La Dolce Vita

La Dolce Vita

There are moments in one’s life when you look around and marvel at how you got there; what odd circumstances coincided to put you in that one place at that moment and, whether for the good or the bad, those times are not easily forgotten.  Since my retirement and subsequent part-time move to Italy, I have had more than my share of those moments, most of them for the good.  I’ve found myself gazing up at rocky cliffs as I bobbed in the Ionian Sea, marveling at my good fortune.  And I’ve found myself ready to slit my wrists in frustration as we try to deal with Italian bureaucracy, which is the most byzantine of wacky disorganization as you can imagine.  And I’ve found myself thinking that this must be a movie set, because places so beautiful and unique really can’t exist. This week, it was the “movie set” moment, and all that was missing was Federico Fellini.

We were up in Formia, enjoying our annual visit with a life-long friend of my husband’s, his wife, and their best friends.  It has become a tradition for us to go up there and enjoy a few days of good company, great food and wine, and lots of laughs.  This year was no different.  We had spent the day touring around the area, visiting a sanctuary and the towns of Campodimele and Lenola, both of which boast of having the longest-living population in Italy.  We had a lovely stop off in Sperlonga, a beach town set on a cliff, overlooking the sea and a string of lidos miles long.  Its whitewashed buildings and narrow alleyways provide lots of photo ops.  All in all, it was a wonderful day.

That evening we went out for dinner at a small restaurant right on the water.  The sound of the waves slapping against the sand was interrupted by a nice jazz trio, and the food was fresh from the sea.  We didn’t think it could get any better.  Then, we were told that we were going to another friend’s for gelato.  Their friend Patty’s mother was born in Hartford, and she was anxious to meet the Americans from that town.  The descriptions began: Patty is tall and statuesque.  She was considered one of the most beautiful women in the area.  Men came all the way from Rome to court her.  Now in her 60’s, she was still a striking woman.  She loved to entertain.  Every night at her villa was a party.  The stories went on. 

And so, we left our restaurant and headed to Patty’s, anxious to be introduced to this fascinating woman.  We drove through a narrow “cancello” (a wrought-iron gate) and into a curving driveway lined with palm trees that were over 100 feet tall.  The villa came into view as we entered the parking area.  It was classical in design, with detailed moldings both inside and out.  It was in a sad state of repair, with the façade still pockmarked with bullet holes, scars of WWII fighting.  The villa, only lived in for a few weeks each summer, was like a beautiful woman left untended for way too long.  Its beauty shone through the ravages of time, but it would never again be what it once was. 

As we got out of the cars we saw that the side yard was illuminated with dozens of lights strung from tree to tree.  True to her reputation, Patty was hosting a party; about a dozen people were gathered around a big table, a  grill was being manned by a young fellow and all sorts of meats were sizzling on the fire, wine was flowing like water and conversations were flying back and forth. It was well after 10 pm and they were just getting started on their evening meal.

Patty came flying over to the six of us, arms outstretched in warm welcome.  She was dressed head to toe in white linen, and her long black hair curled around her shoulders.  Her makeup was impeccable and her mani-pedi obviously recently done.  We were brought into the fold and given seats, drinks, and snacks.  The other guests were a hodge-podge of fascinating people; a renowned surgeon, an author, a couple of teachers, a salesman….each one offering a unique presence to the evening.

That is when I looked around for Fellini.  Among the huge palm trees and the flowering oleander, as the meat grilled and the jokes were flying, as the cigarettes were smoked and the desserts brought out, I could only wonder at the odd circumstances that brought this descendant of Pilgrims and Puritans to this place and time.  Each guest was a character, each palm tree a set prop, and each story a piece of dialogue that coalesced into entertaining scenarios. 

I will never experience such an evening again.  There will never be the same set of circumstances where this American, warmed by good friends, good wine and good food, would step into such a unique setting and be able to sit back and listen to the repartee and funny stories.  If Fellini were still alive, he would have appreciated the setting and the scenario, and would have written it into a movie about La Dolce Vita that I am living. 

Familiar Faces

Familiar Faces   

Coming back to Cervinara year after year has made us part of our little local community.  It is expected that we will be present at the various functions and festivals that are scattered throughout the summer months, and when we weren’t here for most of them, people began to ask where we were.  Today while having my first cappuccino with my husband at the local bar, several people commented on our long absence and how  they were glad to see us in our usual spots.  For some, the wrinkles were a little more pronounced, the bellies a little bit bigger, the hair a little bit whiter.  For others, their weight loss and poor color marked health problems that are worrisome.    But the biggest changes always come with the little ones.

Last night was the Festa dell’Immacolata, where the statue of the Madonna comes out of our church and is paraded through the streets all through the town.  She is accompanied by dozens of people, young and old alike, dressed in costumes and representing everything from angels, to wise men, to the Holy Family.  Unlike other processions, this one covers all the neighborhoods, not just Ioffredo and Castello.  It starts at the church and proceeds up the hill to the end of the inhabited area, taking detours down small alleyways and into dead end corners, then back down the hill into Valle, then downtown into Salamona and back up through Ferrari, and into the church again.  This is a slow march that takes over three hours and it is a challenging one that I don’t do.  

But I was out to view the removal of the Madonna, and I joined the procession for the first two legs of the walk, and it gave me the opportunity to see all the children and how they have grown.  The first ones I noticed were the angels.  They were all children from four to sixyears old, dressed in shiny white robes with garland wings.  I knew all of these little ones and had seen them grow from pacifier-sucking toddlers into sweet young cherubs.  The little girl who used to flirt with the bar customers by peaking out through the Venetian blind slats, chubby little Salvatore who has strung out some as he’s gotten taller but who still has bowed legs from carrying around so much extra weight, little Ilaria with her black pony tail looking so proud to be following the group….they all made me realize the passage of time and the years that I have spent here.

Then there was Marta, who was dressed as a young Mary.  Last year she spent hours coloring in the tiles of our courtyard with sidewalk chalk; last night she was a dignified young lady.  And there was Margherita, who last year danced around the piazza at the concert, unconcerned about what anyone else thought of her; she was a bit more reserved this year and it made me sad that she was more concerned with her “image” than with her love of the music.  And there was the blond boy, whose first communion I saw two years ago.  Last night he was kicking around a soccer ball and I swear I could see the first sign of a mustache on him!  I don’t know all their names, but I know their faces and their changes, and it makes me feel good that I am able to see them grow and progress year after year.

I have had a hard time being here this year, away from my first grandchild.  He’s four months old now and I am missing him terribly.  The daily photo updates help, but when I look at how quickly my little friends in Cervinara are changing, I realize just what I am missing.  We will continue to come here; it is our home away from home.  But I don’t think we’ll be staying for quite so long in the future.  I always love to see the familiar faces, but there is a special little one back in Connecticut now that I just won’t be able to stay away from for long!

Under the Bridge

Under The Bridge

In most instances, “under the bridge” is not where you want to be.  Wasn’t it under the bridge where the ogre lived in the Three Billy Goats Gruff fairy tale?  And who hasn’t seen, either in pictures or in person, tent cities set up under the bridges of major metropolitan areas, places where the homeless and hopeless gather for shelter and community?  But here in Santa Maria di Leuca, “sotto il ponte” has a whole other meaning.

Today I went with cousin Rita and her husband Angelo, our gracious and generous hosts here in Puglia, to their favorite swimming spot.  In Leuca, there is a long road that hugs the shoreline, with beautiful views of blue water, white sailboats, and yellow sun.  In one area, there is a bridge that spans a rather long gap in the coastline.  It is a typical Roman style bridge with five big arches that support it.  It’s less than a quarter mile long, but it’s an impressive bridge.  I’ve driven over it before, but never noticed all the activity that was going on down below.

Just like in the old song, Under the Boardwalk, “people walkin’ above, people havin’ fun, people fallin’ in love”…..all the good stuff is happening under the bridge.  There is a long but gentle staircase that leads down to the water and once there we found a whole world lazing and relaxing under each of the arches.  There are broad steps that go under each segment of the bridge on which people were spreading their towels and opening their beach chairs.  We found our spot and got ready to dive in.  “Dive in” isn’t really what I should say, because there’s no diving here.  Getting into the water is always a bit of a challenge because the Puglia coastline has so many areas of rocky outcrops and slippery spots.  But the town thought of wobbly folks like me and provided us a sturdy steel stairway with four steps down which we could ease ourselves into the water.

Once in the water, it’s a short walk across rocky ledge to find deep water, perfect for swimming and floating around.  I’m cursed with a very buoyant body (would that I had the heavier muscles that I’ve always wanted), but I’m able to float and tread water with no effort at all.  I bob around and flip from belly to back at will, never covering lots of territory but always enjoying the relaxing water and sun.  Since I had slathered myself with sunscreen, I was able to spend an hour or so just floating and bobbing around, feeling very lucky. Getting out is another challenge, with those same slippery ledges awaiting the unwary swimmer, but fortunately there were no unfortunate mishaps with that end of the operation either.

 Relaxing under the bridge is an insider’s game here in Leuca.  Those who come down for a week spend their time on the sandy stretches of beach, basking in the sun with no shade to cool them and with grit in their crotches.  But under the bridge it’s clean, cool and social, where the elite come to meet.  Of course, we ran into an old friend and his buddy, and we spent a nice time chatting and catching up.  When the fellows decided to go back into the water, the buddy asked if I were going in too.  I said no, that I had to stay out of the sun.  “Ma devi andarci, signora.  Altrimenti rimani una donna tutta bianca.”  (Oh but you should go signora.  Otherwise you’re going to stay a very white woman.) 

Yes, I am a very white woman in a sea of bronze and burned bodies.  Because even under the bridge, there are places for people to lay out in the sun and get a George Hamilton tan, and I was definitely the whitest of all the bodies there.  But I choose to shield my old skin from the hot Puglia sun and that is why “sotto il ponte” is where I’m going to stay!

Woodstock Nation

Woodstock Nation

We are back in Cervinara after a long absence and it is just like coming home!

After an uneventful flight to Paris and a short hop from Paris to Naples, we were the first to get our luggage and were on the road within 20 minutes.  This was a record!  It was lovely to see all the in-laws, nieces and nephews, but then it was time for us to take our car and head east into the mountains of the Valle Caudine, where our home away from home awaited us.

Not much has changed in the old town; the same faces smiled at us as we drove up the long hill, the baker still waved us on as he checked for oncoming traffic, the barista at our local circolo greeted us with big hugs.  But there was something new and unexpected on the horizon….

In the vacant lot where many of the houses destroyed in the 1999 flood used to be, there was a huge stage set up, with spotlights, amplifiers, and techs doing sound checks.  We found ourselves in the middle of the “Non solofolk” music festival, an event organized by a variety of very talented people dedicated to the eradication of prejudice, the celebration of music, and the remembrance of those lost in that tragic event of 14 years ago.  As is always the case when there is any kind of street festival, the whole Ioffredo neighborhood was lined with vendors of food, beverages, toys, t-shirts and other mementos.  Festival attendees had pitched tents in the woods behind the concert venue and port-a-potties were lined up in a corner of the piazza.  The joint was jumpin’!

This would normally be a great opportunity for us to be out and about, schmoozing with the neighbors and enjoying some sausages and beer.  But with a major case of jetlag hanging over our heads, I was none too happy at this turn of events.  And indeed, I was right to be worried.  The program was scheduled to jump off at 9, but sound checks and setting up didn’t end until 10 pm.  The music started just as we were ready to crash into bed.  I am not exaggerating when I say that from our bedroom balcony, we could see the lights, hear the crowds, not to mention the music.  It blasted non-stop from 10-1:37 am.  I know the exact moment because I was awake and watching the clock, counting the minutes for the Red Hot Chili Peppers clones to finish their last set.  None too happy, rest assured!

Saturday….same scenario.  Only this time we knew what to expect and we closed up all our windows and turned on the fans to keep some air moving.  This helped to muffle the head-bangers’ ball music somewhat, but not nearly enough.  Again, the music finished at almost 2:00 am, and this time we had a 5:00 wakeup call so we could get on the road for our drive to “alt’italia”.  I managed to cobble together a couple of hours of very restless sleep and by 6:30 wewere on the road again.

So now, we find ourselves outside of Modena, in a very nice hotel, and at 6:30 in the evening I can’t wait to lie down and close my eyes!  The restaurant opens at 7:30 and we will be there with bells on to get the earliest dinner possible only to go back to our rooms and pray for a good night’s sleep.  I’m getting desperate! 

That said, it was nice to see our old neighborhood so lively and full of excitement.  More and more outsiders are coming to recognize what Cervinara has to offer, and this event certainly will help with the revitalization efforts in town.  I don’t want things to change too much….the old ways are fine with me, but knowing that a new generation is learning to enjoy the simple pleasures of our hills ensures a vital and lively Cervinara for years to come.

Cervinara Roots Around the World

When I started writing this blog, my only goal was to share an interesting lifestyle change with a few friends and relatives.  It's a pretty unusual situation, being able to spend extended time abroad, particularly in a non-touristy town where we would become absorbed into the community and become recognized as permanent residents rather than temporary visitors.
As time has gone on however, it has become apparent that this blog has begun to reach folks from all over the world and when you Google "Cervinara", a link to my essays pops up fairly high on the Google list.  Who could have imagined?  As a result of this phenomenon, I have been in touch with people whose roots reach back to Cervinara, usually a couple of generations back. 
Life was hard in many areas of Italy, and Cervinara was no different.  Many Cervinaresi emigrated to the US, Canada, England, Australia and South America in an attempt to find more opportunities for a good life.  Now,  2nd and 3rd generation Italians are searching for their roots, using the internet to try to reconnect with their ancestors.  A need to know and understand one's origins seems to run deep in the children and grandchildren of immigrants, and now I am trying to help folks whose ancestors were from this area to find their way back to Cervinara.

On Facebook, I have formed a group entitled "Cervinara Roots Around the World".  My idea is to provide information about what Cervinara has to offer the genealogical tourists who might want to spend a bit of time retracing the steps of their ancestors.  It's not always easy to find your way here; it is not on anyone's radar for tourism, there are no hotels in town, no TripAdvisor forums to offer advice.  Even the town and the Chamber of Commerce (Pro Loco) websites are only in Italian.  If you are looking for help in getting to this hill town, you will not find it easy to access, particularly if you don't understand Italian.
Before I left Cervinara this fall, I met with the mayor as well as with a young man, Francesco Viola, who serves as a link between the administration and the Pro Loco.  Francesco  is as ardent in his support of Cervinara as anyone I have ever met and he publishes a well-written blog about day to day life there as well.  My thought was to provide direct links on the town website, in English, where someone trying to research a trip would get some needed guidance.  But as is so often the case, it's difficult to deal with bureaucracies and the response wasn't as enthusiastic as I had hoped. Therefore, rather than attempt to put things directly on links offered on the municipal website, I have decided to try to get the information out to people doing their research by offering the group on Facebook.
So, if you are interested in talking to someone about Cervinara, or are interested in getting nuts and bolts information about how to get to Cervinara, where to stay, what to do, etc., drop me a line or post a question and you will get a quick and speedy response.  My goal is to bring Cervinara to the world, and to bring Cervinara's descendants back there.  I hope to hear from you soon!

Seasonality

There is something sort of comforting about living according to the seasons, something natural and reassuring in eating what comes from the fields next door rather than across the ocean.  There are times, of course, when it would be nice to be able to eat out of season.  I have missed asparagus (available for only a few weeks in the spring).  I have had way too much of peppers, zucchini and eggplant.  But overall, eating locally and seasonally here in Cervinara has proven to be a healthy and happy way of life.
We know when the seasons change here by what is on our plates.  When we arrived at the end of May, we were able to enjoy the strawberries and cherries that were bursting with juice.  I remember picking strawberries in Connecticut as a child.  Those sweet red gems would stain our hands and lips as we ate as many as we picked.  What a treat to have homemade strawberry shortcake for supper as a reward for our hard work!  I fear that children in Connecticut now have no idea what a real strawberry tastes like; those hard, dry berries from California will never measure up.  I would rather have the real thing for a few weeks than the genetically modified version that we get now.  Well, the strawberries here are like those of my youth; imperfectly shaped, but full of juicy sweetness. 
Come summer, the peaches come into season.  For us, a peach is a peach.  For the folks here, every peach is different and worthy of its own recipes.  There are red peaches, white peaches, and percocche to dunk in a glass of red wine.  There are fuzzless peaches and tiny early peaches that are sweet and satisfy that need for peach flavor before the big ones are available. Then there are the melons.  Oh the melons!  Long watermelon, round watermelon, cantaloupes, yellow wrinkled melons (these have been superb this year), melons that are hung to dry to be consumed at Christmas.  The melons are amazing!
For veggies, we are never lacking.  Green beans in early summer, and then later in the fall the second crop comes in.  In between, they can't be found.  Summer squashes, peppers, and eggplant abound through the hot months of July and August.  Mid-way through September, we start to have broccolini, those bitter greens that go so well with orecchiete and sausage.  Orange squash, similar in color and flavor to our butternuts, but shaped more like a pumpkin show up on the fruit trucks.  Fall is the time for those rich, comfort foods that everyone craves.
But the true sign of the change of seasons, and of the local produce we love, are the mushrooms.  When it rains in September, the mushrooms begin to sprout.  Folks trudge up and down the mountains, wearing Wellies and flannel shirts, carrying baskets for their prizes and special sticks to pry these treats from their hiding places, all in search of the wild mushrooms.  I've never been brave enough to try to identify the good ones from the poisonous ones, so we rely on the generosity of our friends to satisfy our cravings. 
Yesterday, Giovanni Raviele, a distant cousin, came by with a big plate of these treasures.  There were "tuorli" (egg yolks) that look just like a hard boiled egg.  These are best sliced very thin and marinated in lots of fresh lemon juice.  There were porcinis, that are best sauteed up with some garlic and onion.  And there were other kinds, of unknown name but of stupendous flavor, that I have chopped up and frozen so that we will be able to enjoy these treats a bit longer.
Today I made a mushroom risotto that was pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.  Just a bit of onion, a cup or so of the mushrooms, a hot pepper and some broth was all we needed to make a creamy, yummy risotto that really hit the spot. 
I know that in Connecticut we can never really live according to the seasons.  When I go back to my Stop & Shop, I'll be buying asparagus all winter and will enjoy it too.  But living here in Cervinara has given me a sense of how our forbears used to live, how they carefully preserved whatever came from their land and how every season was special.  I appreciate now how the authenticity and origin of our food really do matter.  Buon appetito!

911, Italian Style

There are so many wonderful things about living in Italy, far too many to mention.  There's the food, the weather, the new friendships, the opportunities for travel and the quirky little things that lurk around every corner.  But, there are some downsides too.
Last week I wrote about my distress with the litter and graffiti that plague much of southern Italy.  It's an eyesore, but in general not life threatening.  I don't think I can say the same about Italy's emergency response system!
In many ways, Italy takes better care of its people than does the United States; it provides good health care at little to no cost, the law requires that a pharmacy be open 24/7 somewhere in every town, there is a "guardia medica" in every town for drop in visits after office hours and on weekends.  The guardia medica office is staffed by local physicians who take turns being there on call.  So, even in a small town like Cervinara, there are lots of options for health care and for emergency services.There are however, serious weaknesses in the emergency response process, and I would like to share a recent event that, while funny, showed up some of the holes in the Italian system of responding to emergency situations.
My sister Mary and her husband Bill were visiting us at the end of June and, on our way home from the market we decided to stop at the cemetery to visit the Salvatore Raviele family chapel.  It's part of our weekly routine to stop in on our way back up the hill to sweep things out and to light a candle for my in-laws and relatives.  On this fateful day, I unlocked the chapel door and left the keys in the keyhole, as is my normal habit.  The four of us entered the chapel.  The door opens in, and it was rather crowded in the small space, so we closed the door.  It latched.  It locked.  We were trapped.
Normally, this wouldn't pose too much of a problem because there are always people around the cemetery, cleaning the graves of their loved ones.  But it was lunch time and everyone was home preparing the big noon meal.  Our cries of "Aiuto!" went unheard.  It was time for more drastic measures.  The day was very hot and the temperature inside the chapel was heading up over 100 degrees.  My husband took out his phone and dialed 118. 
There is not a universal 911 number for all emergencies in Italy.  There is a special number for each need: highway accidents, fire, police, water emergencies, etc.  Since Cervinara is in the province of Avellino, it was that city's emergency squad who answered our call.  "We are trapped in a chapel in Cervinara.  Can you please send someone to get us out?"  We assumed they would contact Cervinara's police department to send a rescue squad....but no!  That's not how it works here.  We were told we would be rescued by the Avellino fire department that is located over an hour away!  And they hung up.
We waited a bit, it got hotter and hotter, and we called back.  "Can't you call Cervinara and have them send someone?  We are getting overheated and are feeling unwell."  No....that's not how it's done, we are told again.  At this point my husband's Italian temper got the better of him and he threatened to sue the town, the region, the province, the country and Jesus Christ himself if someone wasn't here to let us out soon.  No response.
Finally, we asked for the phone number of Cervinara's town hall.  At first they were reluctant to even give us that information, but after some more persuasive words from dear hubby, they relented.  This time I got on the phone.  In my slightly accented Italian, with a voice quivering with false tears, I pleaded my case with the Cervinara phone operator.  "Oh signora, don't be afraid!  Someone will be there soon! Please stay calm!"  It was funny because they were so concerned that I was afraid of being locked in the cemetery, when in reality it was just the heat and frustration that were getting to us all. 
True to their word, within ten minutes a young man was at our chapel letting us out.  All it took was an hour, half a dozen phone calls, some serious threats and a semi-hysterical American to get the job done!  Shortly after we were out, Avellino called again to check on our status.  Told that we had been freed, they radioed their rescue squad to return to their base, they asked me if my husband had calmed down, and then were happy to be rid of us!

I know that ours wasn't a life-threatening situation, although it could have been if we had been forced to stay inside that oven-like chapel for much longer.  We all had a good laugh over our adventure and we now no longer leave the keys in the door.  But I sometimes wonder how  this byzantine bureaucracy survives.  There has got to be a better way!