It's been years since I worked in a restaurant. I did a brief stint in college, but was in constant fear that my clumsiness would result in serious wine spillage or a plate of something messy in somebody's lap. During my sojourn in Lucanella I was called out of waitress retirement to aid my friends.
Peppe and Giovanna, the owners of the agriturismo, had been booked up for weeks with First Communion parties. They were expecting two groups on the one Sunday afternoon, with a total of about 80 guests. Now, I have few memories of my own First Communion; I know I wore a white dress, and my nana gave me a rosary with crystal beads that looked like diamonds to my six-or seven-year old eyes. We went to lunch at my uncle's restaurant - my parents, siblings and grandparents- but that was about it. In Italy, it is just a little bit more of a Big-Deal event. We're talking six antipasti, two different pasta courses, a meat course and several vegetables, to be rounded off with several desserts and then a gigantic, decorated First Communion cake. We're talking sit-down-and-stay-down for four hours kind of meal. For about 80 guests in a small rural, family-owned restaurant.
They had it all carefully planned and ready to go, had called in the ragazzi that they normally hire for this type of special meal, and began setting up the tables the evening before. Then Peppe wrenched his back and went into painful spasms. Unable to move without serious pain, I jumped in and helped finish the set-up and decorating. The following morning he was no better; he was clearly unable to perform his normal functions and fretting about what to do, but declined my offers of help while Giovanna chirped adamantly that he would be fine.
He wouldn't be fine, that was evident, so I marched to my room, changed into "waitress attire" and showed up when the ragazzi did, and starting carrying out wine bottles, bread baskets and antipasti plates, without giving my friends a chance to object. Fortunately it was a set menu so no order-taking was involved and things hummed along sort of like clock-work. I ran miles between the kitchen and the dining room, rekindling those dim memories of previous waitress duty and how fatiguing it was.
Peppe, ever clever, played the excellent host, but took on a whale of a joke and told the party in my dining room that I was a famous American giornalista who was writing an article about Italian culinary habits. He had them completely convinced that I was studying their table manners and interactions and was analyzing what and how they ate. Every time I entered the room the whole party would turn and smile at me self-consciously. If I was scanning the table-top to see if wine bottles needed refreshing, they would look around them to see what I might be sizing up about their gluttony. Meanwhile, Peppe dead-panned his joke to the very end, and one of the patrons even asked if I would like him to send me the photos he had taken throughout the meal! The joke served to cover Peppe's fears that I would be a less-than-stellar waitress, and explained the two knives that I accidently dropped to clank heavily on the stone floors, "Mah, she's not bad for a giornalista who is not a real cameriera (waitress)" they said as they excused my clumsiness.
At the end of the meal they were very sweet, but more importantly I was able to pitch in and help my friends. They were grateful. The next morning in the village a woman came up to talk to me, saying, "Sei Valerie? I'm Rocco's mamma, he told me about your hard work with them yesterday!" Word spread from there and suddenly people were questioning, "She's a cameriera? But I thought she was a giornalista!" For a day at least, I was both.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Me and Tonino and the Four Ferramente
We have been fortunate to find fabulous friends in Lucanella. One such gem is Tonino, without whom none of the work on the house would have been completed. He set up the quotes, called to confirm (and re-confirm!) their work dates, and helped make sure everything went smoothly.
He drops things to come help me, and he has a smile that makes his eyes dance. Now that I know him better he has opened up and I have discovered that he has a great sense of humor and a lilting laugh. His wife invited me to lunch in famiglia, and I love them all. The daughter is pretty and whispers questions to her babbo for him to ask of me. The son is precocious and cute, much as I imagine Tonino was at his age. Antonia is a doll, who improvised a last-minute lunch better than most so-called Italian restaurants in the US could serve with a week’s worth of planning.
One afternoon we were all at my casa, Tonino, the falegname and the muratore and his son to get final measurements. Tonino had to translate between me and the thick, heavy accent of the falegname, and to tell him that I needed a new door lock. They sized it up, take measurements, discussed the type of lock I needed…because of course in Italy one size does not fit all when it comes to locks- or anything else for that matter. Tonino also tromped off in the rain looking for the destination of the kitchen drain, accompanied by the stone mason and his son, all three curious about the mistero of the invisible drain pipe. They have not yet figured it out, despite their soggy efforts. They think it might dump into the neighbor’s garden, in which case we are all to keep mum.
At twenty minutes to seven the stone mason reminds him that we still need to procure the necessary door lock for the woodworker install in the morning. “Porca miseria! Chiudono alle sette! Andiamo!” We race for his car, and then the southern Italian version of the Indy 500 along narrow, pitted, winding roads commences. We bump over hills and thud into potholes enroute for Potenza. We hit the autostrada at full speed, commendable given the short onramp, and screech around curves. Meanwhile, Tonino’s demeanor is that of a man on a country jaunt – “ So, Vah-leriee…did you enjoy lunch? Antonia is excited about the barbecue tomorrow night.” Other sundry conversation pieces were lightly discussed whilst he zoomed at Mach speed and missed his exit. Porca vaca, but no problem…we’ll still make it in time, he says merrily.
He morphs from Indy racer to Neapolitan city driver like a Jekyll-and-Hyde. He passes the line of traffic that is waiting patiently to turn (so un-Italian), blasts by them to the intersection, interjects the station wagon so swiftly and smoothly through the traffic that the other drivers don’t even have time to react. Not a single horn blared and he grinned. “Ha, alla Napolitana!” Pedal to the floor, we cruise into the parking lot of the ferramenta (hardware store) to find it open. Alleluia, says my friend.
Alas, the ferramenta has only one lock that will fit the dimensions stated, and it is a very down-market low quality one, says Tonino. Checks his watch. Andiamo, sbrigati. We can make it. Back into the family-sized rocket-ship to the Brico-fer, where the lock department has a line. Tonino smiles slightly, taps his fingers on the counter, tries to catch the clerk’s eye. Finally he interjects, “Solo una domanda…” and asks about the lock. The clerk doesn’t look up, just responds that they don’t carry the type of lock he wants. Tonino grabs my arm and hustles me to the door.
We nearly get sideswiped as he backs onto the road, then a cop car swings widely around us without a side-ward glance. Uphill through neighborhoods I’ve never seen before, he continues his Neapolitan personality as we arrive at Ferramenta Number Three. Surprised that they still open, Tonino double parks and leaves his door open as he rushes inside to make sure they don’t slam down their shutters before he can get through the door. I catch up just as the owner is bringing out a lock. It is a fancy one, it requires additional parts, it is the top of the line. It costs a fortune. I gasp at the price audibly. Tonino tells the guy, thanks but no thanks while hoping we won’t have to return to eat crow.
One more place, he mumbles. I just remembered it, should have thought of it first, they’re probably closed by now, the guy is persnickety…he’s talking to himself about the best streets to bypass the traffic as he weaves through the cars, nearly grazes a pedestrian, and jokes with me all at the same time. “Sembra aperta! Sembra…” The lights are ablaze. There are people inside. We enter. We are sized up and told to take a number. Nevermind that there are only two people in the store, the owner and a crony who is not buying anything, just shooting the breeze. Persnickety, indeed.
Yes, I have that type of lock, he says. He climbs a ladder to retrieve the box and sets it on the counter. Then he leaves to find something else for another guy who has come in. Tonino tries to cut through the tape with his fingernail, unsuccessfully. We look at each other and stifle laughs. This guy is in no hurry. It is already after 8:00 pm. “His wife must be a terrible cook. Why else wouldn’t he want to hurry up and go home and eat like everyone else?” Tonino whispers. Three others arrive. We have become giddy after the rush and adrenaline. Ferramenta Man ambles to and fro, while wise-cracking with people. “You may not be the dumbest guy in Potenza,” he tells the crony, “but you’re surely the ugliest.” Other things are said in dialect that garner great laughs from everyone except me.
Finally he comes back to us with the parts needed to change the lock opening from a right side door to a left side door. Who knew? Well, Tonino did, thank goodness. The man ceremoniously slices through the strip of tape and opens the box. He painstakingly, slowly removes the screws, piano piano. He is ready to place the mechanism into the metal lock casing and something distracts him. Tonino grabs the piece and starts to insert it, which is not to be tolerated, bringing the man’s attention back to the task at hand. Just as he is about to twist the little screws back in to secure the whole contraption, a customer knocks over a display and nearly clobbers me with a tumbling box. The owner goes to set things right, and Tonino grabs the screws and quickly turns them into place. He tries miserably to put the whole thing back into the Styrofoam packaging to stuff back in the box. Tsk, tsk from the owner who has returned and slaps Tonino’s hand away. We are now busting out laughing, which only slows the owner down even more. Finally, I am allowed to pay, which brings some rather unflattering-like dialect comments onto Tonino’s head from what I could gather, and we run to the car. We look at each other and cannot stop laughing. We start saying the same thing at the same time, right in succession: Aho! Mamma mia! Che avventura! Che un personaggio!” This makes us laugh even harder.
Finally we start back toward Lucanella, slightly less speedily but not much. He drops me off at my car and I call out, Ciao bello, which makes him blush. He and his wife have become dear friends very quickly; we’re the same age, so they’re as happy to have new friends in the village as we are.
He drops things to come help me, and he has a smile that makes his eyes dance. Now that I know him better he has opened up and I have discovered that he has a great sense of humor and a lilting laugh. His wife invited me to lunch in famiglia, and I love them all. The daughter is pretty and whispers questions to her babbo for him to ask of me. The son is precocious and cute, much as I imagine Tonino was at his age. Antonia is a doll, who improvised a last-minute lunch better than most so-called Italian restaurants in the US could serve with a week’s worth of planning.
One afternoon we were all at my casa, Tonino, the falegname and the muratore and his son to get final measurements. Tonino had to translate between me and the thick, heavy accent of the falegname, and to tell him that I needed a new door lock. They sized it up, take measurements, discussed the type of lock I needed…because of course in Italy one size does not fit all when it comes to locks- or anything else for that matter. Tonino also tromped off in the rain looking for the destination of the kitchen drain, accompanied by the stone mason and his son, all three curious about the mistero of the invisible drain pipe. They have not yet figured it out, despite their soggy efforts. They think it might dump into the neighbor’s garden, in which case we are all to keep mum.
At twenty minutes to seven the stone mason reminds him that we still need to procure the necessary door lock for the woodworker install in the morning. “Porca miseria! Chiudono alle sette! Andiamo!” We race for his car, and then the southern Italian version of the Indy 500 along narrow, pitted, winding roads commences. We bump over hills and thud into potholes enroute for Potenza. We hit the autostrada at full speed, commendable given the short onramp, and screech around curves. Meanwhile, Tonino’s demeanor is that of a man on a country jaunt – “ So, Vah-leriee…did you enjoy lunch? Antonia is excited about the barbecue tomorrow night.” Other sundry conversation pieces were lightly discussed whilst he zoomed at Mach speed and missed his exit. Porca vaca, but no problem…we’ll still make it in time, he says merrily.
He morphs from Indy racer to Neapolitan city driver like a Jekyll-and-Hyde. He passes the line of traffic that is waiting patiently to turn (so un-Italian), blasts by them to the intersection, interjects the station wagon so swiftly and smoothly through the traffic that the other drivers don’t even have time to react. Not a single horn blared and he grinned. “Ha, alla Napolitana!” Pedal to the floor, we cruise into the parking lot of the ferramenta (hardware store) to find it open. Alleluia, says my friend.
Alas, the ferramenta has only one lock that will fit the dimensions stated, and it is a very down-market low quality one, says Tonino. Checks his watch. Andiamo, sbrigati. We can make it. Back into the family-sized rocket-ship to the Brico-fer, where the lock department has a line. Tonino smiles slightly, taps his fingers on the counter, tries to catch the clerk’s eye. Finally he interjects, “Solo una domanda…” and asks about the lock. The clerk doesn’t look up, just responds that they don’t carry the type of lock he wants. Tonino grabs my arm and hustles me to the door.
We nearly get sideswiped as he backs onto the road, then a cop car swings widely around us without a side-ward glance. Uphill through neighborhoods I’ve never seen before, he continues his Neapolitan personality as we arrive at Ferramenta Number Three. Surprised that they still open, Tonino double parks and leaves his door open as he rushes inside to make sure they don’t slam down their shutters before he can get through the door. I catch up just as the owner is bringing out a lock. It is a fancy one, it requires additional parts, it is the top of the line. It costs a fortune. I gasp at the price audibly. Tonino tells the guy, thanks but no thanks while hoping we won’t have to return to eat crow.
One more place, he mumbles. I just remembered it, should have thought of it first, they’re probably closed by now, the guy is persnickety…he’s talking to himself about the best streets to bypass the traffic as he weaves through the cars, nearly grazes a pedestrian, and jokes with me all at the same time. “Sembra aperta! Sembra…” The lights are ablaze. There are people inside. We enter. We are sized up and told to take a number. Nevermind that there are only two people in the store, the owner and a crony who is not buying anything, just shooting the breeze. Persnickety, indeed.
Yes, I have that type of lock, he says. He climbs a ladder to retrieve the box and sets it on the counter. Then he leaves to find something else for another guy who has come in. Tonino tries to cut through the tape with his fingernail, unsuccessfully. We look at each other and stifle laughs. This guy is in no hurry. It is already after 8:00 pm. “His wife must be a terrible cook. Why else wouldn’t he want to hurry up and go home and eat like everyone else?” Tonino whispers. Three others arrive. We have become giddy after the rush and adrenaline. Ferramenta Man ambles to and fro, while wise-cracking with people. “You may not be the dumbest guy in Potenza,” he tells the crony, “but you’re surely the ugliest.” Other things are said in dialect that garner great laughs from everyone except me.
Finally he comes back to us with the parts needed to change the lock opening from a right side door to a left side door. Who knew? Well, Tonino did, thank goodness. The man ceremoniously slices through the strip of tape and opens the box. He painstakingly, slowly removes the screws, piano piano. He is ready to place the mechanism into the metal lock casing and something distracts him. Tonino grabs the piece and starts to insert it, which is not to be tolerated, bringing the man’s attention back to the task at hand. Just as he is about to twist the little screws back in to secure the whole contraption, a customer knocks over a display and nearly clobbers me with a tumbling box. The owner goes to set things right, and Tonino grabs the screws and quickly turns them into place. He tries miserably to put the whole thing back into the Styrofoam packaging to stuff back in the box. Tsk, tsk from the owner who has returned and slaps Tonino’s hand away. We are now busting out laughing, which only slows the owner down even more. Finally, I am allowed to pay, which brings some rather unflattering-like dialect comments onto Tonino’s head from what I could gather, and we run to the car. We look at each other and cannot stop laughing. We start saying the same thing at the same time, right in succession: Aho! Mamma mia! Che avventura! Che un personaggio!” This makes us laugh even harder.
Finally we start back toward Lucanella, slightly less speedily but not much. He drops me off at my car and I call out, Ciao bello, which makes him blush. He and his wife have become dear friends very quickly; we’re the same age, so they’re as happy to have new friends in the village as we are.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Guest Blogger: Laura Thayer
All this talk of house, friends and famiglia has made me a little homesick. Since I can't run back to Lucanella as I long to do, I decided to take the week off for a trip to Ohio. I'll be hanging out with my sister and visiting my grandfather. In my absence, I asked my friend Laura of Ciao Amalfi to share one of her secret spots on Italy's most famous coastline. She proves there is real life among the tourist towns!
Authentic Italy on the Amalfi Coast
Tourists flock to the Amalfi Coast during these warm summer months in search of the paradise and refreshing cool of the Mediterranean Sea . Yet, living in a place always brings a different perspective, and these are the months that I retreat into my own oasis – everyday life on the Amalfi Coast
I write often on my blog about the places you can experience the feel of real life on the Amalfi Coast
But, when you’re ready to get away from the crowds, just head to Scala. The village is only a short bus ride from Amalfi or Ravello, and buses run frequently throughout the year. A walk through the quiet streets transports you to another world – back to the simple life on the
In the Middle Ages, Scala was closely tied to the city of
Stepping into the cool quiet of Scala’s Duomo, much larger than any of Ravello’s churches, it is a striking experience to see the wealth and grandeur that the now-sleepy Scala once enjoyed. The sound of your footsteps echo through the vast interior, and it’s easy to get lost in thought about 12th-century life, when this church and the piazza would have been the central focus of a busy town. Look in the main aisle for a beautiful Baroque period ceramic tile design on the floor showing a decorative shield surrounded by four cherubs carrying a floral garland. In the center of the shield is the emblem of Scala, a lion climbing up a ladder. This emblem reflects the origin of the town’s name from the word “scala” meaning stairs or ladder.
While the panoramic views from nearby Ravello get all the press, one of the little secrets of Scala is that the views are even better. From high above in Scala you can see all of Ravello stretched out on its rocky plateau as well as incredible views of the Amalfi Coast and Bay of Salerno
Scala is also an ideal base for walking and hiking on the Amalfi Coast
Living on the Amalfi Coast—through the blustery, sleepy winters and the steamy, crowded summers—I can tell you that the authentic Italy is still alive and well here. It goes on despite the motor coaches and crowds, and is so much more than what you see zipping through in one day on a tour. In Scala, you’ll still find trains of mules carrying their heavy loads up and down the steps; daily life still centers around the family. Life is quiet and slow and seemingly unaware of the tourist hullabaloo far below.
Photos © Laura Thayer, Ciao Amalfi!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Rock Science
It seemed like such a simple proposition - replace two sets of rotting, broken-down French doors and a small kitchen window. In my New World mind I envisioned them simply removing the old and installing the new. I had met with the falegname, or woodworker, while I was in Lucanella in January, who gave me work quotes and material options. We chose the color we wanted and gave the go-ahead to have the doors and shutters fabricated.
The muratore (stone mason) was brought into the mix because it turns out that removing old doors also means adjusting old walls. The three-feet thick openings are constructed of ancient stones, and peeling off the wood jams and frames revealed rubble and rotted lintels that would need to be redone. Fortunately for us, our friend Tonino, a building contractor, knew the right person to call.
Maestro Vito and his son showed up with the tools of their trade and shy smiles. They broke into the stone and pulled out bits and pieces of "filler" that had, at some point in the ensuing centuries, been stuffed into the walls, creating a lot of rubble on my floor. My first impression was, "What have you done to my house?!" but their constant calls of "calma, tranquilla" - and the fact that they were ever-so-patiently fitting stones just so into the cavities- calmed my nerves. They pulled out an enormous, blackened, rotting lintel. When I commented, "Gee, that thing looks like it's 200 years old," Maestro Vito responded, "I'd add another hundred to that number." So, you're saying you yanked out a hunk of building material that is older than my country? They were very amused by that thought.
They arrived early, worked hard, labored skillfully, and left sweaty. They respected my desire to leave the great thick depth of wall that led to the door openings distorted and uneven even though they thought me a bit loopy for that. It's a three-hundred-or-so old casa, I don't want it to be all perfect and even and new-looking. I won them over on the first day with a snack of mortadella sandwiches and beer. They won me over with their shy smiles and their amazing clean-up job. Seriously, men who create a mess and then clean up after themselves?! They even scrubbed the bathroom sink where they had been drawing water for making mortar!
Then the falegname returned to take final measurements of the openings and finished the fabrication process. He and his son came to install them, which, again, would seem simple, but was an operation that would consume twelve hours of their time. He had a heavy accent and a soft heart, and at the end of the day he changed my front door lock, helped me unload some heavy items from my car, and gave me a little discount on the price. He brought a new iron railing to place between my living room doors and shutters, "the old one was all rusted and ugly," he stated matter-of-factly. And he didn't charge me for it.
I was so impressed with these guys, all of them craftsmen of the old school who pride themselves on their work and their traditions, and who only reluctantly, shyly accept praise and thanks for their efforts. I have a habitable house...and thanks to their careful labors it feels ever more like home.
The muratore (stone mason) was brought into the mix because it turns out that removing old doors also means adjusting old walls. The three-feet thick openings are constructed of ancient stones, and peeling off the wood jams and frames revealed rubble and rotted lintels that would need to be redone. Fortunately for us, our friend Tonino, a building contractor, knew the right person to call.
Maestro Vito and his son showed up with the tools of their trade and shy smiles. They broke into the stone and pulled out bits and pieces of "filler" that had, at some point in the ensuing centuries, been stuffed into the walls, creating a lot of rubble on my floor. My first impression was, "What have you done to my house?!" but their constant calls of "calma, tranquilla" - and the fact that they were ever-so-patiently fitting stones just so into the cavities- calmed my nerves. They pulled out an enormous, blackened, rotting lintel. When I commented, "Gee, that thing looks like it's 200 years old," Maestro Vito responded, "I'd add another hundred to that number." So, you're saying you yanked out a hunk of building material that is older than my country? They were very amused by that thought.
They arrived early, worked hard, labored skillfully, and left sweaty. They respected my desire to leave the great thick depth of wall that led to the door openings distorted and uneven even though they thought me a bit loopy for that. It's a three-hundred-or-so old casa, I don't want it to be all perfect and even and new-looking. I won them over on the first day with a snack of mortadella sandwiches and beer. They won me over with their shy smiles and their amazing clean-up job. Seriously, men who create a mess and then clean up after themselves?! They even scrubbed the bathroom sink where they had been drawing water for making mortar!
Then the falegname returned to take final measurements of the openings and finished the fabrication process. He and his son came to install them, which, again, would seem simple, but was an operation that would consume twelve hours of their time. He had a heavy accent and a soft heart, and at the end of the day he changed my front door lock, helped me unload some heavy items from my car, and gave me a little discount on the price. He brought a new iron railing to place between my living room doors and shutters, "the old one was all rusted and ugly," he stated matter-of-factly. And he didn't charge me for it.
I was so impressed with these guys, all of them craftsmen of the old school who pride themselves on their work and their traditions, and who only reluctantly, shyly accept praise and thanks for their efforts. I have a habitable house...and thanks to their careful labors it feels ever more like home.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Scenes From a Bar
I had barely disentangled myself from the seatbelt when I saw Anna's face in the bar doorway. She had spotted me and was waiting, a smile spread broad across her face, arms raising to wave. "Bentornata!" Welcome back! She pulled me into a hug while scurrying me into the bar. In a flash she was behind the counter, her face beaming while she started preparing a cappuccino, and peppered me with questions about my flight and my plans, reaching across the bar to pat my hand every few minutes.
I spend a lot of time here. This coffee bar, like countless others across Italy, is the main meeting spot and central diffusion point for all gossip in town. It is in the main piazza, so all comings and goings are clearly seen...and discussed. Everything starts here; when the stone masons arrived, we met up at the bar and had to have a coffee before proceeding, a preliminary courtesy. At the end of the day, it is customary to offer them a beer or aperitivo to cap off their hard work.
Old men always occupy a table inside, whiling away the time with cards and caffe corretti. Their own conversations stop to listen to my comments, no matter how banal they may be. At one point, a cappuccino-drinking patron asked me a casual question and a man from the table responded to her with my answer before I could!
One fine morning a man initiated a conversation and we chatted for about ten minutes about all manner of things, after which another guy entered and bobbed his head in my direction asking his friend if I was a foreigner. "No, la signora e' una paesana nostra," (she is one of our villagers) he answered, which told me clearly that I was accepted as an official resident. Since my family heritage lies in a village nearby, I have been accepted as a local despite my far-away accent and my inability to maneuver my car into tight spaces in full view of everyone.
Another day while enjoying a cappuccino and cornetto, a man was passing through the piazza, glanced over and saw me in the bar, and made a bee-line for me. "Mah! You're Michele's cousin? I saw you yesterday with Michele and asked around...I was told you're cousins! E' vero? Wow, Michele was the greatest soccer player in the region! He's a legend. Benvenuta...welcome. If you need anything, you come to me. I'd do anything for a family member of Michele's!" Hmmm, interesting, since my cousin had never told me of these glorious victories of his.
Throughout my three weeks, little by little, I met the majority of the townspeople while standing at the bar sipping my coffee. And little by little, they got to know me and shed their initial wariness or curiosity about me. After all, I'm just an ordinary villager like them.
I spend a lot of time here. This coffee bar, like countless others across Italy, is the main meeting spot and central diffusion point for all gossip in town. It is in the main piazza, so all comings and goings are clearly seen...and discussed. Everything starts here; when the stone masons arrived, we met up at the bar and had to have a coffee before proceeding, a preliminary courtesy. At the end of the day, it is customary to offer them a beer or aperitivo to cap off their hard work.
Bar owners of Lucanella
One fine morning a man initiated a conversation and we chatted for about ten minutes about all manner of things, after which another guy entered and bobbed his head in my direction asking his friend if I was a foreigner. "No, la signora e' una paesana nostra," (she is one of our villagers) he answered, which told me clearly that I was accepted as an official resident. Since my family heritage lies in a village nearby, I have been accepted as a local despite my far-away accent and my inability to maneuver my car into tight spaces in full view of everyone.
Another day while enjoying a cappuccino and cornetto, a man was passing through the piazza, glanced over and saw me in the bar, and made a bee-line for me. "Mah! You're Michele's cousin? I saw you yesterday with Michele and asked around...I was told you're cousins! E' vero? Wow, Michele was the greatest soccer player in the region! He's a legend. Benvenuta...welcome. If you need anything, you come to me. I'd do anything for a family member of Michele's!" Hmmm, interesting, since my cousin had never told me of these glorious victories of his.
Throughout my three weeks, little by little, I met the majority of the townspeople while standing at the bar sipping my coffee. And little by little, they got to know me and shed their initial wariness or curiosity about me. After all, I'm just an ordinary villager like them.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Rest in Peace
I must be getting old. Jetlag seems to hit me harder with each trip I take. Four a.m. awakenings are just not something I enjoy, folks! The three weeks passed so quickly and were so full of activity...and I have so much to tell! I have been looking through my notes and debating about where to start. Rather than begin at the beginning - which would seem so logical, no? - I'll start at the end and deliver the sad news.
There has been a a death in the family. Guido is no more. Or at least we think he is all dead and not mostly dead (to borrow the line from The Princess Bride). It happened on the evening before my departure from Basilicata. He died valiently after transporting me safely to Potenza and not leaving me stranded on the roadside. He managed to limp along until we cruised into an Agip station where he gasped his last breath. He suffered a rupture and resulting hemorrage that bled the engine dry of vital fluids, thus overtaxing and burning his elderly ticker. All in all, it was quite a scary ordeal.
When I left Lucanella everything was normal. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, all was right with the world. I meandered my way to the highway...niente problema. Suddenly I heard a thud and thought I'd hit something in the road. Alas, I saw nothing. Strano, methinks, but whatever. Then a few minutes later the engine starts pinging. Hmmm...bad benzina perhaps? I make a mental note to get premium gasoline while I'm in Potenza. I had planned on getting my oil and tire pressure checked anyway.
Then it gets worse and we start losing power. I notice the engine temperature gauge starting to rise. Sharply. There is nowhere to exit. The exits that do exist have nothing of service until you climb uphill to the nested towns. Must get myself to the first Potenza exit, so as not to be stuck with nada. Come on, Guido...you can do it, I whisper. We hit the exit, and cruise into the parking lot; Guido stopped. Despite resuscitation measures, he could not be revived.
It all happened so quickly. The water tube ruptured, which was the thudding noise. The engine was quickly drained of water, which was the pinging. The engine then burned..."E' bruciato" said the semi-mechanic who was on duty, while watching smoke rippling upward. Uh...ma, devo guidare a Roma domani mattina, says me. I have to drive to Rome tomorrow! "Not in this car, you're not," says he, as he pulls down the shutters and prepares to go home. Umm...but...crap! Wait!
Out comes the telefonino. Tonino? Auito! I pass the phone to the whatever-he-is who explains the situation to my friend. Gives the phone back to me and says arrivederci. "Valerie...e' molto grave. Vengo subito." Which he does, hero that he is, with his 11-year old daughter in tow who wanted to see just what the americana had gotten herself into this time. But while I am waiting I go into the bar and suck down a brewski. I'm not normally much of a beer drinker but I was shaking at the thought of being stranded along the road; of what if the engine had actually caught fire; of what would I have done if it happened the following day while I was driving to Rome.
Tonino arrives. He looks. "E' bruciato. Beh. Niente da fare a quest'ora....can't get a mechanic over here now, it's after 6:30 pm. Thankfully it didn't happen along the autostrada somewhere between here and Rome, where you would not have had friends to call," he says. "Allora, let's go grill!" He and his wife had been planning a barbecue for my send-off.
Back at the ranch -or the agriturismo as the case may be- Tonino and Peppe go into salvatore mode discussing various options of getting me to Roma. Mannaggia, I have to be in the Tribunale in the morning or else I would drive you there myself, says Tonino. That is the last comment directed to me, as they put their heads together and talk amongst themselves as to what should be done. An hour later, they decide that at this point in the game it is best to get a rental car, as I can't possibly get a bus reservation at this late hour and the train would require a connection in Napoli then Roma Termini to get to Fiumicino...too much hassle with luggage and not much cheaper. Peppe knows a guy, will call him in the morning. Fatto. Now let's grill! At this point, I am allowed back into the conversation.
I ate too much, drank too much (thanks to the never-empty glass they keep pouring), and couldn't sleep well from the excess adrenaline, but they give me a valiant send-off nonetheless. Rest in peace, dear Guido. You were brave and trustworthy right to the end.
There has been a a death in the family. Guido is no more. Or at least we think he is all dead and not mostly dead (to borrow the line from The Princess Bride). It happened on the evening before my departure from Basilicata. He died valiently after transporting me safely to Potenza and not leaving me stranded on the roadside. He managed to limp along until we cruised into an Agip station where he gasped his last breath. He suffered a rupture and resulting hemorrage that bled the engine dry of vital fluids, thus overtaxing and burning his elderly ticker. All in all, it was quite a scary ordeal.
When I left Lucanella everything was normal. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, all was right with the world. I meandered my way to the highway...niente problema. Suddenly I heard a thud and thought I'd hit something in the road. Alas, I saw nothing. Strano, methinks, but whatever. Then a few minutes later the engine starts pinging. Hmmm...bad benzina perhaps? I make a mental note to get premium gasoline while I'm in Potenza. I had planned on getting my oil and tire pressure checked anyway.
Then it gets worse and we start losing power. I notice the engine temperature gauge starting to rise. Sharply. There is nowhere to exit. The exits that do exist have nothing of service until you climb uphill to the nested towns. Must get myself to the first Potenza exit, so as not to be stuck with nada. Come on, Guido...you can do it, I whisper. We hit the exit, and cruise into the parking lot; Guido stopped. Despite resuscitation measures, he could not be revived.
It all happened so quickly. The water tube ruptured, which was the thudding noise. The engine was quickly drained of water, which was the pinging. The engine then burned..."E' bruciato" said the semi-mechanic who was on duty, while watching smoke rippling upward. Uh...ma, devo guidare a Roma domani mattina, says me. I have to drive to Rome tomorrow! "Not in this car, you're not," says he, as he pulls down the shutters and prepares to go home. Umm...but...crap! Wait!
Out comes the telefonino. Tonino? Auito! I pass the phone to the whatever-he-is who explains the situation to my friend. Gives the phone back to me and says arrivederci. "Valerie...e' molto grave. Vengo subito." Which he does, hero that he is, with his 11-year old daughter in tow who wanted to see just what the americana had gotten herself into this time. But while I am waiting I go into the bar and suck down a brewski. I'm not normally much of a beer drinker but I was shaking at the thought of being stranded along the road; of what if the engine had actually caught fire; of what would I have done if it happened the following day while I was driving to Rome.
Tonino arrives. He looks. "E' bruciato. Beh. Niente da fare a quest'ora....can't get a mechanic over here now, it's after 6:30 pm. Thankfully it didn't happen along the autostrada somewhere between here and Rome, where you would not have had friends to call," he says. "Allora, let's go grill!" He and his wife had been planning a barbecue for my send-off.
Back at the ranch -or the agriturismo as the case may be- Tonino and Peppe go into salvatore mode discussing various options of getting me to Roma. Mannaggia, I have to be in the Tribunale in the morning or else I would drive you there myself, says Tonino. That is the last comment directed to me, as they put their heads together and talk amongst themselves as to what should be done. An hour later, they decide that at this point in the game it is best to get a rental car, as I can't possibly get a bus reservation at this late hour and the train would require a connection in Napoli then Roma Termini to get to Fiumicino...too much hassle with luggage and not much cheaper. Peppe knows a guy, will call him in the morning. Fatto. Now let's grill! At this point, I am allowed back into the conversation.
I ate too much, drank too much (thanks to the never-empty glass they keep pouring), and couldn't sleep well from the excess adrenaline, but they give me a valiant send-off nonetheless. Rest in peace, dear Guido. You were brave and trustworthy right to the end.
Bryan and Guido in happier days
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Back in the Nest
Hey y'all, I'm back in the nest. I have an inbox full of ignored messages, a head full of fog, a camera full of pictures, and a heart full of beautiful experiences. I'll be posting about some of them soon, once the dreaded jetlag subsides. I have to say that the flight crews on both the outbound and return flights were awesome. Really, the best I've seen in years. Kudos to United! Now if they would just refund half my fare for losing half of my seat to the enormous man next to me...
Meanwhile, thanks to those who commented about your favorite -or least favorite- Italian words. The winner of the random drawing is MaryBeth, who has garnered herself a sampling of Pocket Espresso, the liquid version of Pocket Coffee candies. Congrats! (Send me an email with your address and I'll get that right to you, MaryBeth.)
A presto!
Basilicata's version of Beltway traffic
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