially from around the bar. It soon filled with old patrons and with the young, no doubt curious of their traditions. The paraphernalia of centuries filled the bar shelves helping it retain its old world atmosphere. There were ragged-edged family photos, hanging long-dried laurel wreaths, flasks of all types and a relic of a wall-mounted cork extractor that had caressed legions of wine bottles. Avenues of upside-down wine glasses of every size and style prepped for their next customer’s wants. The rest of the décor was simple ‘plank table’ of the kind the Last Supper may have been served on, which spilled over to foster an atmosphere reminiscent of some Dickens novel, if not some smoke-filled bohemian café serving-up poetry readings in Montmartre. Each table sported benches and for the needier of us, an assortment of wooden chairs. Some movie memorabilia, posters, postcards and oversized demi-johns stuffed with corks filled the walls and denied the existence of corners.

Maria Elena loved this place as much for its physical atmosphere as for the characters that frequented “del Sole”. We slid onto a bench at a still unoccupied table with our backs to a wall partially clad with wooden slats from long consumed boxes of port and wine. Above our heads, glass windows with frames encrusted with years of paint allowed us to glimpse into a small courtyard. We sometimes say “location, location” as key to business success but here it was “atmosphere, atmosphere”. Opposite us, a solitary woman sat accompanied by a Mona Lisa smile and at times a much younger male escort, whom we so wanted to believe, for her sake, was not her son. We sipped our red and wondered what her story was. Not far down their bench a younger couple sat, he with a profile the cross between a Roman god and GI Joe. They flirted in an apparent nascent romance. The final length of table found two men in serious discussion, their fingers and hands flailing with Italian insistence. Munching our 'take-away' fare from “La Vecchia Malga”, we sat between Rumanians to one side of us and a university student celebrating her graduation from nursing school. She sported a laurel wreath festooned with multicolored ribbons atop a wig of dreadlocks (see photo album). Queen for but a day, this was her moment, reminiscent of a triumphant Caesar entering Rome, signifying her not as the “First Man of Rome” but “First Woman of Bologna”. Together this assortment of travelers, under the watchful gaze of an Al Pacino “Godfather” poster, struck the fleeting pose of life as it was meant to be, at that moment, in this, a very special place.

With our days in Bologna coming to an end, we decided that last evening to opt for a pizza. By then, we’d consumed sufficiently of the city’s formal culinary hospitality and a pizza sounded like the appropriate finishing touch before leaving for Orvieto. Our B&B hostess, Sabrina, recommended that we try a nearby pizzeria, a favorite of hers. We had a preset image of what to expect but were surprised at how far beyond our expectations this place went from the local, beer-joint pizza parlor stereotype back home … usually run by a Greek! Here we were escorted to a linen covered table preset with dishes, silverware and fine stemware. It was only the presence of a nearby wood-fired pizza oven that made us realize this wasn’t a restaurant, yet from the extensive contents of the menu, it was indeed that too. Other customers were enjoying full course dinners. Our pizzas were wonderful. Maria Elena had a 'white pizza' (void of tomato sauce) with pine nuts and 'rocket' arugula while I enjoyed mine doused in sauce and crowded with salsiccia e fungi (sausage and mushrooms). To bring it all together, we also ordered a liter of the house’s red wine. We had almost finished our meals with just a few bites remaining and the last of the vino trying desperately to hold out and cover the very bottom of our glasses when I experienced a true “Victor Victoria” moment. Do you recall how in that movie a starving penniless Julie Andrews introduced a bug into her salad in an attempt to avoid paying the bill? That thought occurred to me shortly after I lowered my now empty wine glass and noticed something foreign in my mouth. On close inspection it was obvious, at least to the two of us, that here was a dead bug, legs and all! My suspicion is that when filling our carafe the little critter had somehow followed along. Management, however, insisted it was sediment from decanting. I know a bug when I see one and this wasn’t wine sediment! In the heat of the debate with the manager, the little fella fell into the dark abyss under our table. There was no further interest from this point on to provide a flashlight, find the evidence and continue. They took up a “let sleeping dogs lie” attitude. Our attitude was mostly “who da thunk it” humorous. Our waiter, a meaningful look on his face, as if trying to tell us something, most likely realizing that it had really been an insect, offered us Limoncello apparently in compensation. Thus we toasted to our final Bolognese meal, the completion of a wonderful visit and to our deceased drinking companion. And thus you have it, a fleeting glimpse of Bologna from an 'Eat, Pray, Bug' perspective.

THE END

Written on the road in Bella Italia,

By that Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled “Eat, Pray, Bug - Part II”.

2011-04-30T03:28:00.030-04:00

Eat, Pray, Bug (Part I)

We had landed. The tire screech and rumble confirmed it. It was our second in almost as many hours. We’d arrived at Aeroporto Guglielmo Marconi, our travel day now complete. The touchdown had been firm, yet much gentler than many others I'd experienced. Taxing in, my mind wondered to other times, at other airfields. There was that time on Allegheny Airlines when we hit so hard a cabin ceiling fixture had disconnected and fallen in the isle, adding further emphasis to their nickname, "Agony Airlines". On another occasion, this one in U-Tapao, Thailand, on a 10,000 foot strip by the sea, we’d contacted terra firma so deliberately that a generator had kicked offline - I was piloting that one! And then there is that saying Maria Elena reminds me is purely Irish, "May the road rise up to meet you ...". Well on Guam this is actually the case for there the runway, as you feel for it, noticeably rises to meet your landing-gear before abruptly ending at a 500' cliff. Win some, lose some. All that matters is that you walk away from them all - the good, the bad and the ugly.

Leaving the airport, our next and final destination was "B&B La Stradetta" (www.lastradetta.it) in the old centro storico part of the city. Oh, and lest I forget to mention it, we were in Bologna. The La Stradetta (“Little Street”) hadn't been our first choice when planning our trip. We’d initially pinned our hopes on another B&B, Bologna nel Cuore (“Bologna in my Heart”, http://www.bolognanelcuore.it/eng.html), but with only a handful of rooms, they couldn't accommodate us. The proprietor, Maria, then suggested we stay a few porticos away at her friend's B&B and thus we arrived at La Stradetta and met Sabrina Fini, an aspiring artist and B&B operator. Having just arrived in Italy our initial conversation with Sabrina was part verbal and part pantomime. Sabrina explained that “La Stradetta” was named after a painting by Dutch Master, Johannes Vermeer, entitled “A Little Street”. He is more familiar to us for “The Girl with the Pearl Earring”. Situated on Via De Gombruti, which is indeed short and certainly narrow, it fittingly reminded Sabrina, herself an art graduate of the University of Bologna, of Vermeer’s “Little Street”, thus giving special meaning to the name of her B&B.

Our stay at the ‘alternative’ certainly proved to be pleasurable for it was far more than a simple room with breakfast. It was spacious and expansive, for Sabrina had basically surrendered her entire apartment to us. She would work there during the day, cleaning and working at her computer, but by late afternoon was off to her mother’s place for the evening, only to return early the next morning with delicious breakfast treats like the tortellini sweets filled with almonds and accented with a hint of anise that we were told, “only my mother makes”. Eating had begun and we’d only just arrived!

I will begin by saying that Bologna lies under the radar and off the mainline tourist routes. Ever hear of Rome, Florence, Venice and Bologna on any travel itinerary? It also missed its billing on the “Grand Tours” of centuries past. Approaching by taxi, as we did, its look of industrial clutter must deter many from going any further. Yet I think the Bolognese prefer it that way - a haven in a world of chaos. Here they quietly go about their business enjoying their lives steeped in fine food, a pleasant climate and a heritage rich in education, architecture and culture. Nor is it a town of five or so addresses. With 380,000 residents basking in this pleasure, it is not only the capital city of the Emilia-Romagna region but prides itself as the food capital of Italy. We were eager to get to know and share in Bologna’s pleasures.

When we exited our B&B the first time, we were surprised to find the Italian army camped outside our door! Inquisitive as I am, I soon discovered that there was a synagogue just across the street, though I hadn’t noticed it when we arrived. It occupied what would have passed for just another apartment building. If fact, it shared building space with other tenants. The military security detail was there to guard it. This has been going on all across Italy since the 90’s when something nasty had happened. Religion and its various theologies as to who has the correct dogma or revelation can be heated stuff. Apparently, the Italians, with their own history of bloody religious fervor, had learned a lesson or two and weren’t taking any chances on a repeat. Paradoxically, some modicum of peace and serenity through prayer was being achieved at the expense of 24/7 security.

On our first morning of discovery we strolled down Via IV Novembre until we arrived in the main city square, Piazza Maggiore. There in the shadows of the Neptune fountain were gaggles of students, surprisingly with notepads in hand. With cherry blossoms blooming in Washington, DC and busloads of students headed there, this must be the local equivalent. We noticed groups of students all about that morning being explained their ancient heritage.

Across the square and through an inviting archway, onto Via degli Orefici, we came upon the morning market where cued-up locals waited for their turn to haggle, although everything certainly looked clearly marked and not in question. There were many butcher shops, fish mongers and certainly even more vegetable stands. Asparagus and artichokes seemed to be in season at the time. Everything was fresh with even the translation for ‘hot house’ missing from my pocket dictionary!

We enjoyed our first Bolognese meal on the evening of our arrival. Our hostess recommended we try a nearby restaurant but unfortunately (though it proved fortunate), we were unable to get into the Merlo Ristorante for lack of a reservation. We asked for an alternative recommendation and were directed a few blocks away to Gallo Matto (Crazy Chicken). We found it easily beneath a hair salon. Thankfully, lack of a reservation here was not a problem and we settled in for an outstanding meal. Serious eating had begun in a town renowned for its serious cooking! The ‘Sole Doro Sangevoise’ wine flowed as the primi (first course) and secondi (second course) arrived but not before an amazing antipasta. It consisted of an all-meat platter featuring thinly sliced prosciutto, mortadella and something mysterious, which if you closed your eyes, you’d think you were eating a pork chop. For us this was novel enough but a foot-long salami as thick as your thumb called a “strolghino” and a basket of fried dough squares topped off this first sampling of Bolognese cucina. We shared a filet covered in a gorgonzola cream sauce, which was hard to get away from Maria Elena, and a heaping mound of Tagliatelle alla Bolognese covered in a shower of shaved parmigiano-reggiano. Four men at an adjacent table, a little further along in their meals, allowed us to glimpse what was coming in the way of dolce (dessert), although at the time we hadn’t planned on having any. Our resistance soon melted when both the waiter and waitress arrived with wave after wave of desserts. All told there were five to select from and that we did, would you believe, but only to be polite. Served “family style” it seemed that you could take from each what you wanted and as much as you wanted, especially if you struck a ‘mother lode’ and this we had. There was Fior di Latte (Maria Elena’s favorite), Zuppa Englese, Panna Cotti, Mascaponi (my fave) and Torte de Riso. Thankfully, you’ll gain no calories by simply reading their names. After indulging, however, we felt some guilt and therefore the need to walk off this added bounty and this we did.

Bologna is known for its covered walkways called porticos. In fact, all told, there are 53 km (32 miles) of them. No reason ever to get wet or be in the sun. In medieval times there were even standards prescribed for their construction, for instance, their minimum height had to be at least 2.13 meters, the minimum height to let a man on horseback pass underneath. One morning we left our horses behind and decided to take a stroll along the reported longest portico in the world. It leads to the Basilica of San Luca, our objective that day, lying some distance beyond Porto Saragozza, a passage through the outer walls of the city. Rome has its seven hills yet even in the flatness of Bologna, at the base of the Apennine Mountains, we managed to find the only hill around and perched at its very top is the Basilica. I’ve been on forced marches before and here was yet another, though self-inflicted in this case. I never did confirm this with Sabrina but I now believe that the concept of artistic perspective was first created here in Bologna from this very portico. As we walked along beneath this beautifully crafted creation, we gradually departed the realm of man and began climbing a staircase, which if you survived the trek, would certainly have you approaching the state of Nirvana! Off far ahead in the narrowing illusion brought on by distance, we could make out a turn or some elusive end to this purgatory bordering on hell, only to find, once there, that the torture continued on to the next elevated mirage on the horizon. This went on for some unbearable time and when we finally did reach the end, a million steps later, denoted by a large cross on the landing joined to the last step and not surprisingly with an ambulance in the street below, we praised God for this final act of merciful relief, although my exact words could have been interpreted as irreverent. The church, the Sanctuary of the Blessed Virgin of St Luke, is magnificent. Located at the top of Guardia Hill at the very end of 666 vaulted porticos (trust me, I counted them), built to protect the Madonna during her annual descent and covering almost four kilometers to link the shrine to the city, it offers a panoramic view of the entire city.

The interior contains works of several masters, but probably the most important is the icon of the Virgin Mary with Child attributed to Luke the Evangelist. According to legend, when St Luke was 47 he portrayed the Madonna during a miraculous apparition of infant Jesus in Jerusalem. It was kept in Constantinople in the Church of St. Sophia until, in 1100, it was spirited away to Bologna by one of the faithful returning from a pilgrimage in the Holy Land. Evidence, however, points to a Western artist who at about the end of 1100 painted it according to the Byzantine style prevalent at the time.

As we continued to explore, poking into various crannies, we came upon what on first inspection looked like a table with some votive-type candles scattered here and there across its surface. On closer inspection, I realized that the surface was moving, however slowly. It was something akin to the checkout counter belt in a supermarket, but moving much, much slower. Without placing your hand on the table, it was difficult to detect any movement at all. Apparently here prayer itself had become mechanized (see photo album). You placed your lit candle on the belt and gradually it traversed the length of the table, eventually falling off at the other end into a vat of water, your surrogate prayer-time on a surrogate altar concluded. We had come a long way since St Luke supposedly painted his Madonna and Child.

Here was another place of prayer, this one guarded 24/7 by natural centurions called Stamina and Endurance. Written in Latin high, high above the altar, high enough to almost be indiscernible was inscribed, “Orant pro Populo et Universa Civitate” or “They Pray for the people and for the Whole City”. A prayer lost in time among the angelic putti positioned nearby yet fitting indeed, when today extended to the entire world. Worth the trek? Yes, but next time, we’ll take a taxi to the top and enjoy the covered stroll down just like the Madonna!

To Be Continued

Written on the road in Bella Italia,

By that Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled “Eat, Pray, Bug - Part I”.

2011-03-30T11:09:00.027-04:00

Sunday's in the Park

It was a surprise when my sister opened the door to her basement and I heard her shout into the abyss, “Who wants to get burned?” With all the snow and the continual need to keep the fire going in the wood-stove, reminiscent of a true Vestal Virgin, she was simply expressing her mounting frustration as she went downstairs to the woodpile for a few more sacrificial pieces of timber. With each new sacrifice, she was incrementally adding ash to what would eventual amount to a ceremonial cremation of Winter.

Here in the Northeast in the middle of March, what my sister needs, what we all honestly need, is to shake off cabin fever. We so want to smell the dirt in the garden once again and see Mother Nature apportion her broad brushstrokes of green over everything in sight. We need to be outside and once again see grass and splotches of emerald leaves emerge from now bare branches. When it does happen, and it will, what better place to drink-in this vibrantly colored metamorphosis than in a park. Can you recall the last time you were in a park? I'm not talking about the amusement type but more along the lines of grass between your toes, a chance to throw a Frisbee around or maybe even fly a kite. Honestly, it has been some time for me. Take kite flying. The last time I recall flying a kite, it got caught in some power lines. That was when I asked Maria Elena if she would hold it, and to this day, she'll remind me of the ungentlemanly cad I'd been to have even considered asking her to do such a thing under the high-voltage circumstances of the moment! But then, we began to travel and though we can't direct the wind, we can adjust our sails, which eventually brought us to Italy.

It's a simple fact that in Italia, Sunday's are reserved for the family. Following the obligatory visit to il duòmo (the cathedral) or otherwise any local church for Sunday Mass (today only two are open daily in Calitri), the remainder of the day is set aside for family activities. What better way to spend those hours than in a park where the bambini (children) can expend their considerable supply of energy, while their parents unconsciously attempt to rejuvenate from the previous workweek, and in due course, relax in preparation for the trials of the week ahead.

We were fortunate to have been able to explore two standout parks during our sojourns in Italy. One was public and very well known while the other was exclusive and located on what was formally a private estate. The first, located in Rome, is the renowned Garden of Villa Borghese. There are many access points to Villa Borghese but we entered the park, I'd estimate, at its southernmost point after climbing the Spanish Steps from Piazza di Spagna, which makes for a rather grand entrance. You might think of Villa Borghese as Rome's equivalent to New York's Central Park with its openness, multiple avenues, foliage and its cooling canopy of trees. It’s easy to feel you have regressed a few hundred years to a more docile time ... the 21st Century in downtown Roma and 1600 AD in the Gardens of Villa Borghese. Like Central Park, once inside, the chaos of the city melts away and you feel as though you are in open countryside within an oasis of peaceful tranquility.

The centerpiece of the garden is the Galleria Borghese. Its twenty rooms on two floors are crammed with a substantial part of the Borghese family collection of paintings, sculpture and antiquities. This considerable collection was begun by Cardinal Scipione Borghese, the nephew of Pope Paul V. This was the Pope who began hearings on Galileo's support of an sun-centered solar system, leading to his eventual house arrest. Scipione was an early patron of Bernini as well as an avid collector of works by Caravaggio. It is also here that you will find Napoleon's notoriously promiscuous sister, Maria Paolina Bonaparte, who following her marriage to Camillo Borghese, was fittingly sculpted by Antonio Canova, half naked, as 'Venus Victorious'. Interestingly, Canova initially considered posing the recently-wed Paolina as 'Diana', goddess of chastity, but wisely reconsidered. After the deed, when asked if she had felt uncomfortable posing virtually naked, she replied in a veritable Mae West flair, “Why should I. The studio is heated.” Her rather well proportioned fleshy skeleton would for all time, much to the dismay of both emperor brother and husband, be out of the closet! With value added from all this steamy history, you can appreciate why we had attempted to visit the Galleria on earlier visits to Rome, yet for various reasons, were successful gaining access only once. Coincidentally, the day we finally succeeded in getting inside (postponement upon postponement be damned ... tickets that weren't good, that were actually waiting for us, that met the museum's hours and our availability, etc, etc!), the cardinals paintings by Milan born Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1571–1610), famous for his play with light and shadow, were being showcased. All said, the Fates must have delayed our ultimate artistic gratification until the very last, until the very best.

But there is far more to this park, first opened to the public in 1902, than its art collection, however fine and not to be missed. With its 226 acres of gardens, statue-and-bust-lined boulevards, winding wild forest pathways, fountains of icy-cool water, even a handful of artificial lakes and ponds, it is a place to stroll (without worrying about auto traffic), people watch, even rent a bike. The 1911 World Exposition was held in this park and some of the original pavilions remain. Today plenty still goes on here in a bustle of its own. With its size and the number of its distractions to include a zoo, an outdoor playhouse (built to resemble Shakespeare’s Globe Theater), the National Museum of Villa Giulia in addition to a Gallery of Modern Art, it is hard to take it all in. We certainly didn't but what we did experience as we leisurely walked about was something we'd never before seen. No tickets needed, we were fortunate to come upon what for us was a first, a classic Punch & Judy puppet show with all its yammering and of course, punching and flailing, as the children all about us took delightful pleasure at the goings-on. Though we were at least familiar with this type of performance, what we saw later was truly unique. It was like something, that as a child, I might have expected to see on TV, as for example, my recollection of the Banana Man, so captivating then that I remember it to this day. I’m not able to put my hands on the photos I took that day, but what I do recall is a lone woman performer who to the accompaniment of a sound system, put on her own puppet show without need of a stage and curtain affair. What was unlike anything we'd seen before was that she herself was the puppet, and if that wasn't enough, the characters she played were on the back of her legs. She was bent over at the waist the entire time and looking at her from straight behind, which was where the audience was located, you'd think her merry band of puppet-type characters were independent, individual puppets. When looked at from the side, however, you could only marvel at how she could pull-off a performance like that, all the while backwards and using only her legs and arms. With our mouths no doubt wide open in frank amazement, we couldn't believe what we were seeing.

On an earlier visit to Italia, this one farther to the north, we were fortunate to have visited the 'Parco Giardino Sigurta at Valeggio sul Mincio' (pictured above), south of Lake Garda. It had been recommended to us by our hosts, Anna Maria and Jacques, of Villa San Pietro B&B in Montichiari. Although this was some time before we had adopted ‘Margaret’ as our official GPS navigator, we had no difficulty finding it the old fashioned way, with a map. We found the park to be a wonderful fusion of woodland areas, expanses of open lawns and a garden mix of flower beds and ornamental plants. It had been purchased in 1941 from Dr Carlo Sigurtà but hadn't opened its gates to the public until March of 1978. Oddly, the origin of these marvelous gardens is due to a buggy! During World War II, supplies of gasoline were scarce so Count Sigurta, a chemical and pharmaceutical magnate, sought an alternative to his automobile. Carlo made his way to Valeggio sul Mincio, a town renowned for its buggies to buy one of these two wheeled, horse-drawn affairs. However, he didn't buy a buggy that day. His actions had to have been along the lines of the many times we've gone to purchase something, like a couch, only to leave with a kitchen set or microwave! On impulse, he bought the nearby 125 acres that would become Parco Giardino Sigurta. Today, it is considered by botanists to be one of the finest public gardens in the world. Though we have not seen many, we would wholeheartedly agree.

We thought to bring a bag-lunch along with us. We’d picked up our assortment of cheeses, salami and bread from 'Salumeria e Drocheria al Ponte', a small food shop in the once buggy (and no doubt also buggy-whip) mini-metropolis of Valeggio, positioned in the town’s center by a charming waterwheel. With the help of some locals, we bought six fetta (slices) of salami, two small loafs of bread, formaggio (cheese) and a bottle of vino bianco (white wine). We enjoy vino rosso (red wine) more than vino bianco. It's tough though to find cooled red wine since it doesn't exist, at least not in Valeggio sul Mincio. I'm embarrassed to admit it but at first I had asked for chilled red wine, which is essentially a ‘scotch mist’ (something that doesn't exist). To the laughter of a gaggle of locals around me in the Salumeria, I soon realized 'my bad'. But we were, after all, new at this. Sheepishly departing while mumbling a few scusi and mi dispiace (‘excuse me’ and ‘I’m sorry’), we took our purchases to the park. For 30,000L you could enter by car and stop wherever you liked for as long as you liked. It didn't matter how many people were in the car either - it was all the same price. This reminded us of going to a drive-in movie theater here at home, if you can remember what those were like, since many have gone the wayside with the relentless advance of technology. We decided to drive to the far end and work our way back toward the entrance. Once parked, we walked to the hilltop ‘Romeo and Juliet’ lily pond and from there onto the broad flats of the great lawn, where we went barefoot. For lunch, we sat leaning against a tree on the grass with our bags of boodle. The grass was cut close, reminding me of the short cropped grass on a golf course green. It was a hot day (reason I was seeking some cool wine) and the shade of the tree did its magic. We weren't sure if we were allowed to drink wine in the park, so sophisticated bon-vivants that we were, we hid our bottle in a brown paper bag! I doubt we fooled anyone by our attempt at subterfuge but at least no one bothered us. Wasn’t this Italy after all and didn’t just about everyone drink wine 24/7? Rhetorically I ask, but no, not really. As we sat there, sipping from plastic cups, we got a sense for what a popular Sunday afternoon spot this was from the number of tour buses negotiating the roads and the actual number of people about. Cameras clicked and I can only imagine how many photos were made that day catching the two of us out there on the lawn, under the tree, surrounded by a carpet of green and our bagged wine!

Our next stop was at the ‘Hermitage’. This was a single narrow but tower-like building set among shrubs with an apparent room at the head of a steep exterior staircase. Could this have been the Count’s very private hide-away? Evident of modern improvement, there were now speakers outside this building and we recognized a popular Andrea Bocelli tune wafting through the air. On our way there, we passed another interesting attraction, Il Cimitèro dei Cani (the Dog Cemetery). The cemetery arched around the periphery of a small pond with headstones dedicated to each of the clearly beloved family pets. All the owner's dogs had apparently been named "Happy". There was "Happy I" and "Happy II" and Happy ... I'd estimate, all told, the collection of small headstones outnumbered the total number of British King Henrys! Our final dalliance was at a grotto down a woodsy pathway through the forest. The walls looked as though made of porous volcanic rock and it was like walking into a gigantic ‘bathtub Mary’, for those of you who are familiar with these popular backyard shrines. When we emerged once again it was time to leave. We had a wonderful time amidst the natural and man-made beauty of this park in the Veneto that day, certainly comforting to recall here in the shank of winter.

So for a relaxing Sunday venue without fear of any kite flyer's premature death or any Vestal Virgin's fireside negligence, visit one of those natural beauty complexes throughout the world called a park. Go ahead, you pick it. Be sure to leave your instant messaging paraphernalia behind along with those ubiquitous 'facebook narratives'. Better yet, since life is no good alone, be sure to bring the entire family along to experience this adventure to its fullest, and for just a few moments, I'd recommend traipsing around barefoot. Enjoy the catharsis and sense of elation you'll feel. Come on summer, go ahead and bring on the green, we can handle it, allergies be damned!

The Rogue Tourist,
Paolo

Postscript: We just returned from the annual Boston Flower and Garden Show and what do you think we bought? Not one flower! Instead, mimicking the behavior of Count Sigurta, we bought something far off the mark .... hats for the two of us. Go figure.

2011-02-26T09:06:00.006-05:00

On the Occasion of Our Thirtieth

The airport sank beneath us as we climbed into the sky above Boston, our first visit to Italy now officially underway. So far, so good, but the preceding week hadn't gone as well. In fact, only hours before, I had not been able to get out of bed. It hadn't felt that bad when it happened. I was piling rocks on a wall, you know lifting and twisting, when suddenly an electric spasm flashed across my lower back. I actually turned around to see if someone had pushed me. It didn't seem that serious when it happened, so what did I do? Like a fool, I continued of course! This had been only days before our scheduled departure. At 5am on the appointed day of our trip, I still couldn't get out of bed. I'd run out of time.

Mare then reminded me that we needed to cancel the reservations we'd made. Fifteen minutes later I decided to try again. On this attempt I was able to sit up without too much pain. I managed to get onto crutches and hallelujah, was able to stand in a manner of speaking. It amounted to a small miracle since I had basically given up on going on the trip that had been in planning for over six months. It was on the occasion of our thirtieth wedding anniversary. The miracle hadn't been complete, however, since I still needed help with underwear and socks! How does that saying go, "For Better or Worse"? Because of my situation, we had postponed packing. This we did quickly and after notifying the kids and family, we were soon off for Logan International in Boston and ultimately Malpensa Airport, outside Milan.

With the combined help of Advil, Aspirin and a wheelchair, compliments of Continental Airlines, I planned to survive. We were on a DC-10 (remember those early jumbos?) and it was packed. Especially in my predicament, everything onboard seemed and maybe truly had been cramped. I would get up and walk around to stretch my back every so often. Across from us was a group of animated Texas students and behind us a couple from Beirut, Lebanon flipped their prayer beads. I wondered if they had some special insight about the flight! It made for a lively mix and difficulty sleeping. We must have conked-off for a while, however, for it is hard to recall long segments of those early morning hours. I was continuing my self-medication, alternating three Advil with three Aspirin every six hours. I hoped my stomach would hold out. We noticed that the sun was once again brightening the sky as we continued our rush eastward. Mary Ellen (at this stage not yet known as 'Maria Elena') lifted the shade to a cloudless, cobalt sky over the French Alps as we began our descent into Milan. For "better or worse", and maybe just in the "not so bad" category, we had arrived.

With a gingerly gate, I walked off the aircraft to another waiting wheelchair. This one was under the command of a lovely Italian ragazza (girl) named Monica (no relation to Monica Lewinsky, then all the news). She was magic. She got us our luggage and then on through customs in a jiffy. We must have looked innocent, maybe helpless, to the customs cops and their dogs. We said thanks and goodbye to Monica at the Hertz counter and following a stop at the ATM (the good old days when $1 was 1780 Lira) were soon on our way. I tossed the crutches in the back seat. Maybe it was from the first time excitement of finally being in Italy or an adrenalin rush, but that was the last time I used them.

We quickly found our way onto highway A9 that led us to Como, the silk-producing capital of Italy, located on the shore of its namesake, Lago de Como (Lake Como). Lake Como has an interesting shape. Think of it as an upside-down Y or something resembling a wish-bone. Due to the action of an ancient glacier, it is one of the deepest lakes in Europe. It also ranks as the third largest lake in Italy. Our destination was the resort town of Tremezzo further north along the western shore of Lago de Como. Since it was early yet and Como so close-by, we decided to stop in for a look. We found a covered parking garage and then walked toward a walled area we'd noticed when we drove in. I asked a policeman, sitting in his cruiser, where the center of town was and he pointed across the street. How was that for novice luck? I wonder what he thought - turista stupido (stupid tourist) came to mind! We entered Como through what is called the "Roman Tower". The hills surrounding the current location of Como have been inhabited since at least the Bronze Age by a Celtic tribe known as the Orobii. History records that around the first century BC, the area became subject to Rome. The town center was initially situated in the surrounding hills, but by order of none other than Julius Caesar, it was relocated to its current location. Caesar had the swamp at the southern tip of the lake drained and laid the plan for the walled city that evolved into today's Como. The Roman Tower was part of this fortified city. Today its environs are home to celebs like American actor George Clooney; pop singer Madonna; Italian fashion designer, Gianni Versace and for a few days, it would be our home as well.

It being a Monday and around noon, most all of the shops in Como were closed. Undaunted, we made the best of our first-ever walking tour through an Italian town. It wasn't difficult, especially with help of a guidebook and again thanks to the foresight of Julius C. for the perpendicular streets laid out perfectly in typical Roman grid fashion. We began from the waterfront's Plaza Cavour. We were surprised to come across a McDonalds but easily passed it up in favor of a slice of pizza from a nearby shop. Thankfully, it was open and most likely operated under the adage - "people gotta eat". On Via Indipendenza, in a small macelleria (butcher shop) of all places, clearly denoted by horned cow's heads, one each on either side of the doorway, we came away with a small frog-shaped bottle of Limon Doro liqueur. At the time we were collecting frogs (rane) of all shapes and styles because of the pond on our property and the ensuing nightly serenade from competing baritones. To this day it quietly sits on our shelf, its mouth yet unopened.

Our short visit concluded, we were once again on the move, this time along the coastal road snaking up the western shore of the lake. This was the very road Fascist dictator Benito Mussolini had traveled before being captured near the lake village of Dongo while attempting to escape to Switzerland. His payment that day in 1945 for using this road was summary execution! Historic yes, but it was nothing as exciting as the Amafitana coastal road (an experience I was destined to encounter in the future) but it had its own special quirks. Major among these being the numerous tunnels hewned from the phalanx of sentinel mountains cascading precipitously downward, to in an instant become shoreline. I can only imagine they were first fashioned by hand long ago to widen what must have been simple paths connecting lakeside villages. We were searching for what was to become a special place for us, from that day forward into the future. Unlike many of the grand hotels and private estates which pepper the shoreline, this family run albergo (hotel) in Tremezzo is situated up above the coastal road in a location allowing it to serve as a natural amphitheater overlooking Lake Como. As they say, it has a view to die for. I must have been on a straight section of the road about then because I recall going along at a pretty good clip while my head swept in the scenery in true bobble-head mode. Too late, I spotted the left turn I'd been looking for. Unbeknownst to us, this must have been where we lost the hubcap we couldn't account for when we returned our rental car weeks later. What I do recall is making a last minute, sharp left turn onto Via Patrizio Peduzzi. Not being familiar with this road, I had attempted to enter the part of the road coming down the mountain and lightly struck the curb-high island separating it from the ascending lane. Me and cars - the saga continued! Luckily, but for this confusing, almost indiscernible road divider, there was no further opposition. Back on track, I shifted as we climbed and turned up into what became a residential area until, now plateaued high above the lake, we found Albergo Rusall. We had arrived.

We were shown to room #29. All the rooms had a lake view. The room was very clean, the bed very comfortable (matrimoniale style - two single beds pushed together to make a queen sized bed, typical in Europe) and the bathroom was of decent size with a shower. Yes, it was small but the balcony overlooking the lake, off in the distance, made it feel larger. A flower box attached to the balcony railing, overflowing with crimson flowers, supplied an extra added touch. The expansive view, to include Bellagio on the opposite shore, more than made up for the closeness of the room. We weren't planning to spend much time in our room anyway. The Pesenti family has run Albergo Rusall since 1964. Our hosts were the hardworking husband and wife team of GianFranco and Lidia Pesenti. Franco is all business and spoke Italian, French, German and some English. They were ably assisted by others in the family to include their daughter (then nervously studying for her driver's license, today married, living next door with children of her own) and a grandmother. The staff was wonderful and Franco always checked to see if you were enjoying your stay. It felt as though we were staying in Franco's home for the place definitely had more of a bed and breakfast feel to it than that of a hotel.

After a short nap in prostrate, unconscious homage to the jet-lag gods, we went downstairs to the small bar for chilled lemoncello. We enjoyed our drinks and the panoramic view of Lake Como from outside in the rear garden. We would enjoy this spot many more times over the course of our five day stay. Besides the reception area and bar, the ground level also accommodated a dining room, capable of serving ninety patrons, and an even larger saucer-shaped lounge area. The inviting coolness of leather chairs and couches in the lounge made it easy to justify watching TV even though it was hard to figure out what they were saying, as for instance, during their attempts at quiz shows. I couldn't get over how large the TV show sets were. In size, the stagecraft rivaled a Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers dance stage with the orchestra replaced by bleachers filled with a well dressed audience, all seeming to fit the Italian recipe for success .... one only needs to dress properly! Luckily soccer, where mufti will suffice, needed little in way of explanation but a venue just about as large.

Following our self-tour of the Rusall, we took a brief drive, being careful not to hit anything. Exiting at the scene of the yet unknown lost hubcap incident, we turned north toward Menaggio. There we visited the local tourist office looking for maps and saw a diorama-type model of what Menaggio was thought to have looked like thousands of years earlier. It was hard to tell but I was pretty sure that those little round things some of the miniatures seemed to carry were shields and not hubcaps! This would come much, much later, I was sure. Back lakeside, we stopped for a beer and for the first time discovered “Nastro Azzurro”. It was here that we also came upon a group of four Americans from Arizona sitting at the table next to us. They were two teachers, also sisters, and their husbands. We of course talked and the best part of the entire conversation, at least the part I can now recall, was when they related that because their car was so full, they had sent their dirty laundry home by mail for $70 in order to make room for the ceramics they'd purchased in Tuscany. Funny isn’t it, the tough trade-offs we sometimes make.

Back at the Albergo Rusall, we went to dinner. We were shown to a numbered table that remained ours for our entire stay. That night’s menu featured a salad bar, fettuccine with rabbit ragu, veal, mashed potatoes, peas, assorted cheeses and desserts brought round on a cart and then coffee. In addition, we ordered a bottle of Valpolicella wine along with a bottle of water, “no gazz please". For each course, the waitress (she hardly ever let herself smile) would serve us from a platter, scooping the food into our individual plates by deftly maneuvering tongs like a bulldozer in a sandlot. For dessert, I had gelato and Mare opted for her first ever tiramisu. When I mentioned to the grandmother-waitress that this day was our 30th wedding anniversary, the romantic Italian in her soon produced a candle for our table. Back to the wine for a moment. At this point in our lives, we were not really wine drinkers. Oh, there were the annual holiday glasses of wine, but other than that, not much more. The explosion in wine consciousness and consumption that followed, sometime between this trip and today, had not yet happened in the States … at least not for us. So you can just imagine how difficult it was for us, mere ‘prenatal oenogolists’, anniversary or not, to finish that bottle. Surprisingly today, we have no problem! We kept at it that night, however, until the bottle was empty and were both proud and relieved at our accomplishment. We were by then both bulbous and light headed as we almost staggered into the lounge to watch a little CNN. It had surely been a night of firsts.

And then, too soon, there was breakfast. Breakfast each morning was a wonderful buffet adventure. You could choose among fresh breads, yogurt, pastries, jams, cereals, cold cuts, assorted cheeses, a great selection of fresh fruit, juices, and delicious, though yet too strong for my taste, made-to-order coffee. The staff would even check if we cared for eggs. I enjoyed making a small sandwich each morning from the cold cuts and hardy cheeses. It was at this first breakfast that we made another surprising discovery. We had not been at our assigned table long when we noticed wine bottles appearing on nearby tables. Wow, had we somehow crashed an Italian recovering alcoholics conclave? Imagine having wine at breakfast. It didn’t take long for us to realize that as other guests joined us, wine bottles soon followed. On closer inspection, we noticed that the bottles were already opened and soon tracked the source of the wine cache to a nearby cabinet. It was about then that the proverbial light bulb went off. While we had struggled to finish our wine the evening before, other guests had taken their comfortable fill, the bottle corked, hung with a brass placard indicating the table number and placed in the cabinet. If only we had known!

Time and space restrict me from describing all we experienced during our time there, nevertheless, a few stand out in my memory. We made the rounds by ferry of the various lake ports-of-call. On one visit, for instance, to Bellagio, known as the ‘Pearl of the Lake’, we walked away from the town toward a little structure we’d noted on the shore opposite us at the Rusall. It seemed to shimmer against the water and had a large villa as backdrop. It wasn’t long before we discovered Villa Melzi. Today a national monument, it was built in 1810 by Francesco Melzi d’Eril, Vice President of the Italian Republic founded by Napoleon. Estate gardens with statues placed in flower beds and elegant terraces helped to retain its old world atmosphere. I recall the azalea bushes were the size of trees. We discovered that the object we’d seen at a distance was a private, lakeside coffee house. This small, domed gazebo affair was encased in marble, yet open to the elements without windows in the casements and had a small balcony of its own facing ours. We imagined the elegant galas and resplendent receptions these walls had sheltered over the centuries; a dreamy place of picnics without ants. Only a brief stroll away, it was the cappella (chapel) that captured us. The cappella, like the coffee house, was poised on the shore with the neoclassical, main villa offset in the background. What we saw inside this private chapel was simply amazing. Count Melzi’s tomb was on the order of those of many of Italy's greats, to include the tomb of Lorenzo de' Medici (sculptures of “Dawn & Dusk”), by Michelangelo, that we would see years later in Florence. Francesco's sarcophagus was of powder white marble with a depiction of the Count, seemingly asleep, lying across the top. But it was the draped curtain shrouding the coffin with its folds, tassels and ties sculpted to softness from black marble that was most memorable. The lines between the surreal and the real had blurred, approaching Kafkaesque dimension. All that was lacking in the timeless mist of the chamber was the chanting of a requiem to commemorate the closing of a life.

As I write this tale from my dear dim past, coincidentally at this very moment recovering from yet another back strain, this time from shoveling snow, I wonder how our lives would have taken a different path if we hadn't gone to Italy on that inaugural trip. One thing is certain, we’d have saved a lot of money on wine, at least for a short while until, in due time, we did get there. I imagine we would have eventually gone but most likely our experiences would have been much different. By then, staying at our little jewel by the lake, the Rusall, may have been overcome by other events, places and competing plans on where to go and what to see in Italy. But for my drug induced persistence, we may never have visited the beautiful Como area of northern Italy. My guess is it has something to do with what we feel is important and how we react to events in our lives. There would be other visits of course, but this visit, our first and on the occasion of our thirtieth wedding anniversary, put the bug in me that eventually led us to Casa Calitri.

That Rouge Tourist, Paolo

2011-01-30T08:23:00.014-05:00

The 'Italian' Streets of San Francisco

The streets of San Francisco are diverse, as diverse as the pieces of a puzzle, all marginally different, yet with the ability to fit together into the living fabric of a casual Friday. Here lies Chinatown with its tenement windows spilling over with life; the lively Castro District with its rainbow banner by the trolley stop announcing your arrival; the Tenderloin District with its vulnerable human quiver of homeless street dwellers, and the steep streets of the Russian Hill District stretching down to the Marina District and beyond to touristy Fisherman’s Wharf. For me, a sometimes visitor to this city by the bay, I find most appealing and feel most at home in the North Beach District, originally known as the Latin Quarter. This area quickly grew into the home of the Italian community following an enormous influx of Italians starting in the 1870s. Today, telling from the number of restaurants, delis, taverne (taverns), bakeries and coffeehouses, North Beach’s Columbus Avenue has become the Via Sacra (Sacred Way in the Roman Forum) to the city’s Italian culture.

Self exiled from ‘Bella Italia’, going on now for the last six months, I quickly felt comfortable among the trappings of Italy I found there, though some were as shallow as the veneer facade of a Hollywood set. Because of our indomitable will to believe, we sometimes respond as powerfully to fictions as we do to realities. So even though much was not authentic, I very much wanted to believe it was. It was refreshing to hear the hum of Italian conversation spoken over frothy cappuccinos and pastries by many of the locals holding court along a colonnade of street-side tables. As anecdotal evidence, the solid aromas and tastes of Italy permeated the area and included bruschetta, aglio-olio pasta fresca (fresh-made pasta with garlic and oil), tender veal shanks, ravioli, gnocchi, ricotta pie and those ever-present essential wedges of pizza.

Unfortunately, time prohibited us from being able to sample the cuisine of every establishment, though god only knows I'd have loved to. We had eaten at both 'Colosseo Ristorante' and 'Sodini's Trattoria' on an earlier visit. We had especially enjoyed Sodini's, though crowded and close, but found Colosseo to be touristy by half. I suspected there was not an Italian on the premises, let alone in the kitchen. So much for the authenticity of the place, beyond the requisite strings of garlic and bottles of olive oil that decorated the inside of this, I must admit, popular eatery.

Two eateries that we especially favored were 'Caffe Puccini' and 'GiGi's Sotto Mare Oysteria' (a play on 'Osteria' - a place where the owner 'hosts' people). Though we had planned to eat at Gigi's, we unfortunately never were able to make it. What I saver, however, was the brief visit I made to this seafood dining bistro, a scant street over from Columbus Avenue, hidden in plain sight on Green Street to be exact. The Sotto Mare (Under the Sea) is owned by none other than its namesake, Gigi Fiorucci, who is present in one form or another, be it as kitchen chef, waiting on a customer or ensconced outside at a street-side table. In fact, it was at a table by the Green Street curb where I got to meet this man of many talents and stories. I soon learned he is from the Marche region of Italy known for its mountainous terrain. His parents were farmers who worked this harsh landscape in order to coax it to yield enough to support a family of five. He is my age but other than that, all similarity ends. I doubt I can even boil water for pasta as well! He's one of those wiry sorts with no more than a 36" waistline, which at least to me is hard to believe, him being so close to food all day. I know if it were me, I'd be overweight more from my constant i gusti (sampling) indulgences then from any inactivity on my part. All I know is that my weight is perfect for my height, which varies! By the time our brief chat had ended, I sensed that little escaped his tough-guy eyes, which had observed the evolution of North Beach since he'd arrived at age eleven. Neither was he the sort to mince words. This was his turf after all and I but another tourist, camera and all. I'm guessing Gigi has seen it all, having been involved, one way or another, in thirteen other restaurants. Gigi admits that 'Sotto Mare' is his last and like the old-time restaurant pro he is, he's giving this last hurrah his all as evidenced by a full house of hungry customers at mid-afternoon.

Gigi's ostreia was a button of a place, deep and narrow like a diner with tables to one side and a stool-lined marble counter taking up the other. He’ll serve you up sumptuous meals on either side. Not seeing a hostess, I self-toured the place as though I was already a customer and walked from front to back taking in the feel as well as the aroma of the place. It certainly looked touristy from the overdone maritime paraphernalia adorning the walls. Captain Nemo had surly been their interior decorator, but after all, they do specialize in seafood there. Not the spot for quiet intimate dining either - more on the order of a lively Italian family kitchen where you'd expect shouts across the table to "gimme da baccala". They featured oysters of course ($1.50 each) and something called a 'sanddab' that had the appearance of an east coast flounder, but a fish with two eyes on top can fool anybody. Per the menu, they also claim to have the “Best Damn Crab Cioppino" with seafood ($33) or you might try the chef’s choice, "Risotto with Seafood" ($19). I'd recommend a seat at the counter sipping a Bellini ($8) while you decided. You need to try this place sometime and so do I.

Today, North Beach's Italian village is home to many artists and writers. We were fortunate to sit beside one in Caffé Puccini recently. We were informally introduced to the place by Gerald Hurtado. Gerald is a watercolor artist who happened to sit beside us one evening. Those of you who know me also know that that is a blatant invitation for me to start a conversation and I did just that. This character trait compliments my attempts at Italian immersion, which are more like a mosh-pit experience - I just jump in. It was Gerald who told us about this very special place, affectionately known as the "Pooch" and introduced us to its owner, Graziano Lucchesi. During the day, the mistress of ceremonies is his first cousin Deloris, whom we had met on our earlier visit.

Graziano hails from San Cassiano de Controni, a terraced, Tuscan medieval village just north and east of the beautiful walled city of Lucca. I discovered that many of the fellow restaurant owners of North Beach were also Lucca natives. His memories of childhood remain vivid. His zio (uncle) was the town's campanaro (bell ringer) and would take young Graziano up into the dizzying heights of the bell tower to show him how to ring the giant bell and how to crank the pulleys to raise the heavy weights that drove the clock mechanism - exciting stuff for a little kid. Besides school, there were chores to occupy his time. For example, their rabbits ate acacia leaves and he would pick them as he made his way home from school. Not much was overlooked, even pieces of firewood found alongside the road were brought home to store on the woodpile in addition to gathering wild mushrooms. This all ended when Graziano departed Italy for San Francisco at sixteen. He soon learned English while working as a restaurant busboy in addition to learning the butcher business while working at a meat market. One day his world suddenly changed when the former owner of Caffe Puccini approached Graziano with an offer he couldn’t refuse. He must have had, by then, the restaurant itch because he decided, then and there, to scratch it. He bought the business.

Caffé Puccini is today an institution on Columbus Avenue, not far from Gigi's place, and offers more than the name "Caffé" implies. In fact, the moniker "caffe" is disingenuous, it being easy to then limit your expectations of the place to simply a coffee house. We arrived in the increasing dimness of a rainy afternoon appreciative to be once again inside. The moment I entered, Puccini’s felt real to me; moored in an authenticity as real as Deloris and Graziano themselves. Their place has old-world magic that begins out front, street-side. You have to imagine streets clotted with life, a charming fusion of tall eucalyptus trees (I think) and cozy tables fighting for space amidst the bustle of humanity. It was Graziano himself who led the fight to allow outside tables and chairs on Columbus Street. Initially, City Hall was against it even though there were already restaurants around town with licenses for outside tables. North Beach it seems had little clout. The powers that be refused to consider expanding the program. Nevertheless, in an act of civil disobedience, Graziano went ahead and put tables and chairs out front anyway. Some of the other restaurants followed his lead. It took the city three months to catch on, come by and announce they needed to desist and remove their street-side arrangements. To counter their move, Graziano got public opinion in his corner by starting a petition eventually signed by 3000 people who liked the outside tables, so reminiscent of Italy. Then with the aid of a local mural artist, a painted cover added the finishing touch to what had become a book containing the petition. A delegation of owners and patrons delivered it to City Hall and with the help of a sympathetic local politician, it carried the day. Today, for those proprietors who choose to have them, you can enjoy a true café experience in North Beach, thanks to Graziano.

Caffé Puccini's layout is the opposite of the Sotto Mare. Here the interior is wide. Wide enough to have taken up two storefronts, all the while trading its width at the expense of depth. It has very high ceilings. Tiffany type light fixtures dangle from the ceiling above the counter. Like distended marshmallows, white pendent lamps dangle from the ceiling invoking an atmosphere torn from the cafes which line Venice’s St. Mark's Square. Beneath the lamps, all around the dining space, a Praetorian guard of regulars occupied themselves at table reading newspapers and jawboning while others partook of daily specials or with drama to demonstrate how it's done, shot back their heads, downing those stingy yet potent puddles of espresso. The limited counter space was taken up by the requisite hissing espresso machine set beside tilting towers of inverted coffee cups, rivaling Pisa's, and the coffee bean fuel itself, loaded in a transparent cone atop a ferocious looking grinding mill. An Italian tricolor awning added a finishing touch to the ambiance. The Pooch's high walls were bedecked with memories of far off Lucca, many depicting the favorite son Giacomo (Antonio Domenico Michele Secondo Maria) Puccini himself. Talk about a long name! Something of a jukebox affair, adorned with red Christmas bells, was notably absent the pop culture's latest hits. Instead it concentrated on Puccini operas like "La Bohème" and "Madame Butterfly" or the glamorous Maria Callas and gifted La Scala star Renata Tebaldi to set a mood.

But what of its cuisine? Our experience was that it was difficult to go wrong with anything on the menu, no matter what we tried. The menu, though limited, is augmented daily with specials. We’d eaten there on our last visit to San Francisco and recognizing the quality of the food, had returned. Here I can speak with three meals worth of authority! To give only the main instances, I had a sumptuous Tagleatelle al Cinghiale (tagleatelle pasta with wild boar sauce) one evening while Maria Elena enjoyed the Linguine Aglio e Olio. She was enjoying her Il primo (first course) so much that she kept repeating how good it was - the best she had ever had in fact. Her reaction flashed me back to that staple of a TV pasta jingle from years back that even today is hard to shake once it gets inside your head, "Ronzoni Sono Buoni!" (Ronzoni is So Good!). I was surprised to learn that the boar meat for my dish came from feral Russian boars from the nearby Mendasino - Lake Sonoma area. Graziano had hunted and bagged it himself and now I was one of the beneficiaries. No doubt his butchering skills had also proven handy. It got better still - our wine was an elegantly intense Volpaia Chianti Classico. We'd begun with antipasto and concluded with, what else but, homemade Tiramisu complete with liquor-soaked savoiardi (think 'ladyfingers'). You can now appreciate my ongoing battle with those conspiring weight-to-height charts! Mercifully, after such a large meal, the cups of coffee were small. I could have sat there propped back in satiated languor, observing and chatting with other diners for hours, but since we are all in time's grip, it had to end. Now once again returned home, I reminisce as I watch snow fall by recalling our time in Puccini's, a kind of warm and comfortable Italian getaway that just did it for me.

I'd much rather fly into the real past and on into the souk-like passageways of Calitri for a real fix of Italiana. However, way off in the streets of San Francisco, a city of Prius electric cabs and newborns named 'Nancy' (after Nancy Pelosi), residents are indeed fortunate to be able to enjoy the pseudo bona fides of Chinatown, or to biased me, the Italian culture of North Beach. It may be sinful to say, even think this but, non c’e amore piu’ sincero di quello del cibo (there is no love more sincere than the love of food). If such sincerity must yet remain unspoken taboo, thank god for Barbary Coast souls like Gigi and Graziano who think likewise, each in his own inimitable Italian style. I write down these accounts of my personal life because I know time soon steals the exact memory of what we did or what we said, but hopefully, I will always remember how passing souls like Gigi and Graziano made me feel.

That Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled “Italian Streets of San Francisco”.

2010-12-31T10:19:00.009-05:00

A Need For Speed

A few years back, the zany folks at Disney produced a movie entitled “Cars”. It was a kid’s movie with a cast of animated characters that took the form of vehicles of every sort. Disney does this sort of thing well, so well that its success led to a sequel entitled, you guessed it, “Cars 2”. My six-year old grandson, Dominic, tells me that Mater, a tow-truck character from a fictitious nowhere place called ‘Radiator Springs’, saves the world in this installment. "Cars 2", now bigger, grander, and international in its scope, could be a winning formula. Will they spawn a "Rocky" and manage to parlay it all the way to "Cars 5"? I’m standing by for further reports from my car-loving Dominic.

Dominic’s Italian heritage may have a hand in his love of autos, for Italians have an ongoing love affair with their màcchina (machine, but often used for automobile). Companies like Ferrari and Alfa Romeo have hedged on Milan’s smart aesthetic styling and fashion savvy for years. Today, theirs and other automaker’s successes are measured by the more than 33 million cars on Italy's roads in a country of 60 million. By way of comparison, the U.K. with its 62 million inhabitants caters to only 28 million cars. Italians clearly have a fixation with sleek lines, shiny chrome and powerful engines.

While they fawn over their cars, especially when small and sporty, Italians operate them at a level approximating irresponsibility. Their individual rules of the road would give pause even to a madcap keystone cop. That individuality may in fact be one reason for their sometimes risky actions behind the wheel. They are individuals at heart and convention and rules be damned. This is true especially in the big cities where a free-for-all, no holds barred temperament is more apparent and individual patience further strained. As a result, visitors to Bella Italia are, to say the least, averse to driving in this fracas, be it real or imagined. All may be fair in love and war but for an Italian, they may as well expand the expression to include driving. As crazy as they can drive, I’ve seen few accidents. Instead, I’ve witnessed near mayhem and many near misses that can catch your breath. Driving from Calitri to Naples and back, for example, can serve as a human laboratory on this type of behavior. Unfortunately, there is no remuneration for it, unworthy of even a college credit or two.

No matter how fast you drive, there is always someone who wants by. For me, life in the far left lane is parlous with little warning of a fast mover, but for a surprising flash from his headlights. Where they materialized from and so quickly, I had no idea. While it may be all clear to move over one second, your check on reality can bounce moments later when someone suddenly appears on your rear bumper, if not already in your trunk! While I’m not accustomed to this, it really isn’t so bad, at least they restrain themselves from simultaneously mashing their horns. Their impatience has at least some restraint. I recall driving out of the Catania Airport in Sicily once, just after arriving. It was truly a baptism by fire as I not only tried to negotiate a road buzzing with cars and motorcycles to both my left and right, but at the same time, tried to read signposts plastered with countless 'this ways and that'. Pure sensory and information overload it was. I was essentially boxed in, unable to turn either way. I wound up a prisoner much like that "European Vacation" character, Clark Griswald, stuck in a round-about, condemned to watching Big Ben go by for a few laps. So much for the movies, but it was hair-raising real life in Sicily that day. More often, it is the passing that is hair-raising, even for an observer further back in the line of traffic. This is more along the lines of the Pamplona running of the bulls with much zigging, zagging and last minute dodging. Even on a two-lane highway, I can certify that their impatience often gets the better of them, with or without a broken, white dividing-line signaling that passing is permitted. I can only marvel at how much they will chance just to get a few cars ahead. At times, when I expect to witness a head-on crash, the defensive drivers seem to accommodate the wayward passer, somehow managing to squeak by, on one occasion three abreast. It seems that even the flagrant sinner is given absolution. Just don’t try it with the trailer trucks, especially when loaded to spill-over full with tomatoes from Puglia on their way into the many sauce making plants around Salarno! They simply won't tolerate any early squeezing action!

While in Calitri, we may have many Marios, Antonios and Guiseppes, there are fewer Alphas and Romeos. The Fait, Lancia, Opel and the ever utilitarian Ape (pronounced "ah-peh" and meaning Bee in Italian) appear to dominate. I just love those three wheeled Apes, which, not being really autos, are more like an affair gone wrong between a motorcycle and flatbed truck! Unfortunately, I’m a bit too tall to comfortably fit inside one (recall that photo above). No matter what the size or shape of their vehicle, not all of their roadway antics occur while driving. Some surface in the creative ways Italians choose to park their vehicles. When people really need to do something, like park a car, they will figure out a way to do it, giving fresh meaning to the idiom that "necessity is the mother of invention". Can the way they park be a further reflection of their impatience? For instance, in the Italian section of Boston, called ‘The North End’, in addition to double-parking in the middle of Hanover Street, which is common, about as bad as parking manners get is how the parking spaces themselves are reserved by their presumptuous owners. No one really owns these curbside spaces but don’t try to object because that would, at the very least, be like fighting City Hall – you won’t win. At worst, that's when you could come to understand that there are very few personal problems that cannot be solved through the judicious application of a sharp knife into the sidewall of a tire! You don't want to go there either. In Boston, a common tactic is to place a chair, trash barrel or rubber cone to signal, no, better I say warn, that a space is reserved. But here there is still fundamental order. In Calitri things are different. Here, self-parking on the streets is simply a marvel to behold. There are just so many ways you can park a car. You’d think so, right? And who ever said you needed to stay in the road? The adage, "think outside the box", or should I really say, "think outside the street", acquires artistic expression here, if not throughout Italy. One day while out and about I took pictures of how the native Calitrani satisfy their parking needs (see photo album). The different parking maneuvers are striking in their variety, almost comical to behold. Here are a few, as best I can recall and describe them:

• The ‘cut or turn’ where the driver parks on the side of the street facing oncoming traffic. Either they do a u-turn or cut across oncoming traffic when departing.

• The ‘tilt’ where they park with two wheels up on the sidewalk while two remain in the street.

• The ‘wheelie’ (a variation on the tilt technique) where the two front wheels are up over the curb and the rear wheels remain in the road.

• ‘Russian roulette’ where someone decides to park so that two vehicles now face-off, nose to nose.

• The ‘quick getaway’ with the empty car facing almost perpendicular, plus or minus, toward the curb with the driver’s door wide open.

• The ‘squeeze play’ where the auto is totally up on the sidewalk to the extent that a pedestrian has to squeeze between it and any adjacent building. Care must be exercised not to pull a Pamplona and impale oneself on the mirror when squeezing by - ouch!

• The 'peek-a-boo' where a car is parked on a corner, with or against the flow of traffic, such that half juts into both streets, hindering pedestrians in the process.

• The 'raft' where the auto is parked some distance from the curb. Essentially double-parked but with no other car near them as when classically double-parked.

I tried to imagine streets lined, both sides, with parking meters with pretty Italian meter maids issuing tickets for both expired and rebellious parkers, but failed. Had the municipality thought of this yet as a means to raise revenue and institute some order? A nice, practical thought indeed, but somehow I couldn't see that boat floating at a town council meeting. It simply belies the true nature of things and reeks of big city strong-arm tactics.

Sinner that I am, I confess I’m getting into the habit myself. I'm still leery of passing, however. The road would need to be empty for I know that as soon as I pulled out, I'd see flashing headlights from someone more impatient then myself in my mirror. In a way though, I like to look on my gradually morphing behavior as a form of assimilation, if not adaptation to the Italian lifestyle. Hopefully, my actions are not a reflection of my impatience or frustration, although you can be assured, I can and do go there on occasion. This is Italy after all. Frustration can get stored up, like static electricity and in proportion to a general dynamo of malaise over what they perceive as a jaded system, not known for clarity and let me add, simplicity. I suspect driving can cleanse their inner spirit, releasing that pent up energy in a therapeutic spark of road rage, expressed in a need for speed, free from the shackles of jam-packed traffic. On the parking side, I've 'pimped the style' as they say and I love it, though I do feel some guilt when I do, even without my conscience, Maria Elena, aboard! I'll look around just in case the polizia (police) may be nearby. Actually, from the degree this goes on, I doubt that the local constabulary even care. No one ever seems to get a ticket for their infractions. In my defense though, I will say that I haven't yet succumbed to the 'quick getaway' technique, but I may soon. Life is short, you need to break the rules now and then just to feel alive!

That Rogue Tourist, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled “The Streets of Calitri”.

2010-11-29T16:53:00.015-05:00

The Tinker Toys of Holzbau Sud

I, like many of you, have a workshop. Mine takes up a portion of my garage. Years ago, when our boys were young teens, there was a Christmas morning when a lot of noise erupted from downstairs. When I moved to investigate, Maria Elena advised that I stay in bed. Turns out it wasn't Santa on his rounds and she knew it. Apparently, surprise-making for dad was in the making down there, for this was the morning that Chris and Eric lugged a radial arm saw over to our home from its hiding place next door. The clatter was from their struggle to negotiate the cumbersome thing through the garage and on into the house. Boy were they proud at getting it done. Needless to say, it didn't fit under the tree. After all these intervening years, I still use that saw. Telling from the tools I've accumulated here and there over the years, like the Christmas present of the radial arm saw, I'd say my shop is now well equipped for woodworking.

As a young child, I recall playing with my wooden Tinker Toy set. It was a fabulous creative toy, which today is in the rarified pantheon of classic American toys. Unscrew the tin cover from the cardboard storage cylinder and you were rewarded with a tube filled with pencil-like dowels and wheel-like sprockets used to interconnect the dowels. In those days, none of the pieces were made of plastic and there wasn't a "Made in China" stamped anywhere! I could 'tinker' with three dimensional shapes and structures to my heart's content. As time went on, I eventually graduated from toys to real tools for the actual construction of wood projects based on the simple principles developed from my hours of play on the living room floor. Using my tools, which have moved along with us from workshop home to workshop home, I've made, built and repaired plenty of things. They range from simple glue repairs to much larger projects such as the construction of multiple decks, a couple of gazebos, a finished basement and even a pergola over our bricked patio. You might think we've moved around some and you'd be right. After a while you are knighted with the honorarium of "handy" by your wife when the topic comes up with friends. What I've been able to accomplish with my sweet set-up, however, is nothing in comparison to the large scale, and I do mean large scale, kind of woodworking I observed recently in Calitri.

From high up in Calitri's Piazza della Repubblica you get a great view of the valley far below. Down there, close to the highway running alongside the historic Ofanto River, are a hand-full of light industries. One in particular is Holzbau Sud, a subsidiary of the Rubner Group, which focuses on wood products for, as they like to say, "a healthy and pleasant world to live in tomorrow". The Group is headquartered in the northern Italian town of Chienes, near the Austrian border. Here, building conventions are steeped in the construction traditions of Italy's Trentino-Alto Adige Region, where timber, a local building material, is king. The group is vertically integrated within the wood industry with assets anchored in the timber forests of Austria all the way to tailored, turn-key building projects manufactured at distributed assets across Europe such as Holzbau Sud. In Calitri, they specialize in the pre-manufacture of technically ambitious, load-bearing structures. With their ample supply of wood, Holzbau custom structures are designed to cover expansive open spaces, as for instance the kind you might find in a mall, cathedral, theater or sports auditorium throughout southern Italy and beyond to include Sicily, Turkey, even the Middle East. Operating from Calitri since 1991, they are essentially active throughout the Mediterranean.

My introduction to the Calitri plant occurred, as you might guess, while I was in Mario's Caffe. You may well wonder, doesn't this guy ever stay home? Well, yes I do but in the morning I like to get out early, while Maria Elena is still asleep. I direct my feet toward Mario's for a few hours just about every day. One of many other morning regulars is Giuseppe Pasqualicchio. He's like clockwork. Giuseppe arrives for his coffee while I'm well into my second cappuccino and about halfway through the morning giornale (newspaper) attempting to decipher what's going on in the world, along of course with much help from Mario. Over my many visits, I've gradually gotten to know the ever smiling Giuseppe. He is, I'd estimate, in his thirties and though never having been formally introduced, I know he is married and has a young child. My wife says I wouldn't make a good detective but I uncovered this fact during the Italian ritual of la passieggiata (the evening stroll), where new and old romances as well as spiffy shoes and shoulder swathed sweaters are on review. It was on one such occasion that I saw him and his wife behind a stroller. He enjoys practicing his English on me, explaining things, and I reciprocate with conversation and more questions. Curious as I am, I once asked him where he ran off to each day after his espresso by asking him, Cosa fai per vivere? (What do you do for a living?). It was then that, neo-sleuth that I am, I learned that he, along with about 50 other Calitri brethren, worked at Holzbau Sud. I knew nothing about the place and even had a time pronouncing it.

It was only a day or two later that Giuseppe presented me with a professionally prepared brochure about his place of employment. The colored booklet was impressive and like any other red-blooded tourist with a camera perpetually slung around his neck, I asked if there was some way I might visit. Not many mornings later, following our coffees together in Mario's, I trailed him down the mountain to the plant. He had arranged my visit with Giorgio, the chief engineer, who met me at the entrance to the yard. The site consisted of a technical and engineering office augmented by two large construction sheds each approaching a football field in length. Between the two lay a supply of spruce and silver fir shipped in from Austria.

Giorgio, who spoke excellent English, showed me around the operation for a time and then excused himself, leaving me on my own while he checked on the status of a large shipment headed to a customer in Sicily that morning. Time was apparently getting short as the flatbed trucks had already arrived. The projects underway, to say the least, were sizable and I'm not referring to how large an order may have been. It is more on the order of the 'Colossus of Rhodes' sizable that I'm referring to. I don't know what I may have eaten or drank at Mario's that morning but in Alice in Wonderland like fashion I’d apparently become small. I had the feeling I'd shrunk due to the gigantic size of the tools and the suspension beams being made around me (see photo album). Their forte is the design and construction of load bearing structures using glued laminated beams, which they refer to as "glulams" (glued laminates) and they were dead serious.

Before I continue to describe my visit, however, I must first lay some psychological groundwork as to the worker's reaction to my visit. Have you ever driven down a highway, along with your fellow motorists, only to see the sudden appearance of a fast moving parallel column of red taillights coming straight at you? Yes, everyone has abruptly altered their driving behavior, hitting their brakes (even when well below the speed limit) and now it's your turn. More often than not, the cause is the intimidating presence of a highway patrol car sitting alongside the road or possibly already busy with someone he's recently detained as in "license and registration please". There's a technical name for this type of phenomenon, which my bookish readers with Psychology 101 behind them will know as the Heisenberg Effect. This effect is nothing more than the simple observation that the very act of becoming a player changes the nature of the game being played! Whether it be the case of the appearance of a new player like a highway patrolman among a group of motorists or my presence at Holzbau Sud, where, by my mere act of observing, I altered the behaviors of the workmen I was observing. Uncertainty, fear, a lack of information, a desire to please, a sudden change from the norm, any of these can trigger it. Apparently now, trigger-happy with my camera for purposes unknown, I'd assumed the antagonist's role of the highway patrol cop!

The entirety of one building was surprisingly occupied by just two men. Together they were working to attach metal flanges to either end of massive curved laminates, apparently major supports of some enormous roof. They worked in silence, without apparent need to communicate, as if so well choreographed from endless repetition of the same procedure that words were superfluous, only getting in the way. But I suspected there would have been animated dialog between the two, as only Italians can perform, absent my being there. The workmen remained silent with no reaction to my presence. Apparently, I was the cat that got their tongues! It was as if I was invisible, though I knew they were watching my every move and click of my camera! Who could blame them? My first appearance, alongside Giorgio, must have passed along some inconspicuous signal giving me a modicum of officialdom, or at the least by their count, official sanction. Later this may have been reinforced when they again saw me while I observed on my own. For my part as a "player" in the drama, I did not interfere with what they were about nor did I ask them any questions. Though no doubt some of the workmen may have recognized me from Calitri, my very presence and lack of engagement, though with all good intention, may have only added to their anxiety. I could almost hear their synapses firing, as in their nervousness they attempted to calculate the meaning of my incursion into their colossal tinker-toy domain. While their thoughts were going round and round, only Giuseppe, who knew all, was relaxed enough to smile and wave to me when I passed his work area.

The adjacent building hummed with the activities of far more workmen, though here again they were equally humanly silent. It was here that I hesitated as giant gigs bent freshly glued planks into requisite shapes, holding them fast until dry. There were also wood shaping machines, which could join two planks, end-to-end, transforming short boards into continuous 'you-name-it' length beams. It was fascinating, at least to a woodworker like myself, to watch as they cut matching finger joints into the ends, added the glue and then jammed them together, all automatically. It was as though a hundred of my manual type biscuit joints materialized within seconds. The other end of the building hosted near completed supports, some of which extended outside due to their length. An army of workers literally clambered over, across and under these giants, like ants, adding finishing touches. Some teams planed the surfaces smooth, others filled imperfections, cut slots or marched atop their lengths staining the behemoths using roller brushes on poles. It was amazing to see how easily they maneuvered these monsters by expertly using a hoist and a single strap positioned at the precise balancing point (photo above). Suspended in the air, they would flex and sway on either side of the support strap like the wings of some enormous phantom beast. As heavy as I suspected each of the members was, once lowered, incredibly only a few metal saw horses were all that separated them from the floor. To my surprise, I also don’t recall seeing any helmets, goggles or other safety type devises being used. Thinking back, as a child, I'd ridden my bike like a madman all without the protection of a helmet. By today's mores how could I possibly have done that, let alone survived? Could their shoes have been steel toed? I doubted it.

Toward the very end of my explorations in Holzbau tinker-toy land, I found myself close to the exit beside a cluttered workbench. It was here that I snapped my very last picture. The subject of this photo had nothing to do with what was going on in that particular part of the plant but when I composed and snapped the shot, it was the only time during my entire visit that I got any reaction whatsoever from the workmen. Almost in unison and no matter where they were in this massive staging area, theirs was a resounding cheer! And their cheer wasn’t because I was nearing the door, signaling my intention to leave either. They were reacting to what I’d decided to photograph and telling by their reaction, signaling that they approved. Their reaction only went to support my contention that they had been discretely watching my every move. My photo subject was of something common to many workspaces of one form or another, large or small. Universal as it is, it has more to do with male sexuality than what the particular work activity might be. Be it a greasy auto mechanic’s lair, a chatty barbershop, a hole-in-the-wall cafe or even a home workshop like mine, might I propose, like it or not, that the annual pin-up calendar is a common accouterment! My subject was akin to the artful female silhouettes painted on the sides of WWII bombers and just as then, served as a reminder of what they were fighting for or in this case, working for. Telling as it was, this tattered, dog-eared ‘Holzbau Madonna’ had seen better days. No Vargas girl, she now sported a mustache along with other graffiti touch-ups here and there. In a vague way, it was reminiscent of the many street shrines seen throughout Italy, although here, the naked, ribald nature of this Madonna spoke to another interpretation of veneration. With that, I can say I’d now literally seen it all!

Outside, I could look up and see sunlit Calitri cascading down the side of the mountain-like bluff toward me. From high atop its perch, it had witnessed the cavalcade of mankind pass by from the footfalls of Roman legionaries on to this day where a legion of workers busied themselves loading flatbed trailers. As throughout the Mediterranean basin the ancient initialism “SPQR” (Senatus Populusque Romanus) meaning “The Senate and People of Rome" emblazoning everything Roman from coins to the feared standards of the mighty Roman legions, today’s shipment of immense gracefully bowed roof supports marked “Made in Calitri” would send a new message.

In the end, all we have are memories, sometimes mere faded memories of memories. I was fortunate to have formed a unique memory that day, one that I know will last, thanks to the largess of both my coffee mate Giuseppe and Holzbau Sud's head-man, Giorgio. It's a long way from my comparatively tiny workshop in the States to Holzbau's glulam headquarters in Calitri. Even further apart are the gradations of difference in the scale of woodworking undertaken at the two. In comparison, mine is and will forever remain at the tinker-toy level and in a space not much bigger than the living room rug where it all began. I'm glad for that. The nub of the thing is that by visiting Holzbau Sud I’d gotten a glimpse at the bright side of progress, surprisingly located of all places, right there in the shadows of enchanting Calitri, a place equally surprisingly defined, not by some throwback to its limitations, but by its potential.

That Rouge Tourist, Paolo

FOR RELATED PHOTOS, CLICK HERE ON EYES OVER ITALY. THEN LOOK FOR AND CLICK ON THE PHOTO ALBUM ENTITLED "TINKER TOYS".

Cono - that Perfect Package

2010-10-30T13:44:00.030-04:00

My gaze was drawn immediately to the domed ceiling. In Sistine Chapel like fashion its elongated surface portrayed a painted sun, whose brilliant yellow rays gradually transitioned about mid-way over the span of the ceiling into the cold darkness of space, accented with a moon and stars. Here was a clear depiction, in the extreme, of oppressive heat at one end and absolute cold at the other. This imagery was totally befitting for Maria Elena and I were about to experience a ritual borrowed from the bathing practices of the ancients. To be exact, we were about to take part in a modern reenactment of the Roman bath ritual.

For me this would be my first spa experience. I’d always sympathized with the cliché that real men didn’t eat quiche, nor I thought did they frequent spas. Protection of my real man persona would rest only in the fact that no one would know of my indiscretion since we were so far from home. Unfortunately, we were also far from the birthplace of the Roman bath, Italia. We were in California’s Sonoma Valley to be exact, at the thermal spa of the Fairmont Mission Inn Resort. I doubted the Romans ever had it this good even in the giant baths of Caracalla!

Roman bathing tradition consisted of three distinct phases, each marked by ever increasing heat therapies: the frigiderium, the tepiderium and the caldarium. Today’s modern technology allowed all three to be hosted in one room at the Fairmont resort. Large urns in true Romanesque style decorated a stone shelf perched high up at the base of the domed ceiling. Pillared porticoes, lining the perimeter of the room supported the shelf, separating Earth from the heavens. One segment of niches held showers with drenching sunflower showerheads. These substituted for the cold immersion of the frigiderium (cool bath), which if you allowed it, could produce a deluge as cold as a plunge in the North Sea. Centered beneath the dome, in the floor of the room, was the tepiderium (warm bath) with the temperature of the mineral water maintained at body temperature. The caldarium (hot bath) was a ‘trifecta combination’ starting first in an oversized hydro-massage jacuzzi of 102˚F (39˚C) mineral water, augmented by two adjacent hot rooms – one a dry European sauna and the other, a eucalyptus herbal steam room which could suck your very breath away.

As I experienced the heat of the caldarium, what especially filled my mind was something most probably totally anti-spa … the coolness of gelato. The soothing thought of it right at the moment of consummate heat was like the refreshment of a cold drink following a few hours of yard work in the heat of day. No, better than that. I imagined how ingratiatingly refreshing a scoop or two (due gusti) would be right then. The eruption of another cloud of steam, as though emerging from Hades itself, quickly melted that thought just as it would have any gelato, suddenly leaving me with only the cone. In no time, like ice or gelato before sweltering heat, only the host or the cone soon remains.

While gelato and a cone go together like TV’s Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon, it is the gelato that garners the fame. The simple cone (cono) is straight man Ed, playing second fiddle to the gelato. Yet in Calitri the cono is king, although the gelato, especially when made by Lucia at ‘The Bar Jolly’, is fabulous. Even absent my steam room analogy, I had recently seen the remains of many cones in Calitri, for cone making is an industry there, as I was fortunate enough to realize during a visit to the local production facility of I. Co. Cialde (The Waffle Company).

I first become aware of the Cialde ‘cone confectionery’ a year earlier while visiting the fiera (fairgrounds) at the western edge of Calitri. Regional businesses and light industry throughout the Irpinia region of Campania were showcasing their products in a fair-like atmosphere. We'd expected to be inundated with information on agro-products like cheeses and wines, even a tractor or two, and we were. However, the discovery of a booth featuring an ice cream cone producer caught me by surprise, especially when I learned it was based right there in Calitri. The booth promoted an assortment of cones of all sizes, shapes and colors - some as small as your baby finger. I discovered that these tiny cones with their tops cut on a slant were used to scoop-up ice cream in lieu of a spoon. There was apparently more to this cone business.

The Waffle Company is located behind a complex of Italian beehive high-rises very near where the new highway tunnel exit now deposits you into Calitri. Looking at it from outside its walled compound, 12 Contrada Sambuco doesn’t strike you as anything special. I had no clue I’d arrived from the look of the non-descript buildings. Maybe I was expecting a giant cone or something more 5th Avenue smart, but there was nothing like that. Only a paneled delivery truck with their name and a cone or two on its side, parked inside the courtyard, confirmed I had arrived. The company had been there since 1979. Over the intervening years they had acquired the needed experience and honed their skills and today continue a long and colorful tradition of cone making. From the piles of empty wooden pallets, no doubt from sacks of flour and sugar, it was evident they were very busy.

The cone and its crowning ‘ice cream stuffing’ is a friendship grown from need - a need for each other. With their union, the crispy crunch of the cone perfectly complemented the frosty smoothness of the ice cream, making for an interesting taste combination. But who first introduced this combination? There are almost as many hotly contested stories of how the cone first got together with ice cream as there are flavors a cone can hold. To this day there remains heated controversy over who first orchestrated this marriage. History records that at first, paper, glass, cups, and dishes were used to facilitate eating ice cream during the 19th century in France, Germany, and Britain. Before the invention of the cone, ice cream was either licked from a small glass (a penny lick) or taken away wrapped in paper, called a "hokey pokey." The term "hokey pokey" presumably evolved from the anglicized distortion of the Italian vendor's cry as he hawked his ices topped with a small piece of paper called the 'kibosh' (a là "put the kibosh to it"). By the late 1800s, ‘hokey pokey men’, as these Italian immigrants were called, had spread throughout Europe and the United States selling their ‘ices’.

One of the first references to an eatable cone, called a "cornetti", can be found in a British cookbook entitled "Mrs A. B. Marshall's Cookery Book", written in 1888 by Agnes Marshall. Her cookbook contained a recipe for "Cornet with Cream". However, the person credited with the invention of the edible flat bottom cake cup, a predecessor of the true cone, is Italo Marchiony. Italo migrated to the US from Italy in the late 1800s and produced what I’ll call his 'semi' ice cream cone in 1896 in New York City. On December 13, 1903, he was granted Patent #746971 for the "pastry comet", a cone making mold. The patent describes his invention as "a mold split in two like a waffle iron and producing several small, round, pastry ice cream cups with sloping sides”. The machine resembled a long waffle iron with enough space to cook ten cups. He used these edible "cuplets", as they were called, made on his patented mold, to increase his street-vending business. He is also credited with building the first ice cream sandwich using two waffle squares.

Still it was in Saint Louis, Missouri at the 1904 World's Fair where the history of the edible ice cream 'container', in true cone shape, really began. For it was here at the fair that a new American immigrant and a former sailor from Damascus, Ernest Hamwi, ran a waffle stand where he sold 'zalabia' - a thin, crisp, syrupy Persian waffle. Ernest went to the aid of a neighboring ice cream vendor, Arnold Fornachou. As the story goes, Arnold had run out of serving dishes, which customers tended to walk off with or drop. To help out, Ernest folded a still warm ‘zalabia’ over a sailor's rope mending tool to form a cone and proposed it as a substitute for Arnold's wayward dishes. According to most accounts there were more than 50 ice cream vendors and more than a dozen waffle stands selling their treats at the fair. Word quickly spread among the venders thus leading to confusion as to who actually first invented the cone, since with the cone's instant popularity many took credit. Born of necessity, the World's Fair "Cornucopia", as the first cone was called, was an instant hit. So Ernest is typically credited with creating the classic cone shape we’re so familiar with today and introducing it at the fair, quite unintentionally, but leading to its eventual international fame. Helping thy neighbor can truly pay off, which it did for the rest of Ernest's life!

When I arrived at the Cialde cone company, I had no appointment. I doubt if they ever got any requests to take pictures or simply just look around at their operation. In fact, I may have been the first ever cone factory crasher! However, their almost munchkinland-like innocence and friendliness kicked right in. They had no objection to my looking around the facility and observing how they went about the process. This was a far cry from a time years earlier in Murano, an island hop away from Venice. On that occasion I couldn't get close to the glass blowing then underway. It had something to do with their paranoia over the theft of trade secrets by Chinese industrial "glass" spies. Nothing like that going on here, however. In any case, I didn't look Chinese! Other than the formula for the confection they whip-up at Cialde each day, there isn't much to protect, since everything is done by machines, which anyone can go ahead and purchase for themselves. Who knows, the machines may even have been Chinese made like seemingly everything is these days! I didn't ask.

I first watched as they made cake cones with flared tops using an arrangement of upright injection molds. As the precise amount of cone batter was squirted into each mold, an additional conical mold was inserted to form a sort of mold within a mold and in the process squeeze the batter between the opposing surfaces into a thin shell. Then in carousel fashion this arrangement of multiple molds rotated through an oven to emerge, following one rotation, for the molds to separate and voilà, a crispy cone was born. They would then be automatically ejected from their molds to shuffle down a series of shoots, seven abreast, for boxing and shipment. Other machines on the floor added to the throbbing fugue as they hummed, clicked, squished and continually ejected their particular style of cone. It was all a very clean and orderly process bathed in a toasty scent with only a handful of operators to service the machines and load boxes. I could only imagine and would consequently want to avoid the place on a sizzling day in August .... the very thought gave me a caldarium steam-room flashback!

The most impressive operation I observed was the production of cannoli shells, a blood relative of the ice cream cone. Here again the process was largely automated. The centerpiece of the operation was a mammoth machine I'd estimate to be about 30 feet long. It was basically a 30 foot conveyer belt, totally enclosed within a metal housing, top and bottom, that stretched across a room. Operators were positioned at either end. One, an older woman, was in charge of feeding the monster at the input end while three workers, scrambled to keep up at the output end where the finished product emerged in true Lucille Ball candy factory fashion (if you are too young to have ever seen this TV classic or would like to see it again, simply click here on I Love Lucy). I soon understood why they flip the switch to start the cannoli machine only on afternoons. It must have taken all morning for someone, or team of someones, to make the batter concoction for the circular, mini pancake-size waffles that went in at the front end. I suspected it was the older woman’s job. Her hair was in something resembling a shower cap and she wore an apron over her smock doused with flour as she loaded them in from tray after tray of as yet uncooked cannoli. I observed her as she feed the gluttonous machine. Was hers affection or frustration to rid herself of her charges and call it a day? She had a wry expression on her face akin to verbally saying "take that" or "now, how about that one" as she shuffled the 'cannoli ammo' into the breach. Hers had to have been a lot of prep work for not only did she apparently make the cake batter and shape it into patties stamped with a waffle-like pattern, but she then had to carefully roll each onto short metal cylindrical molds and refrigerate them for a time. The insatiable conveyor belt slowly moved the cylinders deeper inside to disappear as it descended, along with its charges, into a vat of heated oil. What else went on inside the belly of the beast was invisible to me but eventually this horde of metal cylinders emerged still shiny but now encrusted with a pair of crisp, toasted shells. The operator's task at the far end was to quickly remove the cannoli shells from the rods, toss the rods into a box and gently return the cannoli shells to the conveyor, without breaking any. They disappeared once again, but only briefly this time, for some final treatment before reappearing to continue on just a bit farther to then cascade off the belt in a blizzard of cones into waiting collection boxes, apparently now much tougher.

So there you have it, the inconsequential yet utilitarian cone, quietly fashioned out of necessity over a century ago, is today being mass-produced in this seemingly insignificant part of Italy only to spread far and wide. The manner of its actual birth may be shrouded in the mist of time but it was a fun, eye-opening experience to have had the opportunity to see how they are being made today at the Cialde cone company. As in the ritual of the Roman bath, where we transition from frigiderium gradually to caldarium, so to in the self indulgent ritual of enjoying an ice cream cone do we first move through the enjoyment of the rich coolness of the gelato to reach that satisfying crunchy final destination of the cone itself. Shortly after that last lick, the cone itself is consumed signaling the completion of our brief flirtation with guiltless pleasure. Just as Ed McMahon each night for 30 years served to bolster the host of the 'Tonight Show' with his resounding "H-e-e-e-e-e-ere's Johnny!" introduction, so too the loyal cone has and will no doubt for centuries more to come serve as the loyal, though subservient sidekick to its glorified companion.

That Rogue Tourist, PAOLO

FOR RELATED PHOTOS, CLICK HERE ON EYES OVER ITALY. THEN LOOK FOR AND CLICK ON THE PHOTO ALBUM ENTITLED "CONO".

Calitri at War

2010-09-29T12:55:00.016-04:00

From British Military Archives, meet the Men of OPERATION COLOSSUS

Close by our home in the Calitri borgo in what I refer to as Teresa's Piazza, because not surprisingly Teresa lives there, is an innocuous water fountain still in use today mostly by, you guessed it, Teresa. Though I've passed it many a time, I never gave it much notice. Printed on it in raised metal letters are the words 'Aquedotto Pugliese 1914' (see Photo Album). This date was when modern running water apparently first debuted in Calitri. The water was supplied from an aqueduct then newly completed, which ran by the base of the mountain on which Calitri is perched. Calitri, I understand, was the first town to tap this new water supply with the water being pumped up the hundreds of feet into town using a steam driven pump. Ah, the marvels of modern technology ... and if we reorder the date just slightly into the year 1941, it was still all about water even then .......

The lumbering twin engine bombers coasted in from the Tyrrhenian Sea after what for those aboard must have seemed like a lifetime since departing RAF Station Luqa on Malta, south of Sicily. These Armstrong Whitworth Whitley medium bombers were already obsolete when WWII had begun, a stigma unworthy of any aircraft, yet true in their case. None the less, they were available and times being what they were, would have to do for this mission.

For some of the aircraft on this mission hasty modifications had converted them from their primary mission as bombers into transports. Unlike conventional bombers their cargo would fall through a fairly small opening in the floor of the fuselage and was not of the explosive or incendiary type but of the flesh and blood variety for six of the aircraft carried a squad of six British paratroopers each *.

The flight crews busied themselves now with final preparations as they approached the drop zone. This was a time long before inertial navigation or ground-mapping radar would simplify the lives of future aircrews on future missions much like theirs. For hours, relying on precise headings, adjusted for the winds aloft, the group of eight Whitleys had headed north across the Mediterranean. With the approach of sunset, the muted features of the terrain far below would now have to guide them. A landscape of deep valleys and jutting peaks typical of the southern Apennines would call to each crew, as had the Sirens of old. Their miscues would attempt to deceive the flightcrews … turn here, head further to the right, stay the course a little longer … but it would prove to no avail. The Sele River and a mosaic of villages here and there along their route would guide them to their destination. Crossing a towering ridgeline (today occupied by wind turbines), the interphone would have crackled as the navigator, crosschecking his charts, announced over the cabin noise .... "Pilot, there at ten o'clock, that has to be Cairano". There was no mistaking it, jutting there precariously on the angled brow of that imposing mountain. Just a little farther down the valley and they’d find Calitri. It was the early evening of 9 Feb 1941.

Yes, Italy was at war with the Allies. Calitri, in fact, had offered its young men to the cause, but the war was distant, far removed from them here midway between either coastline. Absent the sound of gunfire to disturb their tranquility, the war as yet remained something to read about in the giornali (newspapers), and for some, a personal death lottery as causalities among the local cadre were announced each week. Life for the most part went on as usual with the townspeople descending the mountain each morning to work in their fields, only to return in the evening. The sound of approaching 845 horsepower engines, in an instant, changed all that.

The local Calitri ‘contadini' (peasants), looking skyward, must have marveled at the sight, the likes of which had never before been seen in this part of Italy. In fact, Antonio Caruso, then a young nine year old shepherd, told me in Mario's Cafe there how he’d taken his vigilant eyes from his flock that evening to scan for the source of the approaching sound. The advancing drone of engines now resonated across the valley. Having abandoned the course of the Sele, which the aircrews had relied on since coasting inland, some in the staggered flight hesitated momentarily, circling over the valley below Calitri, before moving just a little further up the valley to their objective, the fresh-water aqueduct across the Tragino River.

Aboard the troop aircraft, responsibility for the success of the mission now transferred from the Royal Air Force flight crews into the hands of Major T.A.G. Pritchard of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, the commander of X Troop of the No. 11 Special Air Service Battalion. The shiver of the engines down the length of the 69-foot fuselage undoubtedly reinforced the palpable reality of their mission, the first ever of its kind. Having made military parachute jumps myself when much younger, daring, and yes, more impulsive, I can only imagine how some aboard may have been reluctant to jump. Training was one thing but to jump in combat over enemy territory was altogether different. Their hearts must have pounded from an adrenaline rush as the command to jump echoed down the cold interior of the Whitleys and the commandos frog-walked to the open floor hatch to one-by-one be swallowed in the evening void. Their only comfort now lay in their training, their collective will to succeed and the fact that they were not alone. All told, among the various aircraft, there were 35 of them composed of seven officers and 28 enlisted men of various ranks. In that instant they were forever mates as together they exited into the advancing night only to be instantly thrown horizontal by the slipstream like rag-dolls as each awaited the tug of the static line and the reassuring jerk from their inflating chute.

Training for this, the first paratrooper operation ever undertaken by the British military and, in fact, what was the first Allied airborne operation of WW2, had begun in the summer of 1940. Impressed by the achievements of German airborne units during the Battle of France, Winston Churchill had called for the establishment of a similar capability for Britain's military. Training of this all-volunteer force was conducted at RAF Ringway, near Manchester England, at what was to become known as the ‘Central Landing Establishment’. By December 1940 a small force, designated No. 11 Special Air Service Battalion, had completed its training. From the battalion, a smaller group of men, designated ‘X Troop’, was selected to conduct what was code-named ‘Operation Colossus’. Their target, off in the fields just east of Calitri, lying just inside in the territory of Basilicata, is visible even today with the naked eye from the balcony of our home in the borgo storico (historic village). Today a grove of trees attempts to conceal its history, revealing only a thin sliver of its white bridge-like silhouette.

X Troop's mission was to seize the aqueduct and destroy it. Based on intelligence from the English engineering firm who had originally built the structure, George Kent and Sons, a plan was formulated to strike it because of its importance to Southern Italy. When my friend Mario first mentioned 'Colossus' to me, I'd wondered why the British War Office had chosen to attack this simple structure and why then? I learned that the aqueduct supplied water to an estimated two million Italians in the southern province of Puglia (Italy's 'heel'), and more importantly, to the ports of Bari, Brindisi and the vital naval base at Taranto, all of which supported the Italian war effort. Deprived of fresh water, morale, if not support for the war itself, would diminish. Its destruction would hopefully have the added benefit of disrupting Italian military efforts in Africa and Albania. Beyond its strategic importance, there was also psychological value. Following the disastrous results of the Battle of France, concluding with the disheartening evacuation from Dunkirk (May,1940), success here could spur British morale. A successful raid would demonstrate to the world that Britain hadn't succumbed and yet remained a potent force with the ability to globally strike at its enemies. The aqueduct, being a significant distance inland from the coast, also made it unlikely that a raiding party, delivered by sea, could reach it undetected. Moreover, it was believed that the aqueduct was too strongly constructed to be destroyed by aerial bombardment, inaccurate as it then was. An airborne raid, conducted by paratroops, was thought to be the ideal way to eliminate the aqueduct. Beyond this, Colossus would serve to test the effectiveness of this newfangled paratrooper force and the adequacy of their equipment. Additionally, the RAF's ability to accurately deliver a strike team to a predetermined location at a specified time would be put to the test. Since this was all new, the lessons learned would lead to more refined airborne operational procedures. In a nutshell, a lot was riding on X Troop and the success of this mission that in theory, on paper at least, checked off a lot of 'nice to have' boxes.

Besides Tony Caruso that February evening, I wondered how many others might have noticed their approach. Had anyone noticed as their silk chutes billowed and stealthily lowered the men and their equipment to the ground? No one I spoke with seemed to recall, though they did say that for years afterwards many of the locals sported fine silk made clothing! They all, however, became starkly aware of the operation when thirty minutes after midnight on 10 Feb 1941 a tremendous explosion erupted from the cleft in the valley, formed between the surrounding rising terrain, where the aqueduct is located. Equipment failures and navigational errors on some aircraft resulted in a significant portion of the explosives as well as the explosive specialists themselves to land miles away. Yet Major Pritchard was able to assemble most of his scattered teammates, locate the aqueduct, emplace what explosives they could muster, and as planned, destroy the structure. Mission accomplished, it was now all about getting his team safely out of there and on to the planned recovery point.

For Major Pritchard and his men, getting to the recovery point would prove far more difficult than it had been to reach the objective. The raiding party split into groups and began the approximate 60 mile trek, as the crow flies (even farther for some), to the mouth of the Sele to meet a submarine, HMS Triumph, scheduled for the night of 15 February. Unfortunately the Italians had not signed up to this! Now aware of the attack and alerted to the presence of hostile boots on the ground in the area, the local Carabinieri (paramilitary police), Italian soldiers and civilians quickly mobilized into search teams and with the aid of local farmers began their hunt. For X Troop, expected to cover about 12 miles a day, it would not be an easy stroll through the bucolic Italian countryside to the rendezvous point. Neither the locals nor the winter terrain would cooperate. Meanwhile other teams, these of workmen from Calitri, to include Tony's father and the family donkey, quickly began to repair the aqueduct. Michale, another person I spoke with at Mario's, recounted how his dad had found containers of weapons to include pistols, rifles and associated ammunition. With fewer men, the paratroops had had to improvise. Upon landing, I learned they had pressed into service a farm worker they encountered to carry equipment to the aqueduct. I suspect they must have tied him up until after their hasty departure, left to be discovered by first responders to the scene.

Unbeknown to the Major Pritchard and his men, who were now doing their darnedest to escape and evade, the foggy unpredictability of war, whose disruptive presence first emerged with errors in the jump zone location and equipment failures on some aircraft, decided to play another card. The bomber formation had included two aircraft assigned to carry out a bombing raid on the rail yards in Foggia, about 60 miles beyond the aqueduct. This was meant to divert attention from the primary paratrooper assault. As fate would have it, one of these aircraft developed an engine problem after rolling off the target. The pilot radioed Luqa airfield that he was preparing to crash-land. Coincidentally, he'd chosen a flat area near the mouth of the Sele River south of Salerno, the precise area where the rendezvous with the submarine was scheduled to occur! Talk about bad karma! Red flags went up at British headquarters on the news. Fearing first that with Italian vigilance heightened due to the crash, and secondly, that because the Italians may have intercepted the transmission, the recovery area was now compromised. Concluding that the rescue submarine might be sailing into trouble, the HMS Triumph was recalled. With no way to inform X Troop, still deep inside Italy, they were basically written off as lost. Major Pritchard and his men would not know of this fateful change in plans and the impossibility of their recovery, had they ever reached the coast, until after the war, for they were all eventually captured, swept up in the course of a few days. The long slog they faced, compounded by winter weather conditions and a very tight schedule, had forced them onto roads. This had greatly reduced their chances of going undetected, resulting in their quick capture. Their supposed 50-50 chance of return was now zero! Like romance, the essence of war is uncertain with intrigues sometimes determined haphazardly, no matter how thick the plot or in this case, the planning.

There had been some clashes and brief firefights, but without any losses. In all, there was but one casualty in Operation Colossus (not including what may have happened to the bomber crew that crashed and a training accident) and his death was totally unnecessary. He was neither British nor from Calitri, yet Italian nonetheless. On Palm Sunday 1941, one of the mission's interpreters, actually a civilian named Fortunato Picchi (using the cover name 'Dupont' and purported to be a Free French soldier), then in the custody of an Italian Fascist paramilitary group, the Blackshirts, was tortured and shot for his part in the operation. Indeed, it was a sad ending for someone named Lucky ('Fortunato'), who before his recruitment had been a waiter at London's Savoy Hotel.

There were injuries, however. One paratrooper landing in a tree broke his ankle. He extricated himself from the tree, hid is a straw roofed hut the night, but was captured the next day. The grandmother of another Calitri friend hid one of the paratroopers for a time and he rewarded her with his silk parachute, probably all he had to give her. He was also later captured. I learned that some prisoners were held in the Calitri town jail, then located inside the present day commune office building, for approximately one month before they were moved to nearby Sant' Angelo dei Lomdardi and later to Naples. For the men of X Troop the war was over. They were interned in POW camps for the remainder of WWII.

Recently Maria Elena and I were fortunate to be able to visit the aqueduct and actual target of Operation Colossus (see Photo Album). It is still in use today, attested to by Teresa's fountain. It lies in the backfields of a farm owned by relatives of our friend, Antonio, who arranged the visit. With 70 year old Giovanni leading the way, we walked through tall grass and brambles to the structure. Along the way, Giovanni related to us how a few years back one of the men of X Troop had himself returned to the site. It seemed strange, at least to me then, to also hear him say that he'd apologized for what he had done. But thus is war, where in its aftermath, if we are lucky enough to survive, there is time for reflection. Looking at the aqueduct, it is hard to imagine today how this structure could have commanded so much attention in 1941. It looked very much like a boxed-in bridge with railings spanning the distance between sloping terrain. Maybe 150 feet all told. But for the drop-off in the terrain, it wouldn't be visible at all. At either end stood a squat, white, windowless building, which we were told served as access into the aqueduct. I walked it, one end to the other, imagining the Major and his men scrambling over it on that fateful night in '41 with the lights of towering Calitri serving as backdrop on the horizon. Grass and moss cover its top surface. The sole evidence of violence I noticed was a discharged, rusted shotgun cartridge dropped there no doubt by some bird or cinghiale (wild boar) hunter. I imagined it looked today much like it had after its prompt repair following the attack. Contrary to the best of British intensions, repairs were made in a few days time. With a quantity of the explosives lost, the limited amount that remained had been insufficient to permanently knock out the aqueduct. Damaged yes, but still repairable. The rapidity of the repairs had insured there had been little impact to recipients of its water, who in the interim had relied on reserves.

Thinking it over, had this all been a colossal waste of time, resources and more importantly, men’s lives? Was this but folly, some sort of elaborate shakedown exercise or experiment under real conditions? Had all the detail been in planning the attack and scant on recovery of the team? Had X Troop been essentially sacrificed on a one way mission? Where apologies really in order and by whom? The questions keep crowding in but not their answers. Answers are elusive because ambiguity is in the nature of war. In retrospect, history says that because of this attack and fear of others like it, Italy diverted much needed resources to guard dams, power stations and bridges throughout Italy, when they could have been better employed in combat. In so doing, had the lives of these rear guards been spared the ravages of war? Had the outcome of the war in some miniscule immeasurable sort of a way been affected by what happened here in the shadow of Calitri? Had the events at the Pugliese aqueduct changed the course of history **? History, at least for the men of Operation Colossus, had certainly changed forever, and maybe, just maybe, it is only they who can judge, and if they so choose, apologize.

That Rogue Tourist, Paolo

* With one man taken ill prior to takeoff, one aircraft contained only five paratroopers.

** Somewhat akin to the "butterfly effect" of chaos theory (à la Monday morning quarterback, only visible in hindsight), where sensitive dependence on initial conditions (like the flap of a butterfly's wings) can sway events ... in the case of a butterfly's actions, on the formation of a storm or in the case of the removal of thousands of troops for guard duty, on the outcome of a war. In a nutshell, small differences may produce large variations in the long term behavior of a dynamic system, be it storm or war. Remember that proverb, "For Want of a Nail"?

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on the photo album entitled "Colossus".

To view historic WWII footage of Armstrong Whitworth Whitley Bombers practicing early paratrooper drops to the tune of Jimmy Dorsey's "Jumpin Jive" click here on Paratroopers. Be sure to shut off the blog's music (I love that tune), if you have it running.

Exploring the Leg of Bella Italia

2010-08-28T10:13:00.013-04:00

I Was Awake. Without my glasses it took more than a few moments to be able to make out the numbers on the digital clock - 10:30 am! We had overslept, but not really, since we'd gone to bed around 3am. I'd been dreaming. Something about our first attempted flight to Rota on that Martinsburg Air Guard C-5, a fire bottle warning light in the cockpit and that plaque in the Dover passenger lounge which read:

"For those who've fought for it, Freedom has a flavor the protected will never know."

I'd wanted to remember that perceptive turn of phrase and now I was, albeit in my dreams. Now it was already late morning, approaching checkout time. I had to get moving and back to the terminal to rent a car ASAP. My nagging fear – Sicily’s Naval Air Station Sigonella was a small place and they could easily run out of cars, especially with the weekend at hand. We'd arrived in Italy the night before, although there are more than a few Sicilians who will take exception to that. Sicilians are a breed apart - first and always Sicilians, then maybe, just maybe, Italians.

The Sicilian Sun was already making its presence felt as I trudged along in what I thought was the direction of the passenger terminal. It had been early that same morning, past 2 am in fact, when we'd first made the trip from the terminal to the Navy Gateway Inn, where we had stayed overnight. Now by daylight, everything looked different. I was trying to spot the tower, which I know rose above the terminal. I wasn't really sure on the direction so I waved at an approaching security police vehicle and the young driver was kind enough to drive me there. At every turn, I was still being amazed at the polite service I was receiving - he could have easily just said it was up ahead. It was a short ride. I'd been on the correct heading. A few blocks later, I was deposited at the Europcar rental office beside the terminal. I soon departed with DX518XH, the plate number of my Alpha Romeo MiTo. With six forward gears, this two-door classy lady was made for speed but over the 30 days we'd spend together, I'd learn her flaws. Yet, as I left the rental office, someone mentioned zero to 100 kilometers per hour (62 mph) in 5 seconds. I'd have to see about that but I doubted I could shift that fast!

After Lunch at the Navy Galley we were on the road headed for Massina. This is the major jump-off point by ferry to mainland Italy. There is no bridge yet. Along the way, we passed familiar haunts, especially touristy Taormina and the charming mountaintop village of Forza d'Agro. Forza d'Agro is an interesting place and now part of Hollywood lore. Reached via a twisting corkscrew road from the coast, Forza d'Agro is the site of Sant'Agostino. It was this church, in the second film of the Godfather epic where, if I have it right, Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) marries Apollonia. It is now part of Sicilian lore as well and not for the 16th-century castle overlooking the coast toward the Strait of Messina. Instead, word is that mafia fathers come to this church to proudly give their daughters away, an offer you couldn't refuse. Not quit Grauman's Chinese Theatre, noted for its memorabilia, but a start. When we visited, the church was lavishly decorated with flowers like something we've never seen before. There had been a wedding that morning. I still recall how in the coolness of the interior, the intoxicating perfume of the flowers, some strewn down the center aisle, added further to the sensual dimension to the scene.

Messina is a Mini-Naples with cars, buses and especially hoards of screeching motorcycles everywhere. This time, we used a more northerly exit from highway E45 to bypass the adventures experienced when traveling through the center of town. Getting tickets for the ferry is always a novel pastime, especially for the uninitiated. You follow the traghetto (ferry) signs until you come to an area of utter confusion with cars parked or I should say stopped every which way in the street, while hucksters selling bogus CDs or attempting to wash your windows, ply the traffic jam. Some, sensing a straniero (outsider) amongst them - someone new to all this fun, try to help you get to the ticket kiosk when you exit your car in the midst of this melee, expecting a finders-fee in return. A few words in Italian usually puts them off and on to more fertile prey. Italians can easily circumvent any attempt to get them organized into lines. Painted lines on the ground are laughable. If there is a way to somehow advance, even at someone else's expense, they'll try it. Their driving is a classic example. The worst repercussion might be a hand waving verbal broadside from someone less imaginative. But here, they are dealing with fellow Italians who know all the angles so the ticket booth is buttressed with sturdy metal handrails, which define the lanes. They would give the merrymaking operators of Disney World pause to reconsider their crowd control techniques. The use of these parallel steel rail queues avoids five or so people with their hands thrusting money through the window slot all at the same time. It also keeps them in a tight line like cattle headed for slaughter, where by slaughter I mean the fee to cross. When you reach the ticket clerk, you learn that the tariff is 30.50 Euro for two passengers and a light auto. Of this, the city of Messina is reserved 1.50€. Included is a 20% VAT (Value Added Tax), something some politicians here want to introduce. God help us! No wonder only President Berlusconi is interested in building a suspension bridge across the Strait. It is doubtful, however, that there will ever be one with all the politics and intrigue involved. Pockets run deep in these parts, far deeper in fact than the waters of the Strait. Promise of the start of construction has been going on every year, I think, since the Romans ran the place! While Marie Antoinette may have said, "Let them eat cake", around here the equivalent is "Let them talk of building a bridge".

Fearing They Might be Left Behind, vehicles from two to eighteen wheelers eagerly scramble aboard the ferry under the eagle-eyed supervision of dockworkers who efficiently choreograph the loading with the sidestepping precision of matadors. Once parked tight as Sicilian sardines in the bowels of the ship, you can go upstairs to the passenger lounges. I recommend you do because some of the trailer trucks keep their engines running throughout the crossing and the fumes can be overwhelming. You can watch your progress crossing the Strait from either the deck in nice weather or otherwise inside. All told it takes about an hour to get across. When the ferry’s behemoth boarding ramp drops open at Villa San Giovanni, it’s as if the green flag at Daytona has been waved in everyone’s windshield – let the race begin!

And So We Too Were Off, along the A3 Autostrada on a meandering journey north. We had decided earlier to take our time and see some of the province of Calabra first, followed by Basilicata. While in Sicily we’d entertained stopping at Siracusa but decided to do that another time. We were in no particular hurry yet wanted to get across – you could never be sure there wouldn’t be a strike or some sort of slowdown. Recalling what Elwood had said to Jake in “The Blues Brothers", “we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses”, Maria Elena said ‘hit it’ though neither of us smoked and it was broad daylight! The route, marked by the green ‘RC-SA’ (Regio Calabria to Salerno) signs, is pocked-marked with galeria (tunnels). There are times you are inside them long enough for your GPS, we call ours ‘Margaret’, to lose its signal even in a speedy Alfa Romeo. That in itself isn't bad and can be expected but there are places where these tunnels are so close together, one following the other, that as you exit a tunnel there isn't enough time to reacquire the satellite signals before charging headlong into another galeria! Luckily, there were few roads to mistakenly take in the meantime, allowing time for Margaret to catch up in a clear sky.

This Highway is an engineering marvel. Once you have driven it and seen its jagged saw-tooth landscape for yourself, you can understand how prior to its construction the Mezzogiorno, or Southern Italy, was uniquely isolated and consequently remained underdeveloped. Bridges with amazing superstructures span the breaches formed by the deepest of ravines between formidable mountain peaks. You sometimes get a glimpse of an approaching bridge spanning one of these Mariana trench-like abyss’ as you round a turn. Simply amazing. It is hard to imagine even attempting such a project. Where would you begin? Along the route, which for a time keeps to the Calabrian coastline, you can sometimes catch sight of an azure sea embroidered with beaches, some sitting beside small villages, off to your left, far, far below. Within sight, but still out of reach, they beg to be explored but not today, even if we could figure out how to get down there.

We Exited the Autostrada near Lamezia Terme in favor of the coastal road (S18) hugging the shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea to continue our casual drive north. Our goal was to reach the village of Maratea, which I’d read about years before. A few hours later we saw a road-sign and realized that based on the remaining distance we needed to cover and our pace thus far, we would be wise to stop somewhere now. We had passed an interesting looking place a few kilometers back and decided to double back. It was the seaside town of San Lucido, named after a monk who once occupied a nearby monastery there. We had noticed what looked like a curving palm-tree lined street overlooking the sea almost like a balcony as we'd driven by and wondered if this might be near some hotel, seeing that the setting was so perfect. We made a couple of loops through the town, which like so many others is dominated by one way streets, to get our bearings. I'd passed a local policeman on one pass and decided to ask him on my next go by where there was an albergo (hotel). He didn't seem to mind when I double parked to ask, stopping traffic. Following his directions we indeed passed down the tree lined avenue we'd seen from the highway. With the aid of a group of old men, startled like a covey of pigeons by an American stammering for directions in his own pigeon Italian dialect, I was able to find Antico Ristorante Da Peppone and its adjacent hotel, 'Catherine's House'. I swear it was a scene right out of a Fellini movie, for with the knot of senior citizens at my back, mostly to satisfy their curiosity but ostensibly to insure I was on course, I found one of the restaurant’s family members busy setting up outside for a World Cup match and got a room. He'd produced a scrap of paper scrawled with names and nodding toward it while asked me if I had a reservation. On my negative reply he shrugged and I consequently shrugged in disappointment, then moments later producing his cellphone, he chatted briefly with someone and announced he had a room for us after all. Explain it as you will but I think the lonely castaway look I gave him triggered some primal disposition Italians seem to have to make the current situation acceptable. It was just barely a hotel room anyway, situated three floors up, essentially in the attic. Our only window resembled one from a basement foundation and true to form was on the floor. On hands and knees you might see out! It, however, had all we needed for the night including an air conditioner mounted high on the wall, which made staying there bearable. A short nap later, we were on the streets of San Lucido. Dinner this evening would be at La Venere Ristorante.

We Dined Alfresco at La Venere. Not to be confused with the Italian verb 'venire' (come), which I managed to do, La Venere means 'The Venus'. We learned of it when we asked about a place for dinner while people-watching outside the 'John Bull Pub'. Mare likes a 'Black & Tan' beer now and then and with Guinness available we had every reason to linger. It was hard to believe that of all places, you’d come across a pub in Calabria! There must be a modicum of British influence about. If it had been American, I'm sure there would have been a Planet Hollywood around! As with Botticelli's celebrated painting, 'The Birth of Venus', La Venere essentially emerges from the sea below San Lucido. Turns out La Venere was over the railing of that palm-lined street in a lower part of town about 200 feet below. Like Venus, we too were in essence born anew for here and for the first time since returning to ‘Bella Italia’ we once again tasted purple sunshine on our tongues flowing from an excellent bottle of Nero d’Avola. I recall enjoying 'fritti di mare' (seafood pasta) but what we ate, though excellent that night, was nowhere near the fabulous time we had later with fellow diners. It was not until we’d finish our meals and were preparing to leave that two men at a nearby table waved us over and proposed that we join them for an aperitivo. They had observed us during the course of the evening and whether out of curiosity or the need for companionship wanted to share grappa and conversation with us. They soon learned we were American, not British as they'd suspected, and we in turn that one was a lawyer and the other a bookstore owner from Paolo, a town a few coastal villages further north. The grappa flowed and we had a wonderful time together until well after midnight talking about everything from politics to football, which in Italy is almost politics itself! They must have been regulars for soon our foursome had grown to include the chef and his wife, who had been our hostess. It rekindled in us that epiphany in awareness that anyone who has spent time in Italy will one day or another realize of how hospitable, generous, charming and otherwise almost childlike in their friendliness Italians can be. Our moments together adding weight to the notion that a memorable dining experience is not what is on the table so much as who is at the table. The assent up the steps to town, followed by another assent to our attic sanctuary in the Hotel Caterina was a further rebirth in the knowledge of how out of shape our legs were. Not withstanding our previous night's convivial soiree, we were on the road once again by mid-morning headed north into Basilicata.

Our Next Overnight Stop was at La Locanda delle Donne Monache (www.locanda.franklynhotels.com), in Maratea. We arrived early enough later that morning to be able to enjoy practically a full day in Maratea. La Locanda, like Maratea itself, is a secluded retreat nestled in rugged mountains just inland, overlooking the breathtaking unspoiled coastline of Basilicata. It offers luxury accommodations in a restored 18th century convent painstakingly converted into one of the finest hotels in the area. But for the lack of an elevator, we were told, it would be classed five star. Its layout precludes the use of elevators and instead substitutes artfully decorated corridors, which wind up, down and around the complex like a Chinese paper dragon on parade. We, neither of us, knew what might lie ahead and where we might emerge and therein lay the fun. We did just that and after passing through a Moorish decorated sitting area surfaced into a garden with cushioned chairs dominated by a large mural beckoning you to linger. Maria Elena (Mare), now intoxicated with the mood of the place, used this quiet retreat to write in her journal. It was on one of these explorations, following a turn and ascent of a short series of stairs that we discovered a wonderful kidney-shaped swimming pool. It was hemmed by gigantic blue hydrangea bushes, and if that wasn’t enough, an ancient church and square campanile (bell tower) served as the backdrop, completing this Italian canvas. Here was a stunning example of Italian design congruity set amidst its crumbling heritage, rivaling Feng Shui principles in its balance. For the time we had there, this became OUR spot. Here we enjoyed ourselves immensely, meeting people, having drinks or doing both while soaking at the edge of this wonderful pool. I'm sure the former nuns never had it this good. Adjacent to the pool was another find, the hotel's celebrated restaurant, 'Il Sacello' (The Shrine). I don't believe I actually did it but while playing lizard, or should I say turtle in the water, by the edge of the pool, I actually called a waiter over and made a reservation for dinner there for later that evening. Given time, you could quit easily get used to this lifestyle and I was making great headway at living life large without any problema! Reality soon sets in, however, for the cost in Euros for this tryst was in the stratosphere. When you made the mental conversion into dollars, it became obscene. If you recall, I jokingly remarked in a recent post that I was sparing no expense on this trip, it being our anniversary! Here was painful proof. I just had to think about it like I had the time we took a gondola ride in Venice - just imagine the cost amortized over ten years or more and then it isn’t so bad. But now about that dinner …

Il Sacello, located in a long glassed-in portico running alongside the pool area, was both intimate and welcoming. Its staff spoke faultless English, which made the evening go especially smoothly and the maitre'de added to a memorable time by his occasional visits and frank chats. Mare and I shared the dinner-for-two special featuring 'Bistecca alla Fiorentina', the grilled steak signature dish of Florence similar to what we'd called a Porterhouse, balanced with such local treats as grilled vegetables served over creamy polenta. This was gourmet cuisine at its finest, accompanied with fine wine and topped off with a dolce (desert) of Tiramisu. Bring on that slippery-smooth mascarpone cheese! Tiramisu remains the most heavenly Italian dessert I've ever eaten. Its name is derived from 'pull me up' in Italia and it does just that. No wonder it is the signature dessert of Venice. We’d eaten deliberately, savoring each flavor, and hated to see the meal end. We even hesitated to leave the next day, after all we had plenty of time, but our vacillation was abruptly overcome by the sobered affect of il conto (the bill)! We cut inland away from the sea and its coastal road and within a few hours were in familiar territory.

Soon We Were Climbing that zigzag ascent to lofty Calitri. There were the 'fashionable' with their never-worn sweaters cast about their shoulders, sleeves knotted on their chests; clumps of old men on the shaded benches lining Corso Garibaldi; Benito in the doorway of his magazine shop; mustachioed Paldo in his bar; Francesco in his furniture store and I was now positive, God in his heaven. My inner Italian had now regained its sense of place. We had arrived in Calitri, slipping up the peninsula like a hand deftly exploring a sheer nylon on a shapely leg – a journey just long enough to cover the sculpted subject but short enough to still remain mysterious, beckoning a return.

That Rogue Tourist,

Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on the photo album entitled "San Lucido & Maratea".

2010-07-28T07:42:00.010-04:00

Italia - A Galaxy & Metroliner Away

No Doubt You've Heard the expression, “that and twenty five cents will get you a cup of coffee”? Well, one of the few benefits of having been shot at while in the military (or for that matter, for never having been shot at all, while in the military) and otherwise surviving to retirement, is the ability for Maria Elena and me to take military space-available flights. From the savings realized, you might even possibly be able to buy yourself a small coffee plantation and all the coffee you want!

The First and Until Now the last time we tried this was in 1973 following my return from flying in Vietnam. So on the occasion of this, our 41st wedding anniversary, we tried it again hoping to eventually reach ‘Bella Italia’. Since I was now retired, however, our priority for seats had changed, unfortunately in the negative direction. We could now count on being in the lowest category, which wasn’t saying much, especially it being June with crowds of active duty personnel and dependents cramming the military departure terminals. At least for a few days, it was worth a try at sitting around terminals, since the cost savings was so attractive. If all went right, our total cost would be $4.25 each for a sack lunch! You can see I was sparing no expense on this anniversary celebration! Not many wives would be willing to put up with this but Maria Elena is a first-class trooper and willing to give things a sporting try. I recall how once, although she doesn’t like heights, she’d hesitated to climb the sacred Mayan Kukulcan pyramid in the ancient city of Chichen-Itza, Mexico. She drew up the courage from somewhere, however, and climbed it anyway saying, “I came this far, I’ll probably never come back here again, so I’m going to do it”. Later, at the top of this archaeological wonder, she climbed down those same steep stone stairs backwards in order not to look down! How’s that for a game gal?

Everything Depended on Timing and Outright Luck with some planning thrown in for good measure. Seems life is like that too. We began our adventure on a Monday in June, by driving from our home to Dover AFB in Delaware. Arriving late that evening, we were informed of a flight leaving just after midnight for Rota, Spain. Things were seemingly falling into place quickly. The secret is to take any flight headed in your desired direction. After all, Europe is Europe and once there you can always find alternate transportation like a train or Ryan Air flight. Unfortunately, by 1 am this flight had not materialized. I checked only to find out that due to a maintenance problem, it had slipped to 4:25 am. Not for long though. About an hour later it had again been postponed until 2 pm that afternoon! Are you beginning to get the idea? We are not dealing with a scheduled airlines like Delta or Alitalia here. Surprisingly, the 2 pm flight was moved up to an earlier show time of 7:30 am! Fortunately, I just happened to call from the motel we had retreated to in the early morning hours to learn this news. Out of 73 available seats on a C-5 Galaxy transport, only 11 of us got word in time to return to the terminal, process and get aboard. That had to be a mélange of timing and luck and very little planning on my part!

We Were Airborne by 11am. We were feeling very good about it especially since the four massive turbofan engines had started just fine, and once airborne, the landing gear and flaps had cooperated and successfully retracted. Sweet – time to sit back and enjoy. Italy here we come and just in time for the World Cup playoffs. Unfortunately, ‘feet wet’ and thirty minutes out over the Atlantic, the Fates intervened. We had an engine problem. The apparent fix had not taken and we were returning to Dover. Following the announcement, you could feel the mood of all on-board slump like the unwinding needle of the altimeter as our Galaxy limped home. Back in 1973, we had flown on a C-5, possibly the very one we were on. We were younger then and in turn, so was the fleet of Galaxies. Together we’d somehow gotten old.

Back Inside the Terminal, we now had to re-compete anew for seats with our fellow travelers who had since returned to the terminal or recently just arrived. I have a theory. I believe that when you are tired, wrinkled, unwashed and disheveled enough, the heavenly powers that be become compassionate on your soul and decree “let them go, it’s been long enough”. Something on the order of a stint in airport terminal Purgatory is mandatory! Thankfully, there was a flight leaving shortly for Germany. Many opted to wait for this flight instead, which took much of the pressure off a second flight leaving for Spain. A few hours later, for a second time that same day, we were once again airborne over the Atlantic, this time with all systems go. Our C-5 slid into a dimming easterly night sky with Maria Elena and myself ensconced within the tail of the beast, seated facing backward.

A C-5 Galaxy is a Monstrous Aircraft designed to provide strategic airlift over intercontinental distances. In fact, it is the largest aircraft in the U.S. Air Force inventory and one of the largest military aircraft in the world. Lockheed delivered the first operational Galaxy to Charleston Air Force Base, SC, in June 1970 - forty years ago to the month that we were now aboard in Dover. To give you an idea of its size, its main landing gear has 28 wheels and its cargo bay is actually a foot longer than the distance the Wright Brothers flew in their first powered flight at Kitty Hawk. Every time I see one, just airborne on its departure climb-out, I marvel that something that large can fly. At this point on its departure, nose high and slow in its assent, with the distinctive whining strain of its engines buzzing like a cicada on a hot summer’s day, all I can do is watch in amazement as two thousand years of human ingenuity mesh to make the impossible happen. It’s as if a three-story house was creeping into the sky.

Our Flight was Smooth and Uneventful. With so few on-board, we were able to commandeer an entire row of seats, allowing us to lie down and get some much needed sleep. Just before sunrise we landed at Rota, a Spanish Air Force base located near Cadiz (the city Columbus sailed from on his second and fourth voyages) and the mouth of the Mediterranean.

The Official Word for Our Status was ‘transient’ but when you are ‘car-less’ walking along the side of the road rolling your luggage along behind you in the early morning light without a place to stay, I call it homeless. The Navy Lodge was unfortunately full but they were kind enough to allow us to store our bags until something freed-up, hopefully later in the day. In the meantime, we returned to the terminal for breakfast and to await sunrise. We also checked on upcoming flights. In two days, another C-5 was scheduled to depart Rota for Naval Air Station Sigonella in Sicily. Getting a room now became even more important. On our return to the Lodge, to essentially camp-out in the lobby, we detoured first to the base gymnasium long enough for showers. There was an annual physical fitness test going on - a mile and a half run in so many minutes. I decided not to participate! The navy personnel there were more than helpful. They graciously providing us with towels and even locks for the locker room. Maria Elena was especially appreciative for a chance to freshen-up. A few hours later we were in our room and fast asleep.

Around 6 pm, while taking some photos of the area, another retiree, knowing of our desire to get to Italy, told me he’d just learned of a flight leaving shortly for Sigonella. It seemed things were changing faster than the Euro-to-dollar exchange rate! After a call to confirm that the flight was indeed on, we scrambled to get back to the terminal. Sure enough, there was a small Navy C-26 scheduled to land within the hour.

There is a Saying in the Military, “Hurry up and wait”. Well, we had already hurried up and now it was time to wait. Time passed and by its scheduled landing time the aircraft hadn’t materialized. When I inquired, the terminal personnel had no idea where the aircraft had gone since its departure from Sicily. They checked with Air Traffic Control and they had no idea where it was either. Was there a Bermuda Triangle operating somewhere in the Mediterranean? With nothing better to do, we continued to sit in the terminal. We agreed to give it until 9 pm. There’s another saying, this one purely related to standby military travel – “never leave the terminal”. So we sat and continued to wait at least until the whereabouts of this phantom aircraft could be determined. While we waited, a Colonel in his flight suit passed by on his way to crew operations upstairs. I introduced myself as a former Air Force pilot, explained our desire to get to Sicily and the mystery, at least to me, surrounding the whereabouts of an overdue inbound flight. He promised to check on it and tell the crew, if and when they arrived, that we’d appreciate a lift. At this point we not only didn’t know where the plane was but also had no idea whether they would accept passengers.

Low and Behold, about three hours later it arrived. The mystery of its whereabouts was resolved. It had dropped in on an island along the way. It seemed to be a pretty freewheeling operation. I began to wonder where we might wind-up later that night - Mallorca wouldn’t be bad but Sicily would be better. Good to his word, one of the crewmembers came to us in the terminal, got us processed and onboard within minutes. We were in hurry-up mode once again since they were in a hurry to gas-up and get home. At exactly 10 pm we rumbled and yawed down the runway and rotated into a clear night sky. At this point in the Mediterranean, Spain is off the left wing and, close-by, Africa is to the right. Being aboard a Navy aircraft, however, I guess I should use port and starboard.

The C-26 Metroliner provides light passenger and cargo airlift support for the Navy. First made in 1998 by Fairchild Aircraft, the Metroliner features twin turboprop engines, a crew of two (with no door to the crew cabin that I could see) and a range of approximately 2000 nautical miles. It was pretty small, even smaller than the aircraft used for shuttle flights by Delta Express or United Airlines. There was no way I could stand in it. I had to frog-walk while crouched over to my seat. I am too big for many things and this aircraft was just another example. Being this small, passengers are limited to 30 pounds of luggage. Before we departed the States, we’d planned for this situation and packed accordingly. Luckily we have a washing machine at our place in Calitri, Italy so we could downsize on clothing. Along with sleep, here was another example of a trade-off we had to make for the sake of space-available flexibility. We were still concerned about it even then. In fact, since we had plenty of time as we waited for the ghost flight to materialize, we weighed our bags and made final adjustments into and out of our hand-carried luggage to insure each weighed exactly 30 pounds. Oh, the games we plan.

By this Time you might ask yourself why we hadn’t settled for that flight to Germany back in Dover and then take a train to Naples. Our goal was to get to either Naples or Sicily, with Naples being optimum for getting home to Calitri. We’d therefore opted for Rota as our initial destination over the flight to Spangdahlem, Germany simply to get into the U.S. Navy airlift system since the Navy routinely conducts a circuit of its Mediterranean bases.

It Would be a Four-hour Flight. We flew close to the African coast as we headed east. Two hours into the flight there was nothing outside our porthole-sized windows – not a glimmer of light or even the glint of the moon off the sea, which we knew was somewhere in the distance, far, far below us. Down the narrow aisle, the red night-vision lights from the pilot’s instrument panel glowed ahead of us. I wondered what they did to keep awake after a long crew-day – did they resort to ribald jokes over interphone as we had years ago? In the tail of the passenger cabin where we sat, we withstood cycles of being too hot and too cold. In keeping with the cycling temperature, Mare bundled and unbundled herself in a scrawl while I alternatively draped and undraped a jacket over myself. Not exactly sure, I suspect we dozed off and on. Our seats fortunately faced each other so there was legroom. Mare’s legs lay parallel to mine. A little after 1am, I could just make out the lights of some distant islands. Marettimo and Levanzo? Had we already run the slot between Sardinia and Tunisia and crossed the ancient wakes of Scipio Africanus’ triremes enroute to Carthage? A few minutes later our location was confirmed for there was Trapani, Sicily apparently with every light in the city turned on! For a moment I sensed this may have been on the order of how Lindbergh may have felt as he coasted the Atlantic and first spotted the outlying islands off of Europe decades earlier.

We Touched Down at Sigonella at Exactly 2am. Outside a hanger where we parked, I watched as the pilot, a Lieutenant Colonel, walked to his car by the side of the hanger and drove off. He’d had a long day. We boarded a small van and were driven the short distance to the terminal. Surprisingly, there were two uniformed Navy personnel practically standing at attention when we exited the van. Somehow and for some reason we were being given VIP treatment. Again, I suspected the pilot had radioed ahead and arranged this. I’d never be able to repay the courtesy. Two in the morning and again without a place to stay it couldn’t have come at a better time. Quarters had already been arranged for us. A female Petty Officer brought us to our room, turned on the TV, ceiling fan, air conditioner and even provided us with a much needed 2-liter bottle of cold water … hospitality and service on the par with a four-star hotel concierge! We flopped into bed, without ceremony, minutes later.

So There You Have It … a C-5 Galaxy and C-26 Metroliner later, we were once again in Bella Italia. As unkempt and tired as we were, we’d made it. We hadn’t arrived in Calitri yet but even on the base at Sigonella, we could tell we were in Italy. Something, about just about everything, was different. A month of Arcadian lifestyle in a land of ochre walls and terra-cotta roofs awaited us. All I’d need to really convince myself that I’d arrived was the taste of the sun in my mouth but that glass of wine would have to wait for tomorrow and Part II of this story.

The Rogue Tourist,

Paolo

Pilgrimage to Rue du Bac

2010-06-29T07:51:00.008-04:00

Not Many of Us May Know this but there is an easy way to get extra bang from your vacation air travel with just a little extra planning on your part. We are all aware of what a layover is and for the most part dread them because they mean unexpected unwanted delay. We prefer the non-stop flights to get us there and back in a direct and timely manner. Who would want a four hour layover in Detriot, for example, while waiting for a connection? And then there are the “you missed your connecting flight” layovers and you have to bide your time waiting for the next available connection in the terminal or even worse, remain overnight. It is also possible, however, to build them into a trip for a few days of intentional layover in some place of your choosing. If you are going to have to wait somewhere or have so little time to make your next connection that it will most likely mean missing it anyway (even though they swear that 45 minutes is plenty of time), why not just delay for a few days before continuing your trip? For many years I was not aware of this option. I hadn’t the time to linger anyway, what with work and all. We do, however, do this now and then these days. So far, we have toured both London and Paris this way on return trips from Naples and Rome.

In Fact We Did This not long ago with a stop in Paris while enroute from Rome to Boston. We made it a whopping five-day layover. My sister, Lorraine, joined us while we were there. She made her way, all on her own, to Charles de Gaulle Airport from JFK and surprisingly was waiting for us when were exited customs. Brava for her! We stayed in what I would consider a boutique hotel in the Latin Quarter, the “Hotel du College de France”. It is conveniently located on the left bank of the Seine in Paris’ 5th ‘arrondissement’ (district) and just a stroll away from Notre Dame and the Sorbonne. We thought the entire place divine, being everything we had envisioned Paris would be over all these years of romantic Hollywood movies. We wanted to experience it and be able to truly say, “We’ll always have Paris”, for ourselves. Of course there were so many places we wanted to see and visit. Versailles was at the top of Maria Elena’s list, mine had Montmartre and the Eiffel Tower by night, while my sister had to see Rue du Bac. Big museums like the Louvre would just have to wait for another time.

‘Rue’ as Many of You Know is French for street. Indeed, Lorraine wanted to find a particular street. Fresh in from Italy, it made for interesting confusion when, seeking directions, I’d mix Italian with French by asking for ‘corso’ or ‘strada’ and not ‘rue’! We found smaller, inconspicuous Rue du Bac sandwiched between the larger tree-lined avenues of Rue de Babylone and Rue de Sèvres. We used the very modern, efficient and clean Paris Metro to get there and exited from the nearby Sèvres-Babylone station. We’d thought to purchase multi-day rail passes, which made getting around the city quite convenient. It was a local priest back home who had mentioned that while in Paris my sister should visit the Chapel of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal located on Rue du Bac. This then was our goal. I recall having received such a religious medallion from the nuns while in grammar school. Where it is now I have no idea but I recall that I had worn it on the same neck-chain as my dog-tags during all those missions over Vietnam.

The Miracles Surrounding this Medal are many and the story of its beginning is just as amazing. The exceptional events occurred beginning the night of 18-19 July 1830. On this night, Zoe Labouré (later Sister Catherine), a 24 year old novice sister preparing to enter the order of the Daughters of Charity in the Rue du Bac Motherhouse, experienced an apparition of the Blessed Virgin Mary, in what is described as an “in flesh and bone” encounter. She was told of a personal mission she would receive that would be explained to her in a later meeting. This mission was revealed months later, on 27 November, when Catherine was instructed to have a medal made and distributed to the people of the world. Design details for the medallion, on a scale of God's instructions to Noah for construction of the Ark, were disclosed to Catherine down to the finer points concerning the specific inscriptions to be placed on its front and reverse. It would be called “The Medal of the Immaculate Conception”. Its only words, actually a prayer, appear on the front of the medal and would be as seen by Catherine in the November visitation. The prayer reads: “O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to you.” The “conceived without sin” phrase is interesting to me since the Catholic dogma of the 'Immaculate Conception', inspired according to these accounts by Mary herself during this second encounter, had not yet been proclaimed by the Church. It was not until December 1854 that Pope Pius IX proclaimed the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, no doubt influenced by Catherine’s experience. When a deadly cholera epidemic broke out in February 1832, claiming more than 20,000 lives, the sisters began distributing the first medals. It had taken Catherine this long to convince church authorities of both her credibility and that of her visions. Many cures were reported and word spread like wildfire. The people of Paris called the medal “miraculous” and thus it received the name we know it by today, ‘The Miraculous Medal of Mary’.

Today the Chair Mary sat in while Catherine knelt by her side is still behind the altar railing along with the body of Sister Catherine herself, encased in a glass reliquary beneath one of the altars for all to see. It is hard to believe that this is she lying there, as it were, in state. Like Padre Pio, her face is concealed by a wax mask in her likeness sculpted from a photo. Her rosary wraps her hands together in prayer even in death. An elaborate white coif almost hides her face. The distinctive character of her habit reminded me of something far more than the diminutive headpiece worn by Madeline’s storybook Parisian guardian, ‘Sister Clavel’, and just less than the canards of the ‘Flying Nun’. I later learned that the headpiece of this particular habit, similar to a winged hat, was discontinued by the order in 1964.

After Her Death she was buried in a vault in Reuilly, France. In 1933, in view of her beatification (one of the steps in the process of being declared a saint), her body was exhumed in the presence of witnesses for transfer to Rue du Bac - her body was found to be completely “incorrupt and supple”. Due to her exceptional life and the numerous miracles associated with her since her death, Sister Catherine (1806-1876) was declared a Saint of the Catholic Church on 27 July 1947 by Pope Pius XII. Today Sister (now Saint) Catherine and the entire chapel on Rue du Bac are the subject of intense respect and devotion. Together they are a physical testimony to faith and the power of trusting prayer. Curious visitors and pilgrims stream in and out of the chapel continuously. Being a chapel it is not large and was nearly full while we were there. Over the ensuing years the walls have been beautifully decorated with mosaics, murals and a triumphal arch over the main altar. A statue of Mary, hewn from white Italian Carrara marble, depicting her as seen in one of the apparitions, stands over the altar containing Catherine’s remains. Though she is not worshipped, there is an “if she can live such a holy life, why can’t I” aura about the place. Small and non-descript as the place is at 140 Rue du Bac, not much is made of it. It must have something to do with the long history France and Paris in particular have with saints and such. With such a rich religious heritage, their appreciation for saints may in fact have waned. What’s another saint in a city full of them?

You Can Walk Right by the Chapel and not notice it. Rue du Bac is quite commercial in fact. As we strolled down the street window-shopping, I recall visiting a flower shop where everything in the store was artificial. I had to touch a few to convince myself otherwise (see photo). In a nearby kitchen accessory store just jammed full with every imaginable work-saving device, I purchased a ceramic pitcher made to look like a crumpled milk carton, the kind you might see pictures of missing children on, though this one was chalk white. It was a different kind of place but then this was Paris where street after street begs you to linger. For us this was all new. Undoubtedly for the locals, who seemingly had a clear sense of destination telling from their haste in passing us, the street, this place, was as common as another saint.

During My Time There I had my own religious encounter but nothing on the order approaching miraculous. After a spin through the gift shop I exited early to wait outside in the small courtyard while Mare and Lorraine purchased medals and other souvenir gifts. Waiting outside, I was practicing what Parisians do so well, people watching, when I noticed a group of about ten nuns organizing themselves for a photo. Contrary to my early days in parochial school, where my particular teaching branch of nuns wore a cumbersome arrangement of head veil and an extravagant white coif similar in appearance to an inflated bicycle inner-tube in a yoke-like fashion around their faces, these religious women courted modernity. They ranged from young to mature in age and to a one wore simple blue dresses with white v-necks and unpretentious head veils. Lose the veil and they could pass as typical Parisians. There was also the apparent lack of a crucifix among the lot, which was surprising. The veil would just have to do. They were not as modern as the nuns I see at home these days where, for example, I might be introduced to a woman totally in civilian mufti only to learn she is a sister in a religious order. I’ve heard of dressing-down but come on, let’s be realistic. But I digress. I asked if I could take a group picture for them and they agreed. Soon finished with the “smile and say fromage”, their apparent leader or at least the one who spoke English, asked me if I’d like to have my picture taken with them. I agreed and using my camera she took the photo you see at the start of this story. I’m the tall one in the center! Today their picture with me adorns the front of my refrigerator. I smile every time I glance at it. I look at the photo and wonder if there is a Catherine among them. It's certainly not me!

So Much for a Miraculous Layover Adventure on Rue du Bac. Of course it is all in how you see it - whether you believe or not. Could it all have been a convincing dream? A tale of magic, borne on by a penchant for superstition? Might it have been true divine intercession? That my dear reader is a matter of individual faith and belief, for a hoax to a 'doubting Thomas' can be another man’s miracle. I do know, however, that I now have my miraculous medal again, this one an original from Rue du Bac.

The Rogue Tourist,

Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on the photo album entitled "Rue du Bac".

Going Postal in Calitri

2010-05-31T13:30:00.004-04:00

The other day, while we were sitting by the window, my eye caught movement outside. It may simply have been a reflection in my glasses, which with a quick head movement can generate artifacts, causing me to double take. What was that? Our New England nasty, you call it snow, had melted and the still dull colors of the close-by forest and dreary bare earth momentarily hindered my ability to focus on the cause of my sensation. On second look, there they were. I'm not sure what you call a group of turkeys. Is it a flock, possibly a gobble? Well, in any case, there they were, slowly meandering along, seemingly with nary a care in the world. There were about five out ahead followed by a much larger, obviously male bird telling from the beard prominently protruding from the top of his chest. If this beard substitute for an Adam’s Apple wasn't a giveaway, his fan of splayed feathers made it clear that here was Tom, in charge and bringing up the rear of his fine retinue. Uniformly, their plumage was dark, almost black. They blended well with the forest background where nascent buds on the trees hadn’t yet turned that rusty red before bursting open. I wouldn't say these birds were headed anywhere in particular, simply walking along pecking now and then at something of interest. Theirs, it seems, is a simple unhurried existence most likely of habitual routine. I don't catch sight of them often - maybe once a month. Perhaps they were making their monthly rounds with my yard on today’s venue.

In some ways, we humans aren't much different when it comes to making monthly rounds. We too are creatures of habit. When the first of the month arrives, for example, don't we all go though some sort of routine - check our investments, pay the bills, visit the bank? But God forbid if you try to visit an ufficio postale (post office) in Italy on the first of the month! I speak from experience, although it is an experience of only once. Fair warning, however, for once in a lifetime is plenty.

In this age of the Internet, we are accustomed to getting things done fast. Computers have spoiled us, or at least me, although I think I was a goner long before their introduction. We can get services and information instantly. The barriers of bureaucracy crumble before our nimble fingers and gigabyte bandwidth. I expect, for the most part, the same holds true in Italy, though I haven't had that experience beyond passively checking my bank balance there from way back here in the States. That seems to work just fine.

Aside from the Internet, other activities have also sped up. You can drive through a beverage outlet, for example, and get everything you need without even stepping from your car. Can you believe that here there are now even funeral homes with drive through facilities for, would you call it, "drive-by" condolences? Yet although we can also do our banking via a drive-through for speed and efficiency, can you imagine doing that in Italy? I've not seen it. Mention something like this to an Italian and he’d look at you as though you are pazzo (crazy). Thinking about it, could speed and post office in the same sentence be oxymoronic? A stifling bureaucracy could never allow something like a drive-through, for to experience Italian banking is to experience an Italian bureaucracy of a thousand cuts.

In Calitri, the local post office serves a dual role as a bank by also providing banking functions. I learned the hard way that it was not the place to visit on the first of the month for this is the day when the Calitriani make their monthly visit. They say forewarned is to be forearmed, not me, not this time. "But your honor", I'd plead, "I had mitigating circumstances". I had little choice since I was approaching an out-of-money experience. I had to make some deposits before leaving and I'd run out of time. Anyway, how bad could it be? A simple act you'd think, but woe to him on the first of the month!

I'd driven there and that was my second insidious mistake, though I must admit that I instigated what developed. With nowhere to park and naively thinking this wouldn't take long, I foolishly decided to do what I'd seen many others do and I'd done myself before - park on a portion of the piazza in front of the post office, located across the street from the Church of San Canio. I had the pious hope that I'd be in and out in a flash. A sin of pride no less - I should have gone to confession instead! So, hoping for the best, I was all dressed up in curiosity as I walked in wondering how this would play out.

The building itself is rectangular in layout. Think of it as similar to a shoebox in shape with one of its long walls facing the street, while the opposite interior wall hosts a series of teller service windows. Its floor is tiled in light colored marble, which continues up the walls until replaced by plastered walls displaying posters and brochures describing available services. The similarity continues to scale with the walls rising 12–15 feet before greeting the ceiling. The cavernous dimensions of this civic building truly commands an air of gravitas worthy of being called "ufficiale".

I was greeted by a host of men and women seated along the walls in groups as if this were some sort of Sadie Hawkins dance. There was a total lack of Sadie Hawkins shyness, however, for in this sea of gesticulating adults, hands flailed the air in classic Italian semaphore, adding extra animated oomph to every point being make. The symbolic totems of today's generation, communications without real words, were totally absent. There wasn't a 'tweet' or 'instant message' going on anywhere. The telltale white wires of iPods were also markedly absent, for these were the pensionati (pensioners). Babushka draped women in black with wizened, leathery faces and hawk-nosed men clutching their passbooks simply traded in gossip the old fashioned way - face to face, without the ever pervasive encroachment of present day technology. Here was their monthly source of replenishment, equivalent to an economic ‘fountain of youth’, as they made their monthly pilgrimage to the ufficio postale to collect their pension incomes from the State. I was, no doubt, witnessing entitlement almost at its best, just shy of the Greek euro calamity.

Unlike what you might find in a market deli, there were no numbers in play here. Although seated, each person apparently knew his/her standing in line. Seemingly engrossed in their chitchat, notwithstanding the energy of their arm flapping expressions, I sensed that as insurance, they time-shared at least one eye to keep track of who was next in line. Complicating matters further, only about three teller windows were open. Oh, well. I was overdue for a lesson in patience anyway. How bad could it be? And besides, what better place to get one then in Italy? People here never seem to complain about long lines, especially these virtual type queues, where you have no firm idea where exactly you are in the line or even where the line is. When the time got closer to someone joining the head of the line, they’d get up to join the other one or two standing. Unaware of the pecking order and with nowhere to sit, my only recourse was to stand.

I’d let those with apparent seniority move ahead of me when they would approach. Any progress I might make was therefore stunted in a sort of one step forward and two steps back off-Broadway choreography. I'd been at it now for some time when I noticed HIM. I noticed him when he first entered. He was in his late fifties and unfamiliar to me. He was a short stocky fellow wearing a quite typical local attire - dark dress trousers, an open-necked shirt with pullover sweater-vest topped with a dark suit jacket. The darkness of the ensemble coordinated well with the funeral-like attire of the females but for an occasional colored sweater stripe to cheer-up his outfit. In many ways, the drab colors of these seniors resembled the plumage of my monthly free-range turkeys on their passeggiata (stroll).

He oiled his way around the room, greeting acquaintances, chatting, always moving forward toward the stunted line. His was a pretend currency of ingratiation and flattery. Could he be Il Sindaco (the Mayor)? I'm sure if he had been, he would have been wearing his dapper beauty-queen style sash to officially indicate he rightfully belonged at the head of the line! I was not used to meeting Italians who took advantage of you, at least not in Calitri, at least not until now. But then, while I can be way out front on some things, I can be equally naive, as for instance, to believe that “I Claudius”, was an autobiography. I did for a long while. Though past the median in life, I still have much to learn. By now, I held a latent hostility toward him. He soon joined what there was of the line. Our eyes locked, his revealing a brief inner thought, "What would a ‘stranièro’ (foreigner) know about such things anyway?" The only real words that passed between us were brief. His, as he looked at me directly, poised to move to the next open window while cocking his head toward a raised shoulder: "What matter a few more minutes wait.", meaning for me of course. Pretty ballsy. I thought I could come up with something pithy but stinging, on the order of a memorable Dirty Harry character comeback, but all I could muster, while wishing I could at least swear in Italian, was: "Lo so, questa è l'Italia non è esso!" (I know, this is Italy isn't it!). I needed to say something and it shot from my lips without much thought. Everyone knows that a shot from the lip (or hip) misses the target by a wide margin. Pretty lame and sure to give him pause before he goes and pulls this again on the next guy, wasn't it? As I fumed, I realized then and there that I needed to seriously bone-up on my cuss words!

My estranged acquaintance now long gone, I soon advanced, without further challenge, to number two in line and was close to one of the open, heavily barred windows overlooking the piazza. Remember the car? Glancing out through the bars, I noticed a policeman, pad in hand, investigating my car as he orbited it from front to rear. Oh no, not injury to insult! Had HE put him up to this? I had to do something, but leaving the line to go outside seemed risky. Who knew what my status might be following my return to the line after even a brief absence? I could imagine being pummeled with black purses and poked with canes! No need to add a hospital visit to this saga. Instead, I shouted through the bars “Aspettato qui molto tempo” (my best try after a glance in my pocket dictionary at “I have been waiting in here a long time”). He must have understood both my meaning and my situation for he walked once more around my vehicle, closed his ticket-book, and moved on. I'd gotten a pass - barely escaping an initiation in yet another bureaucracy, this one involving the local police or at least city hall. Maybe Saint Canio was looking over me and my car after all and had forgiven me my sin. When would I learn? If Maria Elena had been with me, she would have never allowed me to park as I had. I was agitated by this time, people could tell. They gave me a wide berth but kept their eyes on me for, no doubt, pure entertainment value. My 'bella figura' was melting, as though I'd morphed into the Wicked Witch of Oz and suddenly gotten wet! If only one of them had considered giving me their place in line, I’d have been gone much earlier and without further drama. But then, maybe they had considered this and decided against it for the simple enjoyment of it all. I'd just about had it by this point but my agita wasn't over yet. Oh yes, there was more.

I knew only a few people who worked in the Post Office. And with a castle overlooking the town, I like to think of the director of the bank as the king. He was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was off somewhere in his counting house, counting out his money as kings do, while undoubtedly, this being Italia, sipping cappuccino. I nodded to the queen and prince, though, when we chanced to make eye contact as I dealt with one of the lower level royals. I'd signed the backs of the checks while waiting in line. What else did I have to do besides shifting from one leg to the next and worry about my car? Had I been wrong? Did I have a parking ticket, had he blocked my wheels, was a tow truck on the way? Nervously sliding my checks beneath the thickest of what looked like bulletproof glass and explaining through a bullet-hole size opening that they were for deposit, I was informed that I’d endorsed them improperly. The objection was that I hadn't used the side with the lines specifically meant for endorsement. Ouch, I got my first sense of where this was going. Moments after I re-submitted the checks, now with my signature at both ends according to Keynesian theory, if not Medici banking rules, we then began a post office kabuki dance to certify who I was, even though I was known to the teller. In many ways it reminded me of the hassle I sometimes endure in the States when I order a beer. Over sixty as I am, I laugh when they ask for my ID to check that I'm at least 21. If I'd used "Oil of Olay" all my life, maybe I could understand, but this boarders on the absurd. When they pull this State ordained stunt, I refuse and drink something non-alcoholic to their financial loss and for me, a loss of calories. Hadn't they heard about profiling? It certainly was all the news. It most likely is just me but I have a hard time putting up with this type nonsense. With computers before them, you would think they could simply look up my account by my name. Anzi (on the contrary), I needed my account number! Fortunately, after a long moment’s hesitation, I recalled that I’d thought to take an old bank statement with me. I’d hoped that my photo identification card, which I had gently slid to the teller along with the checks, would have been sufficient. Allora, I'd guessed wrong. Apparently the twelve or so numbers of my account best described me. Nothing for human judgment to get wrong this way by involving a photo, I guess. As that now famous character line once expounded, "We don't need no stinking (photo ID) badges!". By now, I was having difficulty understanding why all this fuss and strict protocol. After all, I wasn’t attempting to take money out, I was simply trying to put it in! I’ve read it in many places, how Italy may have millions of laws and regulations but no rules. You get my meaning? Yet on this day, whether they be rules, regulations or maybe simply local practice, I was being initiated into Italian banking as though at the plate facing a 90 mph fastball, strike-out king. Santa Margarita! There was more. Needless to say after two hours, I successfully had concluded my banking. Just thinking about it, my agita is reawakening and we know how angst can play havoc with ones nerves!

Following the drama of that day, I needed sleep. In fact, I think I need sleep from just recounting this story! With all those turkeys outside my bedroom, maybe a tryptophan induced sleep is just what the doctor would order. It's a wonder drug in fact, for besides inducing sleep, tryptophan also helps reduce anger and aggression. It's a regular miracle drug on two legs of the bearded and non-bearded variety! And to think, Benjamin Franklin, who began the US Postal Service (without banks, however), wanted the turkey as our national symbol. Maybe Ben knew something and maybe those strutting turkeys are trying to tell me something - the subliminal signs were aligning. I need to sleep this postal funk off again. Imagine, turkey comfort food along with a nap chaser? "Maria Elena, turn the oven on and where's my rifle?"

The Rouge Tourist, Paolo

2010-04-30T08:13:00.006-04:00

Gateway to the Cosmos

I was walking along a Vermont road recently. The still substantial remains of a March snowstorm was very much evident along the sides of the road. Here was a stunted color pallet of brown and white hues - a wintery world still in hibernation. Only a faded yellow stripe in the center of the road suggested color. But for the disruption of a plow, the snow remained untouched alongside the road and on up into a still dormant, leafless forest. Not even the tracks of small forest animals disturbed this snowy canvas. It was a sunny morning with the temperature already climbing past 50. The close-in sounds of drips and trickles of melting snow were all that disturbed the stillness as they joined league to tumble down the landscape to form what would become springtime streams. As I walked uphill, my gaze naturally angled skyward and there above the house, I caught sight of a pair of crossing contrails, their expanding whiteness contrasting dramatically against the bluest of skies. In “x marks the spot” fashion, I recalled how beneath this point I’d spent many a summer night looking up at a night sky awash in polished stars, their twinkles unaffected by bright city lights. Here the Milky Way in undiminished splendor had revealed herself to me. It was also here that shooting stars, the shimmering aurora and the surface of the moon, yet to be disturbed by the foot of man, filled my mind, tingled my curiosity and grew my imagination long, long before "Star Wars" and its horde of figurines swooped down on an unsuspecting generation.

One of my vivid childhood memories, in fact, is of the telescope I’d received for Christmas, brand spanking new out of the Sears & Roebuck Catalog. It wasn’t much of a thing but meant the world to me. A rough black metal casting tried the legs, which resembled broom handles, together and served as the mount for the telescope itself. This was at a time that predated "The Graduate” and Benjamin Braddock (actor Dustan Hoffman) hadn't even heard of plastic yet, which accounts for the fact that my gateway to the cosmos was made of a heavy smooth cardboard material. With a handful of tiny lenses and thick cardboard washers to modify the magnification, I was on my own, but for the disruption of an occasional mosquito, to explore the evening sky to my content. So it was decades later, when I first stood on the Juliet balcony of our “medieval condo” in Calitri, that I could make out the characteristic silhouette of what undoubtedly was an observatory on the lofty ridgeline of the southern Apennines just across the border of Campania in neighboring Basilicata. Wow, a neighborhood Mount Palomar! I wanted to see it. I wanted to see my new gateway to the cosmos.

It would take a while to get there, however. In fact about three years, all told. It wasn't that I was saving it for a special occasion or something, though it turned out that way. It was just that time and schedules never meshed to make it happen. And when the time did arrive, it wasn't auspicious either, since the weather was terrible that day.

The observatory, part of the network of the Italian Institutes of Astrophysics and Space Physics, is located on the slopes of the southern Apennines in the town of Castlegrande. Castlegrande is a beautiful little village of approximately 1000 inhabitants smack dab on the historic Appian Way, the earliest and strategically the most important of Roman roads. Looking back, this was the same road that Roman legions traversed to confront Hannibal or reach Brindisi on the southern Italian coast to board ships for conquest abroad. I was surprised to find the "queen of roads" here, but today, the Appian Way through Castlegrande still leads to a strategic asset. In a desolate, windswept place above the tree line, called Toppo di Castelgrande, lies the largest astronomical observatory in all of Europe. I'd been lucky about the siting of our family summer place in Vermont, while Toppo di Castelgrande was specifically chosen because of its pure and uncontaminated environment. Here, away from big city lights, astronomers are afforded an unobstructed view of the galaxy. They don’t just tend sheep off in those hills!

We'd started out from a Calitri wrapped in steel grey fog with intermittent spates of rain. It never got any better. It was one of those days designed to stay inside, in bed, with a stack of accumulated newspapers, good books and a warm drink now and then. With this weather, there was zero chance that even by night, the stars might emerge from their daytime hiding places. Our party of intrepid stargazers that afternoon included Maria Elena, myself and our houseguests, Rony and his wife, Malca. Our hosts on the trip were Calitri residents and good friends, Antonio and his wife, Geraldine. Only recently I'd written about getting together with Rony and Malca after a thirty year hiatus in a story entitled "The Quest", but I hadn't told all the story. While Rony and I received our Masters Degrees together, Rony had gone on in later years to earn his Doctorate. So with us that day was Dr. Rony, who among his other titles, is the Director of the Israeli National Council for Research & Development. I'm lucky to have friends in high places. It has a way of opening doors for you, especially in national observatories!

Just getting to Mount Toppo, at 1250m (4101 ft) above sea level, was a cosmic trip in itself. The weather again played its hand. There was little signage and all "apennine roads" seem to look the same in low visibility. As a former pilot, I'd say the trip was IFR (relying on instruments) all the way as we incessantly transited from cloud to fog and back again. Rony even remarked on how, since he couldn't see a thing, how could Antonio, who was driving, see the road? The road in many places wasn't paved and a few times led us to a fork where we had to bet between going left or right. I believe we actually visited some intersections repeatedly! With lady luck against us, we were at least fortunate we weren't in Vegas! While we were going to see the stars, we hadn't thought to go with the stars and GPS, though I wonder if that would have helped. We were, as I like to say, "off the grid". In a near "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" experience we thought we caught sight of an alien in the form of a cow with its head at our car window. Even with antennae cleverly disguised to trick us into believing were horns and with transmitters disguised to look like enormous bells suspended beneath their necks, we weren't fooled for a moment! After a while, we'd climbed enough to get out of the clouds to discover that we were traveling alongside a small mountaintop lake. 'Real cows' were scattered across the barren plateau picking at herbs and eating grass. It was about then that a farmer surprisingly appeared holding an umbrella - it could have been London. We passengers looked at each other with a "you have to be kidding me" expression while he and Antonio conversed about directions. Moments later, we were back on course. Give or take a few more turns and the outline of a futuristic looking concrete building, attached so firmly to the mountainside that it appeared almost as a natural outcropping, broke from the grip of the haze and into view. We'd clearly arrived - a massive metal dome with a characteristic slot, now closed, but capable of rolling open much like elevator doors to access the night sky, sat atop the structure. As contrasts go, here towered an icon in contrast - a contrast between a low-tech, self reliant world of pecorino cheeses, cows, grapevines and olive groves not far off the ancient Appian Way and its far distant electronic, high-tech cousin focused on the cosmos far, far overhead. We soon clambered out of the van and were inside a sterile world of concrete and steel.

An assistant to the director greeted us in the lobby. We soon learned that the director of the facility was in Naples and would not arrive until the following day after fine-tuning and calibrations on the main telescope were complete. Being on vacation, we had taken our chances and arrived unannounced. With operations basically shut-down and absent the director, all we could expect was a look around. Only a handful of visitors were there and we found them in a large auditorium watching, I thought fittingly, "Apollo 13" with Tom Hanks and crew dubbed in Italian (“Houston, abbiamo un problema”). In a side area at the base of an impressive, spiral concrete staircase leading to the restricted observation room, high above beneath the cupola, we came upon an old iron telescope on display. Gone were the days when all you needed was a device like this and good eyes to harvest the "low-hanging" secret fruits of the cosmos. We suspected that nowadays far more automated and sophisticated equipment was at play, but unfortunately, we would not be able to see them for the bottom of the stairs was as far as we could go.

The situation begged for resourcefulness, which surprisingly came to our rescue quite naturally. No need here for a Three Stooges re-enactment, as when the trio of mayhem removed the knobs of soap dispensers in order to get into a sports venue, trying their best to misrepresent themselves as newspaper reporters. Moe smartly flashed his make-do "PRESS" button and so did Larry, while bumbling Curly, bringing up the rear, displayed a "PUSH"! I wouldn't stoop this low but I wanted to see the crown jewels of "osservatorio" Castlegrande. Seeing that the Professor was the only person who could allow a visit 'upstairs', why not contact him? I simply used Rony's business card to gain access to the inner sanctum. Producing the card, I explained who Rony was. Mine was a variation on the "do you know who I am" gambit. The effect was as expected. The man in charge immediately phoned the professor, explained the situation and put Rony on the line. There was a brief exchange of pleasantries with Rony offering a brief description of the council he headed. Sometimes improvisation is magic, often requiring only a nudge to move from non-entity to ‘star’ status. Here was a case in point, possibly worthy of a case study. As an extension of professional courtesy, the Director authorized our visit upstairs and onto the observation floor. I should have majored in marketing!

We were led to a small elevator and two trips later, followed by a flight of stairs, regrouped on the floor in front of a massive reflector telescope described as the finest optical telescope in Italy. To look into the mysteries of space, this giant, computer-controlled azimuthal telescope uses a mirror 160 centimeters in diameter and is equipped with adaptive optics. Adaptive optics is a system which makes corrections due to turbulence in the atmosphere. As light passes from space to earth, our thick atmosphere distorts the light rays and thus alters an image from its true self. By measuring these 'bad' distortions and then at thousands of times per second deforming a small mirror (think "rubber mirror") to product 'good' distortions, one cancels the other and the light is readjusted to its true nature. Simply put, a star's twinkle, basically due to atmospheric turbulence, is removed. Measurements are so exacting that liquid nitrogen is used to maintain a precise temperature in the hardware - too hot and instruments expand, too cold and they contract. Expansion joints, familiar to us on say a concrete sidewalk, are tolerated and engineered in. Here they are engineered out since to tolerate either expansion or contraction would lead to errors.

There was more to discover here than just the high-tech realm of cooled conformable lenses. There was no obvious eyepiece on this monster only a series of monitors at a workstation console. Results could be photographed and recorded, images superimposed electronically to detect slight differences or minute movements, even spectral analysis and filtering performed, all of which can get astronomers animated and into writing or conversing with colleagues about their findings. Unfortunately, with the system down, we were not shown pictures of stars, planets or newly discovered anythings. No results. This is a reticent, learned place where things happen slowly, logically and methodically. Repetition and process rule supreme here. It might take years, for example, to verify or contradict a theory on say the Big Bang, black holes or Einstein's relativity theorems with respect to light and gravity. But on this day, unfortunately, all was quiet but for the whispering hiss of cooling nitrogen.

Recent work had involved a debris survey for objects in geosynchronous earth orbit and anomaly resolution for deep-space probes. A geosynchronous (geo) orbit allows a satellite to appear stationary over some point on the earth and therefore permits it to be continuously on station verses in the field of view for only a few minutes. These are important locations in the sky and can become congested. Geo on-orbit real estate is hard to come by and to manage. Thus knowing what's out there is important to avoid collisions. You wouldn't want to bump into something and kill a satellite costing more than the GDP of some countries!

Following our tour, we made our goodbyes to our host and were off. Our return to our hilltop hamlet of Calitri was much easier. We encountered many of the same forks in the road we'd gone through on the way up, now backwards of course. Again, it was a toss-up at times on whether to go right or left. We took a vote! While the weather hadn't changed, Antonio eventually got his bearings and through a roundabout of routes, took us through the village of Castlegrande this time, which we'd missed on the way up.

As though through a looking glass, a magic wardrobe or emerging from a rabbit hole, we had returned to earth after being up among the stars, from a place of imaginings to one of feelings and daily existence. I’ve frequently described Calitri as a place out of this world, but never in all my hyperbole had I ever expected it to be close to being true. In relation to the universe, we had been at apogee, way up there amongst high technology cloaked in phantom mist and clouds. Now returned to Calitri, I considered myself once again grounded. With feet now anchored to the earth but my head still very much among the stars, I wondered about the assumptions I'd made - high-tech there verses low-tech here. In either place, mysteries exist without solutions making them much alike, differing only in the tools we use in their solution. No matter where we look at the heavens, whether it be in Calitri, Castlegrande or Vermont, its vastness and mystery remain common. World class high-tech telescope or Sears low-tech special is not the issue. What matters is the mind of man and its penchant for discovery, driven by curiosity - the curiosity of a young boy in Vermont or that of an astronomer's high atop the Apennines.

The Rogue Tourist,

Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on a photo album entitled "Cosmos".

2010-03-31T13:19:00.004-04:00

Meditations on Mortality

It seems that lately, I’m haunted by thoughts of Ischia and Castello Aragonese in particular. Castello Aragonese, a kind of Italian Mont Saint-Michele, dominates the Island of Ischia located just off the Neapolitan coast. The castle has a complicated history beginning around 474 BC. We can only imagine the intrigue and number of times its ownership changed hands over the centuries since then. Beginning with the Greeks, Cumaeans and then Romans its story extends on through a history of plunder and domination by various tribes, some of which we only have vague memory of … the Parthenopeans (the ancient inhabitants of Naples), Visigoths, Vandals and Ostrogoths. It is a familiar story, however, with each interloper sculpting and reshaping the features of the island’s fortress to its needs. Come and go as they may in the tides of who was on top or in favor at the moment, it must have been confusing to the fishermen and local contadini (peasants) with their simple ways and simple needs. I recall a comic moment once in a movie where a victimized civilian, caught between vying forces, flipped over a framed picture on his wall. One side portrayed the severe face of Hitler and with a flip of political correctness, a smiling Eisenhower, representing his current overseer, showed forth.

First and always a fortress and only later a convent and still later a prison, Castello Aragonese is today home of an exclusive hotel, ‘Albergo Il Monestero’, accessible from Ischia Ponte proper by means of a long stone causeway.

The Convent of Our Lady of Consolation (Santa Maria della Consolazione) was founded in 1575 by abbess Beatrice Quadra. It hosted, or I should say housed, about 40 nuns of the Clarisse order, an order in lockstep with the strict lifestyle rules of St Francis of Assisi, to include poverty and seclusion. The isolated, almost prison-like nature of the fortress couldn't have promoted the need for poverty and seclusion better. One can only wonder if this citadel was really in place to keep people out or inside. It can be surmised that this lifestyle choice was not made by them of their own free will since most of the nuns, being the firstborn daughters of wealthy noble families, were destined from birth to a cloistered life in order to leave the family inheritance to the firstborn male. This was, unfortunately, a sad but true practice in their day.

One bright, severe-clear morning, we ventured from our Ischia Porto hotel for the neighboring seaside settlement of Ischia Ponte. From there, intent on exploring what lay inside the castle, we walked the 720 foot man-made Ponte Aragonese causeway leading out to the fortress, itself an island or islet, which dominates the waterfront panorama. Along the way, we chanced on a fisherman with a treble-hooked line as he hauled in an octopus and, as uncomfortable as it might seem, saw a number of leather-skinned sunbathers perched on any reasonably sized flat rock bathing in the heat. It was a million-dollar, dazzling day. The sun glinted like dabs of lustrous mica in sand off the surface of the sea while jet-set teens drew circles in the water as they orbited their private yacht on overpowered toys.

Looking at the island fortress from a distance, I’d wondered how anyone managed to make it to the top. Stairs again? God help me - only one of my prayers that day! We were relieved to find a long tunnel just beyond the ticket concession leading, thankfully, to a tiny, though modern, ascensore (elevator) in the heart of the mountain. Exiting into the daylight once again, we soon found ourselves looking back across the causeway and the enchanting Bay of St. Anna from our newfound towering perch. We had become part of that spectacular waterfront panorama.

The Clarisse Convent made this their home beginning in 1575. The order focused heavily on the spiritual nature of the body, not the temporary, worldly body of flesh-and-blood. Their daily lives, we learned, were dedicated to the contemplation of death and life afterwards; a kind of meditation on mortality. So fundamental was this ‘spirit over body’ theology that it took on what by today’s standards would be consider a strange ritualistic rite. We tend to perceive the past steeped in the paradigms of our own time, not those of our ancestors. We even go so far as to sometimes revise history according to our present day perceptions and mores (or lack thereof). Call me guilty then. I certainly thought what I saw was bizarre. I wonder if it was considered so at the time? Doubtful. In a closed society such as theirs, even the morbid practice I will describe could be considered normal, for who was there to call it into question or say otherwise? The idea of a whistle blower, free spirit or someone with an ability to live between the lines was unconscionable in their day. Their entire lives fell undoubtedly more on the side of controlled than in control. Call it a venial assumption on my part. Then again, this was their world and their time, not ours.

Essentially, no lasting memorial to the deceased was sanctioned. There was little space for a cemetery on this rock of a place for a cemetery anyway. What is called the ‘nun’s cemetery’ is really a subterranean series of eerie chambers located beneath the Cathedral.

Let me describe what I saw. Following a nun’s death, her now lifeless body was positioned, seated upright, on a stone throne, called a ‘scolatoi’. There were many of these seats built into the perimeter of the chamber. Side by side in this ‘cemetery’, this collection of chairs could simultaneously accommodate possibly a dozen dead nuns. Whether of recent times, I’m not sure, but you could see the wax remains of spent candles on the cement armrests of these last resting places. Apparently a vigil of sorts was kept in a wake of interminable length.

There was something, however, unique to these stone settees. Instead of a cushion to sit upon, there was a depression in the chair seats resembling a large bowl. A drain opening in the bottom of the bowl led to a space beneath each chair where a collection basin could be positioned. As a body decompose slowly over time, body fluids gradually drained through the seat and into the collection basin. As you can imagine, this was a slow, slow process that went on for years. Long enough indeed until only the dried skeleton of the nun remained seated in her chair. At this point, her bones were added to a communal pile of bones of earlier deceased nuns in the adjacent ossuary. After all, they were just remains. This custom of denying an individual nun a funeral, followed by burial, negated the ability to identify any particular nun and thus give her corpse undue honor. It also vividly reinforced their conviction that the body was simply the temporary container of the immortal soul and of no value or worthy of any respect or veneration following death.

Strange though this in itself may seem, it got stranger. For a portion of each day, a nun’s regiment included time spent in a candlelit vigil of prayer and meditation in what can only be imagined as the unhealthy environment of this so-called cemetery, brought on by the gradual decomposition of their fellow nuns. Symptomatic of what undoubtedly was an unhealthy situation, this behavior may have even accelerated their own demise. The entire practice was enough to make Alfred Hitchcock, master of the macabre, shiver. I sure felt squirmy and wanted to get out of these subterranean confines pronto. Once it sunk in on us what had gone on at this spot, just about continually for almost 300 years, we quickly retraced our steps through a labyrinth of staircases and passages in hasty retreat. Maybe it had something to do with the darkness, the silence, the confining space or the stark 'electric chair-like' décor of the interior that added something far beyond what you feel while touring the Coliseum, for example, where appalling events sometimes occurred. This was somehow different. The props were still here just as if Sister Maria had just been relocated from her longtime throne to the aggregated remains of Sisters X, Y and Z.

Theirs was what I can only describe today as a cloistered solitude of extremes - from a predestined beginning to an equally ordained end. This practice continued until 1810 when in opposition to their longstanding accumulation and tenure of land, the Suppression of Convents decree proceeded to suppress all religious orders and confiscate their property.

The sun still shown brilliantly when we emerged and soon afterwards departed Castello Aragonese, now wiser on one aspect of what went on there. The annals of Italian history are undoubtedly replete with equally bizarre episodes of which, thankfully, I'd prefer to forever remain ignorant.

The Rogue Tourist,

Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on a photo album entitled "Meditations".

2010-02-27T11:33:00.009-05:00

The Polliwogs of Ischia

Time passes, life goes on and then, one day, this ad appears on television. I think it was from Cadillac. It went something like this, “When was the last time you experienced something for the first time?” That advertisement caught my attention and I turned toward the screen to see what it was about. No, I wasn’t going to rush out and buy a new Cadillac SUV but it gave me pause. When had I last experienced something for the first time? For many of us, life has its normal pace and familiar venues. In fact, for many of us, we even go about our workdays along the same pathways to and from work. It’s hard at times to differentiate from one day to the next. When had I last experienced something new?

Not exactly the same, though on the same cerebral plane, some people have a list of a hundred, possibly even a thousand, things they’d like to do before they die. Something akin to the theme of the movie “The Bucket List”. You know, experiences and otherwise things to do before you kick the bucket! Although I don’t have anything approaching a list as such, I’ve always thought it would be an adventure to go to a spa. I admit there have been past opportunities. We have been on cruises, for instance, where spa sessions were available, but I was holding out. If I had my druthers, something more on the natural side of things, like a sulfur spring or mud bath, was more to my liking.

The natural thermal springs of Ischia, an island just off the coast of Naples, provided me just the opportunity I’d imagined all these years. On Ischia proper, there are many spa venues to choose from with the overwhelming majority of them in the local hotels. Our hotel, Hotel Bristol, even offered a rejuvenating spa program. I could tell immediately when people at breakfast began to appear in white bathrobes and bathing caps! Maria Elena, of course, knew much earlier. That’s why she says I’d have never made it as a spy!

Instead, I opted for a place I’d heard of and relegated to my notes years before - the Bay of Sorgeto. You couldn’t find a more natural, and come to find out, a more primitive spot. It had existed for eons and was accessible only from the sea by boats out of Sant’Angelo for many of them. In more recent times, stairs had been constructed to access the beach far below, where nature’s spa is located. This bay is rich in hot thermal springs, which gush into the Tyrrhenian Sea from the depths of the earth. Just imagine, as old as this earth is, it’s still hot enough deep down inside to generate lava and produce boiling hot springs, which percolate to the surface.

To get to the Bay of Sorgeto, we had taken a local bus from Ischia Porto, where we were staying, around the island proper to Sant’Angelo on the southern coast. The bus, unfortunately, stopped at the top of a hill overlooking the picturesque village of Sant’Angelo. This was the end of the line and we soon learned as close as we could get by bus. We began the long downhill trek toward Sant’Angelo. Along the way, I approached a taxi driver parked to one side and asked him where the Sorgeto hot springs might be. We learned that they were in this area but not in Sant’Angelo per se. We were close but no cigar. Being an alert businessman and sensing opportunity, however, he offered to take us there. We negotiated a price and soon we were off through narrow lanes and byways. Though I wasn’t blindfolded, I would be hard-pressed to ever get there on my own. Hansel and Gretel with sacks of breadcrumbs would have had a time of it. It wasn’t long, however, before we had arrived.

We hadn’t paid our driver by the time he dropped us off by a railing on the edge of a cliff. Where were we and where were the hot springs? The driver, attempting to extend a good deal, said he would return in a few hours to pick us up. Since we hadn’t paid him yet, we thought his return a pretty safe bet.

We had apparently arrived but then we hadn’t. On closer inspection, we found stairs leading from these nose-bleed heights down to the shoreline leagues below. Someone had gone to great expense to construct a fine stairway. In the scheme of things, nothing really ever comes easy. Of fine stone and brick construction the path zigged and zagged down a cliff face covered with agave plants and prickly pear cactus. Though there wasn’t the faintest smell of sulfur anywhere, due to the way the seawater is heated, all that was missing was a Dantesque sign reminding the visitor to “abandon hope all ye who enter here”, the supposed inscription to the -entrance to hell. With much animation and trepidation, we began our descent. We were off, hopefully on the last phase of this “spaga” (spa-saga).

We soon discovered a small solitary bay lying between two steep ridges jutting into the sea. Atop one is the very delightful Hotel Punta Chiarito. This hotel overlooks Sant’Angelo to one side and the picturesque Bay of Sorgeto and Sorgeto Beach itself on the other. This area is also an important archaeological site for it was here were the first Greek colonists founded a village and established fledgling vineyards.

With each step I took down the cliff face, all I could focus on was how we’d need to eventually return up this formidable stairway, and this time, without gravity on our side. For a moment there, I had flashbacks of our assent inside the dome of St Peter’s Basilica. As we gradually made our way down, every so often I’d peer over the edge toward what lay below. My expectation of some Caribbean-like, sugar-white sandy beach soon vanished. In its stead was a rocky moonscape strewn with uninviting boulders. My advice - don’t bother to bring pails and shovels along for the kids! But there was something else which caught my eye. From our height, the scene struck me as something comparable to numerous puddles of polliwogs. The rocks formed what looked like pools and in each pool any number of people were stretched out relaxing in the heated water. There was almost no motion; simple balletic arm motions kept these human tadpoles in place. All of a sudden, that cruise ship spa began to appeal to me more and more. By then, however, we were committed or at least half committed since we were, by then, about halfway down.

When we finally did reach the bottom, we, the modest puritanical Americans looked for changing rooms while all around us the locals dressed and undressed wrapped solely in a towel. This was new to us. It was almost like one of those magicians who could waft a veiled hoop in front of an assistant and in a flash, completely change their clothing. Balancing on rocks like gulls, they’d morph into and out of their bathing suits. Oh the magic of it! Unfortunately, I hadn’t brought a top hat and cape with me and I wasn’t practiced enough to try the towel thing. Mare wasn’t either. The man running the beach concession directed us through his little restaurant to a place where we could change. Like a Coney Island bath house, the concrete floors were wet, there were no clothes hooks and all the while you had to straddle a toilet. Apparently there were few requests like ours to justify a special changing area - so when in Rome …. Mare suggests wearing your bathing suit to avoid the strip when you do arrive. Otherwise, bring a large towel and prepare to be adventurous!

Now Maria Elena is not sure-footed. She will tell you as much. I can recall the first and only time she tried her hand at skiing for instance! So walking across the boulder field to the sea was no small feat for her. Though lacking in balance and the sure footedness of an alpaca, she did herself credit by employing a low, land-crab style crawl across the beach - nothing glamorous but sufficient. I have to give her credit. Having come this far, she was game to give it a try. Not many gals out there would willingly go this far and be such a “good egg” about it.

I got into the water first and sat down in the midst of a family of Italian tadpoles. Their smiles had invited me in. The seawater was so buoyant it was difficult to stay submerged in true polliwog fashion. It was either the saltiness of the water or the amount of water I was displacing that kept me afloat. I’d like to believe it was the former! When Mare approached the shoreline, she attempted to walk right in. Unfortunately, this was harder than it looked. Neither of us had been forewarned. As she got to the waters edge, she began to hop around and not for joy. Her feet were burning like an egg on a griddle. Talk about being a “good egg” but no one had mentioned anything about frying! I’d been lucky, taking a different route, along a narrow sort of boardwalk. Nothing fancy, just a few planks across the rocks. Mare thought her path to the sea a little safer to navigate, now that she had her crawl technique down. My muddle of polliwog groupies began shouting instructions and otherwise advice to her all at once. Who do you listen to, especially when it comes all at once and in a foreign language? She retreated, it being the better part of valor and instead walked the plank!

Our soak in the heated sea was just wonderful, a truly memorable moment. You had to be careful though. Moving to either side, just a little, and you were into another superheated geyser. Boiled eggs were out of the question! Our neighbors in this puddle, obviously with years of experience under their towels, knew the ropes. Their adjustments were minute while ours far courser. Apparently, ‘la bella figura’ extended even into the sea! We spent an hour or so in listless catharsis in the heated waters. Just beyond us, further out in the surf, the sea broke across even larger boulders. Occasionally, when an especially large wave struck the barrier some of this cool seawater invaded our stone confine and there was a sudden adjustment by everyone, everyone that is but us! We simmered but thankfully had not been poached, or worse yet, experienced anything approaching a Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego moment.

As the day began to relax and the sea took on a wine dark hue, we gathered our belongings and along with other fellow nature worshipers reluctantly began our hike upward to rejoin civilization. When we surfaced at the top of the walkway our taxi driver, as expected, was waiting for us. He proposed that a ride directly to Ischia Porto was much better than returning to the bus stop and waiting for the next bus followed by a return trip along the peripheral coastal road around the island, all while standing. We concurred. Instead our driver went overland and took shortcuts up, around and down some very obscure lanes, some resembling backyards. One of the roads he took, no let me rephrase that, one of the paths he chose, was only wide enough for two mules, or in our case, a small taxi. We bounced and bucked along on this private tour. Still wrapped in towels with an extra towel or two to keep the seats dry, we suspected this was some form of spin dry.

Talk about a poor man’s spa! So what next, a mud bath? I hear there is this really neat place to get slathered in heated mud somewhere up on Mount Vesuvius! Why not a try on our way back to Calitri? So there you have it from an officially baptized Ischia polliwog. Live a little! Surprise yourself, escape the path-dependent world and do the unexpected! Start clearing your “bucket” list today.

The Rogue Tourist,

Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on a photo album entitled "Polliwogs".

2010-01-26T08:55:00.011-05:00

Cingul

Naples has its pizza margherita, Caserta has its buffalo mozzarella and Calitri has its cingul. Cingul is the name of a particular pasta, locally made in Calitri. First, let me help you with the pronunciation, it’s ‘chin-gool”. How it got this name and what the name means, I have no idea but I suspect it is a local dialect for something similar in appearance to cavatelli. Unlike cavatelli, however, it has fewer, simpler ingredients - far easier to come by in hard times. Origins aside, boy does it taste good especially when a thick, tasty tomato sauce is added and it is sprinkled with a dash of ground pepperacino. Be careful though, not too much of the hot stuff!

We were in Calitri once for an entire month and with a month of yesterdays to draw from, I thought I’d try to describe the Cingul Festival, which occurred during our time there. One early morning in Mario's Caffé, just after the quick entry and departure of the man who delivers the cornetta pastry, some with chocolate insides, others with cream or marmalade and the equally swift newspaper delivery man making his rounds, I'd spotted a poster advertizing the festa along with another announcing the upcoming visit of the entertainers "Ricchi & Poveri".

When the day arrived, we started out for the festival early in the evening, using the extra time to explore the tangled streets of the borgo antico. Along the way, we were fortunate to come upon local friends who invited us in for refreshments. Later another family, this one from Rome with Calitri roots, seeing me taking pictures of doorways (subject of an earlier blog), invited us to see what I can only describe as a palazzo. Its multiple levels, tastefully filled with antique furnishings and artwork, extended from the street level where we'd entered to the one above on the sloping mountainside. Lucky for us we'd started out early!

The festival was held in the square in front of the Immaculate Conception Church located in the southern end of the borgo. There was a master of ceremonies of sort. I’m not really sure if he was because most of his words went by me faster than my ability to take them in let alone translate his first sentence. From what I did understand, he introduced each of the pasta makers and from the countdown, it appeared that there was some sort of fun loving competition going on.

The contestants, if they really were contestants, all wore white aprons and shower-cap type head coverings. Not surprisingly, there wasn’t a man among them. They took their positions along the outside of a large horseshoe shaped arrangement of tables set up in front of the doors of the church. Each participant had a cutting board before her, which telling from their varied sizes and shapes, they had probably brought from home.

The ingredients they used to make the cingul were simple enough. No secret ingredients either, just double-zero flour and water. One used a bowl in which to stir and kneed the flour and water into dough while the others simply made a well in a circular mound of flour and to this dammed-in area gradually added the water to form a pool.

Once the flour and water had been transformed into a large snowball of dough, there was no setting it aside to let it rise. Without yeast there was no need, besides, people were hungry. Hunks of dough were first formed into lumps resembling small dollhouse sized pillows. The next step was to roll these pillows into foot long 'dough snakes' by hand. These were then cut into smaller chunks, using what any home handyman would call a putty knife, though these were much more fancier in their design and surprisingly all similar. Each dough pellet was now about the size of a piece of ‘Tootsie Roll’ candy or for those of you not familiar with this type of candy, about the size of the tip of your finger to include the fingernail. It was at this point that the magic happened. Using their middle fingers, some using both hands at once like a two-gunned cowboy, each dough pellet was pressed and simultaneously rolled into shells that wrapped around the ends of their fingers. A flick of the hand and they were on to the next. The result was a short, finger-tip-sized, fold of pasta ready to be boiled. It was fascinating to watch their dexterity. These were not amateurs but seasoned moms and ‘nonnas’ who had perfected the technique over a lifetime of preparing freshly made pasta for their families. Could this have accounted for the lack of male contestants? The final product resembled a small seashell closed in on itself. They were similar to gnocchi but made from flour, not potato. When all the flour had been miraculously transformed into cingul, the pasta makers joined hands and from behind their tables began to dance. Had there been a winner? If there had, I missed it.

The menu of items available that evening was straight forward and simple. A poster positioned alongside a table, where colored pieces of paper substituted for cash and became a fake currency good in exchange for each item, explained it all. The featured item of course was Cingul at €4,00 a serving. There was also a Panino con Salsiccia (sausage sandwich) for €3,00. Both of these along with a liter of vino for only €4,00 were, I thought, good values. One final item for €8,00 entitled Cingul + Involtino + Piselle (pasta, a roll and peas) seemed a little costly. Maybe those peas were the size of the giant lemons over by Positano or the bread roll the size of the two kilo loafs made in town. I didn't see any takers of this offering so I can't really explain the seemingly excessive cost. Buying the tickets was a breeze - the fun part of the festival was in getting the food. Food is important to many of us - gourmet to gourmand, but to the Italians it is life itself.

The finished products were served on a first come, first serve basis in a side street adjacent to the church through a convenient side door leading to the basement. The problem was the crowd, packed into that narrow street, had come at once, even before word got around that the pasta was ready. Actually that news only added to the already waiting crowd. There was nothing like a queue of people with a single or couple of people at the head of the line being served. Instead there was all told, I’d estimate, a muddled mass of about one hundred people waving their tickets, all demanding to be served at once what little emerged from the bowels of the church. The problem, I came to understand, was that the church kitchen had only one stove available to boil all this pasta. It was prepared in sporadic dribs and drabs. What was clearly needed was a small miracle on the scale of the biblical ‘loafs and fishes' to multiple the number of kitchen 'cookers' (their term for stoves) and reduce the crowd or at least its appetite. Impatient and hungry, some in the crowd did give up and go elsewhere. One couple gave me their cingul tickets and wished me luck as they headed off. It must have been the determined look on my face and my wry smile because I wasn’t giving up. My height may have given me hope because I could see what was happening up ahead. I had plenty of time waiting there in the capricious crowd to watch who got served and their behavior, which surprisingly resulted in the reward of priority service.

I soon broke the code. If you complained or insisted, your service improved. I guess it goes along with the maxim, "the squeaky wheel gets oiled". Here it had something to do with an Italian's desire to maintain harmony, in this case the appeasers being the overwrought servers. As a firefighter moves quickly to douse each outbreak of new flame, so I observed how these poor, over-tasked, women volunteers attempted to quiet each surge of demand by quenching it with cingul! I thought about shouting something myself but the impulse soon passed.

To give you some idea of how dense-packed the crowd was ... if you were ever unfortunate enough to pass out in this crowd, the good news was that you'd never hit the ground! You could forget about your 'agita' or being anxious with someone inside your personal space. You had no space! Even trying to use a line like “lady with a baby”, however what might translate to get through the crowd, wouldn’t help. So convinced of its hunger, there was no getting through easily even when you tried to depart with your hard-earned booty. Bad though this may sound, I want you to know it was actually a lot of fun - something akin to the dash for the buffet table at a wedding by everyone at once just after the bride and groom take their seats. It was all rather civil with no one throwing an elbow or boxing you out.

This was our first time at this event but something like this had certainly gone on annually for years, if not decades. Could this have been the very first time that the demand and supply curve were so out of whack? As I thought about it, I began to doubt it as the acronym "TII" (This Is Italy) came to mind. This would have made for a great case study in how to prepare and serve large hungry crowds at any hospitality school.

Picnic tables had been arranged along the perimeter of the piazza in front of the church to eat on or to just sit and sag while watching the goings on. Additional tables lining Via San Martino adjacent to the church also filled up with the curious and hungry. Room in the corner of the piazza had been reserved for a band. Small town, small world - the manager of the local CONAD supermarket had told me he'd be playing at the fèsta and there he was, playing the guitar while his father, Benito, who sells newspapers and magazines in town, was transformed into quite the accomplished crooner. Only later did we hear the story of how he'd left Calitri for Argentina years ago. Before he returned to Calitri, 'Roberto Luna', as he was professionally known, had become a successful singer in the Italian community.

This visually striking celebration also gave us an opportunity to make new expat friends when a couple, currently living in Spain, came by. "You're Paolo" they said to my surprise. I may have blushed from the unaccustomed notoriety. They apparently recognized me from these blog postings although I try my best to always stay behind the lens. Old acquaintances, Richie, Debbie, Helen and Giovanna with her pocket sized poodle, Toto, also made the evening special. Later on, the cingul now long gone, as we sat taking in the scene in the church courtyard, a young man came by our table and disregarding her protests, scooped-up Maria Elena. Together they joined in with costumed folkloric dancers and other revelers in a lively dervish and danced in the evening light of a full moon.

We experienced something special. It had been simple but in its own way elegant. That evening had been a charming confluence of culture at its best. The food, music, costumes, dancing, the generosity and boundless good nature of the people all came together into a special evening for the inhabitants of Calitri and especially for us, 'wannabe Calitriani'. For a few hours, I felt off the map, off the grid and off in the past. That night the people of Calitri had met to celebrate a tradition handed down over centuries - a melding of the urges to celebrate and to eat. That they had, even in the fun-loving competitiveness of obtaining their celebrated pasta, Cingul. Andiamo a mangiare (Let's eat)!

From the Serial Traveler,

Paolo

To watch a short video taken in neighboring AQUILONIA (by www.mcgerry.com) of Cingul being made, click here on CINGUL VIDEO.. Looks easy doesn't it.

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on a photo album entitled "Cingul".

2009-12-31T06:57:00.007-05:00

The Quest

The planning for this trip began 30 years earlier and was concluding in the worst thunderstorm I'd ever experienced in Italia. We were just outside of Naples. The wheezing cadence of the wipers sweeping across our windshield feverishly attempted to do my bidding, however feeble, in the face of this interminable storm. At the moment I was in the process of navigating the merge from highway A16 onto the rush of the A1 Autostrada coming south from Rome. Between the lunatic howls of the storm, the torrential downpour and the whir of the wipers, we were lucky to hear our cell phone ring above the tumultuous din and then only barely when fortune had us pass beneath an overpass.

It was Rony calling from a train inbound to Naples. We were doing our darnedest, the weather be damned, to meet him and his wife, Malca, at the Stazione Centrale in Piazza Garibaldi. Decades earlier, we had become friends while attending graduate school. At the time he was an Israeli Air Force officer attending the Air Force Institute of Technology in Ohio. Our time together there laid a lasting foundation. The advent of the Internet had made it possible to keep in touch over the years and now we were about to renew our friendship with this rendezvous in Naples.

We survived our stormy arrival and found each other in a melee of construction, fellow travelers and panhandlers, who seemingly wore too much gold, in that frenzied section of Naples around the rail station. Following a drag of their luggage across the piazza, where I honestly believe the wheels of suitcases go to detach and die, we were off on a week of adventures. Our quest to renew our friendship, while experiencing Italy together, had begun. We enjoyed many adventures in the rush of days which followed but the spine of this narrative concerns our brief visit to Trani, located, like Vieste, half a peninsula away from Calitri on the Adriatic coast of Puglia.

Trani, referred to as “The Pearl of Puglia” lies south of Vieste and north of Bari. Like Vieste it is beautiful in its seaside allure but it is more of a working city with lesser tourist charm to it than Vieste. Entry to the town is along a long avenue running perpendicular to the sea. It is a stone and quarry area telling from the towering sawhorse-shaped cranes used to move large white stone slabs around the yards. This colonade of metallic griffins brings you to the sea and Trani.

The southern part of Trani is new and all business, while the northern section, especially the old city center, is old and curves around an elegant port which could be called ‘pearl-like’ indeed from its shape. A fleet of commercial fishing boats displaying a ruggedized, though rusty working class countenance makes its home here in tacit coexistence with a private flotilla of chicy fiberglass vessels designed for a good time. Peace is maintained through clearly defined areas much like boxers are assigned opposite corners of a ring, although in this case it’s more of a circle. They respectfully nod to each other as they bob in the chop inside the shelter of the harbor. The harbor is formed by the slender fingers of opposing seawalls - like forefinger opposed to thumb and the formidable backdrop of stone block piers alive in the traffic of the port. A carefree chaos of nets, cables, traps of various kind and sizes dot the waterfront amidst a dynamic of scooters, lorries and pedestrians. Overlooking all this commotion by the sea, as if it were a mezzanine before an opera on life, stretches a gallery of restaurants themselves each casting nets and setting their own ‘fixed menu’ traps for all who may pass their way.

Wandering the hallway-like back streets, we came upon a fish market, which took up an entire piazza. Interestingly, it was completely covered to protect the daily market in all weather, fair or foul, such is its importance to daily life there. There were some critters flopping about that I’d never seen before. One in particular looked like the spawn of hell. Small, rusty stone-looking with sharp spikes it kind of challenged you …. go ahead just try cooking me. Yeah, maybe as stone soup!

A visit to Trani, or anywhere else in Italy for that matter, would be remiss if it didn't include the interior of a church or two. Just beyond the fish market and totally by chance, because we were walking blindly, we discovered the ‘Church of All Saints’ on Via Ognissanti. Unfortunately it was closed tight. I’ve discovered since our visit that it is rarely ever open to the public. We read about its historic significance on a plaque outside (see photo album). Through the bars of a high-arched Romanesque portico we could make out the heraldic crusade insignia of the Knights Templar who built this place in the 12th century. Here was a place that could have served ably as a setting in “The Da Vinci Code”. Disappointed because we couldn't get inside, Maria Elena and Malca took solace on a bench across from the church entrance while Rony and I sought out some late morning refreshments.

We didn't have far to go. Only steps away we found a 'pasticceria' (pastry shop). Inside the aroma of sweets and baked breads was enough to make a diabetic nervous. More on the plump side than lean, I just smiled. It was as if the bread, which I assumed was still hot, was begging me to rub it with garlic and then douse it with newly pressed olive oil! It was too early in the day for that, so instead, I selected some confectioned brioche, which was behaving more precociously.

As we loitered opposite All Saints Church enjoying our snacks, a man on foot approached the gate. To our surprise he produced a long black iron key and proceeded to unlock the gate and open the church. Things were looking up. Shortly afterwards, we followed him inside. There we found him busy arranging a table to display some literature. He'd already turned on a sound system which evoked a haunting liturgical chant. The sound filled the shadowy interior and only added to the spiritual mood of this fairy tale place. The long narrow central interior consisted of a wide main isle flanked either side by lesser isles demarcated by arched porticos running the length of the church. The finely carved details of the capitals atop the supporting pillars were disappearing which gave you a sense for the age of this space. If these walls could only speak of the events that had unfolded here …

Young Stephen of Normandy, son of Maurice, felt the encroaching fear of the unknown, the unfamiliar. He was totally unaccustomed to such feelings. His familiar world, a world he could easily control, was being transcended by ever increasing foreignness.

Everything around him now seemed alien here in this place, on this strange shore, called Trani. Foreign indeed – even the language he could hear around him and the stars overhead, which he’d know so well since boyhood, appeared alien. Already he’d seen one of those strange tall trees – they called them palm trees – that afforded neither shade nor a source of lumber. What bewitched manner of nature was this?

Here inside this church, in cool retreat from the heat outside and bathed in the soft cant of the Latin prayers he heard interspersed in the muffled clank of metal, he surrendered to his feelings and found comfort, however faint and brief. His was of the soldier world of the marshal knight – defender of the true faith, scourge of the Risen Lord.

He drifted away into his thoughts and recalled this move away from the familiar that began upon leaving his home in France. He, along with other brave knights, had first traveled south and upon finally reaching Marseilles had boarded ships for Italy. From there he’d traveled by land to this distant new shore on the Adriatic called Trani.

He was but one of many in this holy army of God now converging in Trani. From these shores he and many like him would depart on the morning tide on the final phase of this journey. Their destination was the Holy Land. Soon now, he would embark in the name of his God, for glory, adventure and for wealth from merciless conquest. Already the armada of Venetian transport ships had begun to depart.

Bathed in the cool embrace of the metal and the coolness of this Knights Templar stone church, he could think. Sword and semitar, sea and sand flashed through his mind. Already he had renewed the oath of a Crusader and vowed as both pilgrim and soldier to complete his armed pilgrimage to reclaim the Holy Land. For success in this quest, he was on his knees in the candle light of All Saints Church, before this altar, with the pointed tip of his drawn sword pivoting on the stone floor before him. Kneeling there, his forehead pressed into the crossed hilt of his long-sword, the slow approach of the priest administering the last rites, snapped him back to the present. Please God, let me do thy will. Protect and strengthen me for what lies ahead, for what lies beyond these walls and beyond the shores of Trani.

We were inside for all of about fifteen minutes. Two or three other people eventually wandered in and left during this period. As we departed, once again emerging onto Via Ognissanti, it was odd to see the caretaker leave with us. He never said a word as he swung the weather-beaten iron gate closed, locked it and then departed on foot up a side street as quickly as he’d materialized, as though this had all been a mirage.

Odd also was the apparent apparition that materialized in one of my photos (see photo album). Floating just above a solitary bare pillar centered in one of the lesser niches is the shimmering image of something yet nothing - a shard of light, the glint from the window overhead, an optical quirk in my lens, or something else? Look close and decide for yourself.

Far more germane to life in Trani today is the Cattedale, the Trani Cathedral. It is like a set of Russian nested-dolls wherein three churches lie one inside the other. At mid level is Santa Maria della Scala positioned above a 4th century church, which was most likely the first church in Trani. The crypt in this foe basement first-church was so dark that we had to open our cell phones in order to see. As we crept through the space, hesitantly testing where to trust our next footstep to, it occurred to me that such a dangerous situation was something OSHA (an agency for the enforcement of health and safety legislation) would never countenance in the States. They would close this place down in a flash until adequate lighting was installed and possibly even insist on a fire suppression system in this rock cavern!

Above this foundation of chapels, the ossuary with its bones and the dark crypt lies the grand cathedral itself. Surprisingly, it was just a flight of steps away. Climbing them, we emerged into the midst of an elegant wedding underway in this towering and resplendent sanctuary. This was a little different from our tradition, it being midweek and a wedding underway. In classic style, the looming vastness of the main isle was flanked its entire length by lesser naves demarcated by two rows of towering paired columns. The bride and groom sat on pillow-cushioned stools before the altar in the midst of this elegant stone grandeur. Not invited of course, we quietly delighted in the simple beauty of this place as we worked our way toward the main entrance.

After hours of wondering the lanes and back streets I thought food was in order. It was time for a late lunch. We suspected we would find excellent local cuisine and we were not disappointed. After some dithering we settled on the 'Rosa dei Venti' (Rose of the Winds) located in an enchanting corner of the port on Via Statuti Marittimi. We’d chosen wisely. The Rosa sits on a panoramic terrace overlooking the port. The Templer's church was behind us now. Its single lancet window on the curved apse gathering up light from across the port to fill its interior as it had for centuries.

At the Rosa we were treated as VIPS by Verrigni Pasquale, the owner, and especially by Mario, our waiter. Mario was an especially interesting soul. Usually the tourist takes the photos but with roles momentarily reversed, he took pictures of us! He was both waiter and salesman. His quest was to convert non-believers to Herbalife, a nutrition and weight management company. As he explained it, his life’s journey was testament and living proof of its value. He told us how overweight he’d been prior to Herbalife and how since then he’d become healthy and trim. And here all this time I’d always thought it was the Mediterranean diet or in this case, the Adriatic diet! He wore a tuxed-like uniform with a wide cummerbund at his midline. We had a good time together jousting and joking and before we left he removed his velcro waistband to prove he wasn’t simply holding it all in. I think Mario had a good time that day, we certainly did.

What about the food? The food was scrumscious. Maria Elena and I enjoyed an excellent Mare e Terra (surf and turf) luncheon (see photo album for menu and shots of what we ate). Mare had the surf and I ordered the turf, all the while with an implied understanding that we’d share and we did.

We all have quests, those sometimes long and difficult pursuits that drive us each day to put our feet on the floor and get out of bed. For the four of us, that day, our quest was to together see and experience Trani, one pearl in this beautiful obsession I know as Italy. Here was something completely new and different, though ancient and familiar to the thousands who call it home. For the bride and groom that day it was most likely a quest realized and a dream just begun. For Mario, one of its inhabitants, it is undoubtedly his nutritional side business, clearly important to him and essential to not only his, but as he’ll tell you, everyone’s life. And for the long past crusaders, Trani was a major embarkation point - gateway to adventure for some and to personal salvation for others. Sitting there as part of the quixotic diorama of this historic waterfront enjoying the last sips of our wine I might dote on the romance of this place. However, at the moment, I thought of the four of us, East meeting West actually, and if happiness truly comes from relationships, then where better place for the renewal of a friendship lasting 30 years – an honorable quest indeed.

From the Serial Traveler, Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled "The Quest".

2009-11-28T08:05:00.024-05:00

Raid on Vieste

It's hard to believe that in these modern twenty first century times, talk of pirates and piracy still fills the pages of our daily newspapers. It happened again just the other day when the US-flagged container ship Maersk Alabama was attacked again by Somali pirates for a second time in seven months! This got me thinking about Vieste.

Vieste is a ancient fishing town of whitewash on the shores of the Adriatic Sea located high up on the most eastern part of Puglia, one of the 18 regions (think provence or state) on the Italian mainland. If, for example, you were pulling on the whimsical 'boot of Italy', your hands would be around the Gargano. This part of Puglia, known as the Promontorio del Gargano (Gargano Peninsula), is easy to find on a map because it juts from the mainland into the sea in an easterly direction. In fact, in antiquity, this mountainous peninsula was once its own separate island.

Not long ago we felt an itch for some awayness and decided to drive up the calf of Puglia to the Gargano and the town of Vieste in particular. From Calitri it's an easy two hour dash across the tomato fields of Basilicata to the Gargano. We wanted to explore the area and if it got late, remain overnight at some yet to be settled-on hotel.

We were making great time until an exit sign lured me off the highway. I think it was Margaret, our GPS navigator, who first suggested it. We soon found ourselves unintentionally driving along a coastal mountain road with fantastic, cliff-top windshield filling panoramas of the turquoise blue Adriatic laid out below us. The scenery was reminiscent of the Amalfitana drive on the left and opposite coast of Italy. The views, intermingled with the forest and citrus groves to boot, cast an incomparably alluring mood but the constant switchbacks along the coastal drive were enough to give you whiplash. Not willing to risk that, we pulled over and had an early snack, which we had brought with us, smack dab there in the middle of the Parco Nazionale del Gargano forest. We could hear the tinkle of the bells from sheep somewhere just out of sight as we ate.

A few more bites and turns later, we arrived in Vieste. Ever been to Bellagio in northern Italy? In Vieste, the deceptive waters of the Adriatic substitute for the pimpled chop of Lake Como and the lake’s millionaire mountain vistas by a seemingly never ending sea. I wouldn't say that Bellagio has a borgo telling from its neatly laid out streets rising from the lake, yet the streets and alleyways of Vieste's ‘Antico Borgo San Francesco’ have the nook and cranny feel of Bellagio. Like Bellagio, as you explore ancient Vieste, you will come across a hive of shops and restaurants. However, there is more of a lived-in aspect to this place, more like what I'm used to in bucolic Calitri. I can't imagine standing in a Bellagio street looking over a menu beside a restaurant door-front only to be startled back to the reality of the place by drops of water from today's laundry suspended overhead. In Vieste, menus and laundry coexist.

It is hard to believe that this quaint seaside haven has such a bloody history. Rivers of blood have replaced droplets of water here many times in the past. Located in such a strategic coastal location, the town was often invaded by pirates and conquerors from throughout the Mediterranean. Today, the invaders are tourists like ourselves - for Vieste is the main tourist destination of the Gargano. Things were very different, however, in the Middle Ages.

In 1240 the Holy Roman Emperor Federico II, who among his other titles was also known as the Emperor of the Kingdom of Naples, built a castle in the medieval center of Vieste as his royal fortress. It served to defend the city for many centuries from relentless onslaughts. From the number of torri (towers) located all along the extensive Italian coastline, each built to warn of an approaching raid, it is evident that this was a widespread and recurring problem. What struck me about the place was the constant recurrence of pirate attacks and Ottoman Turk invasions Vieste endured, especially during the 15th and 16th centuries. Here in Vieste the slaughter was especially horrific.

Times have changed and yet they haven't, for Frederico's castle still serves its protective role even today as home to an Italian radar warning installation. Its walls are built of stone upon the stone promontory which is Vieste. Stone, in fact, epitomizes this place. Two stones in particular, one conspicuous and the other less obvious, symbolize Vieste. One is the famous Faraglione di Vieste, a towering white monolith of rock you'd be hard pressed to miss seeing on Spiaggia del Castello. It rises high above the azure sea along the Vieste shorefront. To me, it is somehow reminiscent of a miniature Tower of Pisa and has come to symbolize Vieste.

Another much smaller, less conspicuous stone is hidden within the alleyways of the borgo itself. Unaware of its existence, we only found it by chance on Via Cimaglia. Wandering around in the old section of town we came upon an intersection of a few narrow streets. Their junction broadened into a small plaza and from the number of tables and chairs spread about, this was clearly now home to a few restaurants. What I noticed first was a simple plaque (see photo album), which was intended to drive home what had happened here. It spoke of the craggy and weathered bolder size rock directly below known as Chianca Amara (Bitter Stone). If not for this plaque, it would seem insignificant - like a million other similar stones. Legend has it, however, that this was the rock upon which, during the siege and sack of Vieste (18-26 July 1554) by Ottoman Turks, that their leader, the near-mythic privateer and later admiral Dragut Rais (Captain Dragut), ordered the slaughter of all the inhabitants who could not be used for ransom or sold as slaves. Not your comedic Johnny Depp kind of character to say the least! Nearly 5000 Viestani were reportedly beheaded on this rock. We must remember that the Muslim Turks of the Ottoman Empire, then at the height of their rule over the Mediterranean, were still smarting from the effects of the Crusades, which had ended late in the 13th century. Though they never took control of Italy perse, they plundered and ravished its coastlines continually and Dragut Rais was the main orchestrator of this gruesome atrocity and wanton havoc.

Roughly translated the plaque reads:

In the month of July 1554, Vieste, seven days after having been besieged by Draguth with seventy Galere of the great Turkish army, was in the end no longer able to defend itself. Sacked, captured and burned, with a notable prey of citizens and riches, and with losses of seven thousand souls between those captured and the dead. It was this total destruction that brought grief in all Italy. E. Bacchus, the Kingdom of Naples, 1618.
BITTER STONE
THIS IS THE STONE ON WHICH THE MASSACRE WAS COMMITTED

These same streets surely flowed red from the numbers involved that distant July day. Not surprisingly, our shock over the sanguine and almost palpable spiritual nature of the place made our decision, not to eat there and move on, all the easier for this was once a scarred hell where nothing was cooked, no one waited to be served and no one ate. Here, far distant from Mexico, was the Chichanitza 'choc-mol' of Italy.

The cuisine and the atmosphere of the place we finally settled on were both relaxing and exquisite in its simplicity. One of the enjoyments in exploring Italy is in the discovery of interesting places and its local cuisine. Vieste was no different and niether was it disappointing. We looked around for a place for a late lunch and found the Birreria del Grottino on Via Pola right by the waterfront and opposite the Faro (Lighthouse) di Sant'Eufemia.

The cozze (mussels) we enjoyed for lunch along with a bottle of chilled local white was fantastic. Internationally fantastic in fact, for when we offered a sampling to a German couple at a nearby table, they immediately ordered their own bowl of these black wonders! If you are ever in Vieste be sure to order yourself a heaping bowl or two and forget about the cholesterol for a while! Cholesterol in crustaceans is poorly absorbed anyway and extremely low in fat. Besides, disregard all this mumbo-jumbo altogether and just remember, you're on vacation! Lunch was so good that although we continued to keep an eye out as we wandered the alleyways for some place for dinner later that night, we returned to the Grottino for another go.

Yes, we did stay the night. Vieste is just too interesting and colorful not to experience by night. That late evening dinner followed by a walk through park-like Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II sealed the deal. We stayed at Hotel degli Aranci in the modern town. It was nice enough and highly rated (4 stars) but when we return for a longer seige, I'd like to try family-run Hotel Falcone (3 stars), which we came across later in the day.

Yes, ours was little more than a brief hit and run raid on Vieste. We came by land, not by sea, and in a round-about fashion at that. Our only hostages were the memories we took away while the only drops of liquid spilled were some wine on the tablecloth and various sauces on my shirt - all completely by accident, I can assure you! Oh, by the way, I now wear those spots almost like medals, reminiscent of the day we came and vanquished Vieste oursleves!

As always 'Divertiti",

Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled "Vieste".

If you would like to see a short Video on Vieste CLICK HERE.

2009-10-31T19:03:00.019-04:00

Josie's Pasta

October, I'm told, is National Pasta Month here in the US! As a young boy way back when, I recall Wednesdays being advertised as 'Prince Spaghetti Day' and then there was always Anthony, pronounced “Ann-ton-nee” on TV, being called home for his dose of pasta by his mother as she leaned out the window and shouted his name. So now we have a whole month devoted to pasta. Imagine that, an entire month with a focus on pasta in the USA while in Italy pasta boils 24/7! You can just imagine there are few humidifier sales in Italy because of the high humidity in their homes from all the water boiling to daily prepare their beloved pasta.

I heard about National Pasta Month only after someone recently asked me where the people of Calitri did their grocery shopping. A curious question but it got me thinking about pasta and the grocery stores in Calitri, which in aggregate must contain tons of the dried concoction on their shelves.

So what better time than this month to address this topic. You know, there are reportedly over 600 varieties of these tongue-twisting doughy strings, strands, beads, noodles and tubes out there. Clearly, it’s more in the infinite number of shapes of this international favorite than in their formulary that accounts for so much variety.

But pasta’s international popularity is greater than just relying on a curiously shaped shell or limp noodle. It lies in the wonderful versatility of this soothing comfort food, which allows for infinite variations. It can be easily dressed up or down with extra ingredients, cheeses and sauces. If you are not so deft at making your own tomato sauce for instance, a simple mixture of chopped garlic, olive oil and butter is a great substitute – and there you have it, ‘Aglio & Olio’ (garlic & oil pasta sauce). Add a fiery pinch of ground peperoncino red peppers to any form of pasta and experience a wake-up call in your mouth (you may recall seeing pictures of these tasty peppers drying over doorways in past blog photo albums.)

And then there is the etiquette of eating pasta. Proper etiquette is to never use a spoon to twist your spaghetti or linguine. Instead, these types of pasta should always be served in a vessel with a well, like a bowl, where you can use the sides of the bowl to assist in the twisting and free up your other hand to sop up the ragu, sometimes called salsa, with trenchers of crusty bread.

Italian men are in love with their mothers, their cars and their pasta. Can you blame them? I have heard stories of immigrants who have returned to Italy because they missed and therefore craved the homemade pasta their mothers would prepare. Unable to find it anywhere else, some returned. Now that's amore!

Some sight Marco Polo for introducing pasta to Italy. That Venetian boy got around a lot but of all the things Marco may be credited for bringing back to Italy, pasta was not one of them. In fact, a baked pasta similar to a lasagna noodle was around during Etruscan times and the Etruscans predate the ancient Romans. But the dried variety we are familiar with today was most likely introduced in southern Italy by Arab invaders. Made of durum wheat, abundant in Sicily and in the southern Italian breadbasket on the mainland, it soon became a staple of Italian cuisine. It was much later, however, when pasta took up its affair with the tomato, recently introduced to Europe from the New World. One can only imagine that development. Did some irate chef happen to throw a handful of noodles across the room at his souchef only to have some land in a pot of bubbling tomatoes? I doubt it. In fact, that reminds me of the imagined invention of the french-fry with potato and boiling oil substituted for the pasta and boiling salsa.

It must have been the Italians as they spread around the world bringing along their need and yearning for pasta that has today made it a food so internationally well known. Pasta is today quintessentially Italian. While the Arabs may have invented macaroni, it was the Italians who made it into an international favorite. Pasta is the national food of Italy. Think of Italy and its pasta cuisine comes to mind; think of pasta and immediately Italy comes to mind. In way of proof, a check of the numbers shows that Italians eat 60 pounds of pasta per year versus the measly 20 pounds per American.

Now that you have digested all this information about pasta, where do you find it in Calitri? There must be 10 - 12 small grocery stores around town. After all, six thousand people have to buy their food somewhere. Most are what you would call 'mom & pop' operations – small establishments run by family members scattered about the neighborhoods. As of now, there is only one large chain-store operation in town, called "CONAD". It is on the scale, though still relatively small, of the large grocery store we are more familiar with.

Many of these local ‘alimentari’ are nondescript establishments, so well hidden you can't find them though you know they’re around. Such was the case with Josephine's, a typical market close to our place in Calitri. It is about the size of a neighborhood convenience store. Before a sign went up outside (see photo album), we honestly walked right by the entrance of this 'alimentari' many a time before realizing it existed behind the bijoued curtain and heavy framed metal/glass door. What a local gem it is, not only for what it contains but who it contains.

Josephine and Michele run the “Centro Market di Ragazzo Joséphine”. Josie is a jovial, almost jolly, person but a businesswoman nonetheless through and through. When she walks into ‘Mario's Caffe’ for instance, before opening up her market each morning, she practically lights up the place with her presence. She strikes me as a tireless worker - the queen of the hive as she buzzes around the store. From one moment to another, she might be assisting a customer, dealing with a salesman, inventorying a delivery out front on the street or slicing hunks of cheese when not weighing out kilos of bread. In your next breadth you could find her manning the checkout register and insuring you take your receipt just in case the finance police might be lurking outside her door checking for sales receipts. Buzz, buzz, she is just about everywhere.

There is more to Josephine’s place then just Josephine, however. There is also Michele, her husband. Michele’s lair is usually in the meat department in the rear of the market where he juggles the demands of ‘I need your immediate attention’ patrons. Mild-mannered, he is a quiet sort who I could never imagine raises his voice. Unlike Josephine, he strikes me at first look as serious minded. Like me, a steadfast serious look is simply a function of how the skin naturally lays on your face! When he recognizes you on the street, in the market or a café, his mask of seriousness melts into a broad-faced smile.

Centro Market, on Corso Matteotti, is on the medium side of size and looking up at its tastefully arched and domed ceiling you’d think you were in an Italian chapel. The check-out line by the register is nowhere as long as the line in the local post office/bank on the first of the month when it seems every pensioner in town waits patiently to tap into their government pension check. In reality, due to its small size, there is really only one main free-standing wall of shelves just behind a single file of shopping carts. An entire side of this shelving, a space consisting of five very long shelves extending from the register at the front of the market back as far as the entry to the meat department, is entirely dedicated to, what else but, pasta.

And what of that national Italian identity, pasta, for sale at Josie’s? I spent some time there recently chronicling the brands of pasta and their particular names. The variety was amazing and no doubt helps account for that 60 pound intake per capita I mentioned. Here is a sampling on just one of the five shelves, which was dedicated entirely to Barilla Pasta:

1. Tortiglioni (deep lines on the surface and a large internal cavity gather all the sauce)

2. Rigatoni (a wide, ridged, tube-shaped pasta with holes large enough to capture pieces of meat or vegetables in the sauce)

3. Penne Mezzane (cut like feather pin quills)

4. Ziti Tagliati (ziti cut w/ straight ends)

5. An empty shelf slot … I’m guessing something really popular!

6. Mezze Maniche (similar to penne but shorter and broader)

7. Conchiglie Rigate (with a graceful concave shape, reminds you of those shells you might find on the seashore)

8. Pipe Rigate (large elbow macaroni that have been pinched off at one end)9. Ditalini Lisci (small, ridged pasta tubes for soups)

10. Ditalini Rigati (thimbles)

11. Spaghetti Tagliati (think chopped spaghetti)

12. Penne a Candela (spaghetti-like rods the width of a finger – see photo album)

13. Penne Lisce (smooth-sided penne w/ quill points)

14. Penne Rigate (slender, thin w/ oblique cut ends like feather ink quills)

15. Pennettine

16. Pennette Lisce

17. Gramigna (thin, short, tubular strand of pasta in a broad spiral shape)

18. Conchigliette (tiny tiny conch shells)

19. Lumachine (tiny snail shells)

20. Farfalline (shaped like butterflies)

21. Corolini(shaped bowties)

22. Anellini

23. Tempestine (tiny bee-bees size pasta)

24. Midoline

25. Putine

26. Stelline

27. Risoni (rice-like pasta)

28. Reginette Napoletane

29. Ziti Napoletane

30. Casarecce Siciliane (cut open penne tubes)

31. Gnocchetti Sardi

32. Cellentani

33. Farfalle

34. Gemelli

35. Fusilli Bucati Corti (first appeared in southern Italy and was born from the idea of rolling spaghetti on a knitting tool)

36. Castelline (cone-shaped shells)37. Casagnette

38. Bavettine #11

39. Bavettine #13

40. Vermicelline # 7

41. Vermicelline # 8

42. Spaghetti #3

43. Spaghetti #5

There you have it. How many of these have you had? And realize, dear reader, that there are four more packed shelves of pasta besides this one, maybe 80% more, to choose from. There's still time … why not start the pot to boiling and set a goal in life to sample them all! Many an Italian has.

So my friends, if “Wonder Bread” and “SpaghettiOs” are on your shopping list, don’t bother going to Josephine’s!

As always 'Divertiti",

Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled "Josie's Pasta".

The Doorways of Calitri

2009-09-30T11:17:00.005-04:00

I am in Italia today and I could easily fall into its lifestyle. A few local friends along the streets to chat with could easily fill the empty parts of my day. Beginning with a morning cappuccino and a seashell shaped ‘soffietto’ pastry at a local café and one thing leads to another as various patrons visit their favorite barristers.

If you need something done, no need to ‘Google’ here. Just wait a while until the appropriate tradesman passes through and you can arrange for just about anything. Here are a couple examples of what I mean – standing at the counter in Mario’s café the other day, I mentioned that the street lamp by our door was inoperative and it was repaired that very day. This for me is a record in Italy! On another day in came Amelio, the electrician, and by 10 am he was installing a satellite dish for us. Somehow, coffee diplomacy seems to work, at least here.

We have been here now long enough this time to learn which switches control what, and with Amilio’s help, even had time to add a few. I feel comfortable as if slipping into a pair of old slippers. The familiar surroundings and neighbors add to the welcoming feeling. Even the ants knew we had arrived. It wasn’t long before the tiny, pesky, sugar ants appeared to welcome us and I guess any extra sugar we could spare. A trip to Josephine’s mercato for a ‘trapola per formica’ (ant trap) soon put an end to their neighborliness, however.

In this village of Calitri, a place not yet tainted by globalization and where tradition overweighs modernity, stepping outside through our door is like stepping into another dimension, another world, somewhat akin to that scene from “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”.

With this in mind, as we made our way through the ‘antico borgo’ to church, to a restaurant or to visit with friends, I could not help but notice the doors we passed. New, old, some in need of repair and others beyond repair, their gradations of difference is striking. Some are of great size, antiquity and beauty. For others, their birthdates duly engraved into the stone above the entry, the gravitas of their years could not but emote wonder in me. Here in this old place was something that has stood before I was alive, even before my grandparents parents were alive. It is hard to fathom all the subsequent events of consequence and insignificance, which have unfolded before them in the meantime. Some entrances are welcoming. Others are informative, as in the case of the love note from some lovelorn admirer scrawled on the wall beside one particular doorway (see photo album). Another may brandish a necklace of pepperacini peppers drying in the sunshine, a door knocker or some icon symbolizing what went on inside. Over the centuries, others relay a spiritual message.

You will be hard pressed to find doors like these of the ‘borgo storico’ in the art cities of Rome or Florence. This is especially true of those primitive types, which might for example grant entry to an abandoned grotto or chapel, their stone thresholds worn concave from the foot-traffic of centuries.

Much like Robert Frost described how stonewalls make for good neighbors, so to doors serve a similar purpose. A doorway, as a dividing line, is both entry and departure point, shield and point of passage. They divide and separate people and worlds. They can even create different worlds. Doors open to the world, and equally well, can close behind us to shield and sometimes seal us from that same world. Enter solitude or just as easily escape from it - it’s your choice. Pass through one to meet the people outside or pass in the opposite direction and enjoy their hospitality. At times, looking at an old door can even give us insight into what lies just beyond as a sort of glimpse into its hidden mysterious world. A motioning arm in invitation or a ‘permesso’ is the password to gain entry. Doors to me are therefore gateways of passage from one domain into the realm of another.

I can’t help but also feel that the people who inhabit the spaces behind these portals are but temporary ornaments. Much like flowers, we bloom and then gradually fade, yet the doors remain in testiment. Their sides buttressed by stone and cement, worn and weather-beaten, they betray their age not to all passersby but to those who idle long enough to inspect their detail and search for their story.

Enjoy the accompanying photos of the Doorways of Calitri, which I captured this week. Try to ignite your imagination and envision the vibrant stories these portals in time tell us, the current caretakers of this place.

Divertiti, Paolo & Rony

P.S. This just in on the TV here … it is reported that 50% of Italians are unfaithful. (apparently even doors can’t stop love). So I guess that means that if you aren’t the one being untrue, it must be your spouse!!

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled "Calitri Doorways".