A Day of Remembrance

This morning at 3:32 a.m. the bells of L'Aquila tolled resonantly, pealing 308 times for each victim of the earthquake that ravaged this city one year ago.  More than 20,000 people braved the high-altitude night chill and threatening rain to gather and commemorate the moment that changed their lives and their city forever. 

They snaked through the rubble-strewn centro storico in a solemn torch and candle-lit procession, making their way to the Piazza Duomo.  At 4:00 a.m. a mass was held inside the severely damaged Basilica, with big screens set up in the piazza to bring the message of hope and perseverance to the overflowing crowd.

While the tendopoli have been dismantled and prefabricated houses have been set up, they are temporary shelters far removed from the city, in "non places" that lack public transit connections, grocery stores, restaurants and gathering spots.  The residents are housed but they are not at home.  They are in a sort of limbo in a hinterland; the heart of their community has been destroyed and they do not yet have a place to regain that sense of being and belonging that they need and crave.  The centro is still overflowing with 4 1/2 million tons of rubble and the residents are not allowed to enter their old neighborhoods, their piazzas, their homes.

The earth-jarring, life-shattering quake took place one year ago.  The aftershocks have ceased, the victims have been buried, the survivors have carried on, but tremors of displacement, disillusion and devastation continue to rock their world.

Today I bow my head and pause to remember; I stand with the Aquilani to tell them that they are not forgotten.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Related Links:

Dear Davide:  A touching letter from 12-year old Sofia to a classmate who died in the earthquake.

3:32 a.m.:  Eleonora's experience during the earthquake and her time in Abruzzo.

Then and Now:  A photographic slideshow of scenes comparing them from a year ago to today.

Abruzzo: Un Anno Dopo il Terremoto - a report on the state of the area one year later (in Italian)

Adopt a Student from Abruzzo.  NIAF continues their support of Abruzzo students to help them continue their studies.

The Eagle is Slowly Rising.  My previous blog entries about L'Aquila.

** Post Edited 4/7/10 to add photos of the MAPs (Moduli Abitativi Provvisori, modular provisional housing units).  They are clumped together and located in rural areas or villages outside of L'Aquila.  A list of those locales is posted on the Protezione Civile website.   As the photos show, these are rapidly-constructed temporary dwellings, resembling glorified Tuff-sheds on concrete slabs.  They are certainly better than tents, but they do not embody or encourage the sense of "home" and place that make a community.

photo credits: veggiefrog and Protezione Civile Nazionale

A Basilicata Recap

I received some wonderful emails after the last post, several from folks considering a trip to Basilicata and asking for travel information.  Got me to thinking that maybe I should start an incoming travel agency!  ;) 

I have written about our various journeys through Lucania, but thought this would be a good time to provide some links and a recap of some of them for blog newcomers who have missed those posts.

Matera

We have spent a few months there when you add up all our trips and have come to consider Matera one of the most fascinating cities in Italy.  Whenever we're in town we make ourselves at home at Residence San Giorgio.  The Suite dei Granai is awesome!  Suite della Bifora is romantic and has an ancient underground wine chamber.  All the suites are spacious and most of them have little kitchens, which is a nice convenience.

So just what do we love so much about Matera?

The Cats.  Matera has oodles of cute-as-can-be kitties.  They are not so skittish or feral that they dash off.  On the contrary, many of them purr and wait for some affection.

The Music.  Whether it's classical, jazz, bird songs or chiming bells we hear music wherever we go.

The Stone.  Matera is built upon, into, and out of rock.  It is endlessly interesting and beautiful.

The Food.  I've written restaurant reviews for Matera as well as other parts of Basilicata, so hop over to Slow Travel and rev up the tastebuds.

All Around The Region:

Pisticci is a pretty town that captured our imaginations so much we even sought out real estate offices there.  Obviously we chose Lucanella instead, but I think we could have felt very much at home there.

The people of Aliano demonstrate their gratitude to Carlo Levi by keeping his legacy alive all over town, which has been declared a "national literary park".

The death of Craco is oddly and ironically what draws visitors to the ghostly spires and overgrown streets of this abandoned town.

The days of the Briganti and the Risorgimento are relived every summer through the spectacular production, La Storia Bandita at La Grancia Historical Park. 

Thrill seekers will find that Basilicata is not as sedate as you might think.  You can fly like an angel at the Volo del Angelo, a high-flying zipline suspended over a very deep gorge.

And for those of you who missed my two-part rant about how Basilicata gets dissed in the press, be sure to read A Little Misguided and Misinformed, where I declare my undying love in defense of the Motherland. 

Visual Basilicata

I know I've been talking a lot about Basilicata lately.  Only natural, since I just returned and am giddy over the place.  As I read through some of my previous posts from years past, I realize that words just don't do it all justice.  I can utilize every adjective at my disposal ,but the astounding beauty and my visceral reaction to it cannot be fully experienced through black typeface on a white page.

That's why today I'm giving you the visual experience of this place that has captured my heart.  Maybe by looking at photos, watching videos, and seeing the webcams you'll understand why I love it so!

Panoramio
 The whole landscape of Lucania is covered by fantastic photos and maps on this shutterbug site.




Valle dell'Agri.  An agriturismo site that put up a lovely slideshow of the seasonally-changing vistas of the Agri River valley.

Basilicata Autentica. Francis Ford Coppola describes why his ancestral region is such a great place...good enough for him to invest heavily in the reconstruction of a palazzo that will soon open as a hotel.




Basilicata in Scena.  Clever marketing video assembled by the Region of Basilicata, comparing its gems to the most important places around the world.



Matera Webcams.   I love looking at webcams, especially those that have a birdseye view onto a piazza.  Matera boasts two.  It's *almost* like being there.  Okay, not really.  You can't smell the coffee or hear the chatter and church bells, but they're fun to watch anyway, especially during the passeggiata.

One webcam is set up above Piazza Vittorio Veneto, while the other is mounted in Piazza del Sedile.  (I discovered that it is raining in Matera today, just like it is here in Virginia.)


The Anzi page on Facebook has some gorgeous photos of that hamlet (which is one of my ancestral villages), including a picture taken at a festa that happened to capture Bryan and me in the shot!


Enjoy the spectacular scenery!

Potenza

My first impression of Potenza several years ago was not a favorable one.  Viewed from the valley as we exited the autostrada to find our way up into the mountains toward my ancestral villages, all I noticed was the industrial gloom and railway tracks.  Looking up toward the city didn't improve my impression much; modern, concrete, glass.  Not much charm, I thought.  I was relieved to get into the placid heights and sheep-strewn hills.

I admit that my second and third encounters with the city that is the capital of the Basilicata region as well as of the Potenza province didn't do much to raise my opinion, either.  While spending several weeks in the area last year, Bryan and I made some forays into town only to find ourselves perpetually lost in the swirling maze of a nonsensical street pattern.  Impatient, horn-blowing drivers and misguided signage prevented us from reaching the centro storico.  We gave up in frustration and fled back to the tranquil agriturismo, cursing the obviously sadistic engineer who laid out the current streets and wondering why anyone would want to live in the tenement-like housing blocks we had seen.

It ought to be beautiful.  Potenza is Italy's highest regional capital at 819 meters (nearly 2700 feet) and is nearly encircled by the Appenine Mountains.  Originally inhabited by the ancient Lucani people, it came under Roman control and dubbed Potentia.  The famed via Appia which connected Rome to Brindisi crosses Potenza. 

The area saw nearly constant invasions: the Samnites, the Goths, Lombards, Saracens, Normans, French and Spanish.  It was heavily bombed by the Allies during WWII.  When the poor place wasn't being sacked, pillaged, invaded, raided, dominated or bombed, it was rattled by earthquakes, the most recent a devastingly strong one in 1980 that left much of Potenza in rubble.  The subsequent antiseismic reconstruction measures sacrificed charm for security, giving the city its current, unattractive aspect.

But, as I discovered with Napoli, there is more than meets the eye on an initial encounter.  Once I procured a decent map of the town and consulted with some locals, I found that Potenza isn't as dreary and disorderly as originally perceived.  There is history hidden behind its modern, ungainly facade.  In fact, the lofty centro storico is downright delightful.

Potenza wraps itself around the hill that it occupies.  Stretched along the ridgetop is the long and narrow historical center which is most easily reached by a series of escalators, a less frustrating arrival than the twisty streets.  (There are escalators on both the north and south sides of the city.) 

Once on top of the hill we found medieval city gates, narrow pedestrial lanes, attractive stone buildings and pretty palazzi.  There is a snazzy shopping street boasting cute cafes, and in the main piazza we found a compact but elegantly-outfitted opera theatre complete with velvet-trimmed boxes encircling the interior.  there is an impressive archeological museum.

The charming, narrow via Pretoria wends across the crest, giving way to piazzas and pedestrian alleys along the route.  We peeked into the courtyards of centuries-old palaces while browsing shop windows.  This is the site of the impressive evening passeggiata, that daily ritual of roaming the streets to meet friends and be seen.  Potenza's is vibrant and vociferous.  The city is also home to a large university as well as a prestigious music conservatory, which lend a youthful air to the place.

I was glad to find such a friendly and lively heart.  It is the closest city of substance to Lucanella, and we'll no doubt find ourselves there frequently for services that our village lacks.  While much of the town's commercial activity is in the lower, sprawled-out industrial area, it is nice to know there is still history and a sense of community and a gathering spot for the Potentini despite the glass and concrete cloak.

Potenza will never have the eternal appeal of Matera; it can't, given its spine-shattering past.  But it is growing on me. After a few visits the roads that seemed so confusing started to make sense to me, and I came to appreciate how quickly we could get out of the city and into the countryside.  In just minutes the residents can leave the asphalt jungle for high, forested mountains with tranquil trails, pristine air and ethereal views.  Potenza is not so bad after all.

Related links:

Photos of Potenza by a local

The Village

The village is small, just about 600 inhabitants.  A friend quipped that we're raising the number to 602.  While it's a little joke it is also a small point of pride because in these parts and all throughout the Mezzogiorno, small towns like this are losing population numbers annually as kids go away to college in the north and others seek work in industrial centers throughout Europe, never to return to their roots.  Those who remain are somewhat resigned, shrugging sadly and sighing, "Beh, e' cosi'" (It's how it is) - while wishing otherwise.

We are rather surprised that more people don't live here because it is within commuting distance to Potenza, which is both the Regional and Provincial capital.  The village is certainly much more picturesque and less costly, but apparently city living is more attractive than hamlet life.

Not to us.  We like the piccoli paesi with their medieval centers, sinewy pedestrian-only streets, and friendly shopkeepers.  We like that the caffe owner already knows us - and how we prefer our caffe' (or the locally-loved espressino, as the case may be), and like exchanging a few words with Giovanni at the little supermercato while stocking up on meal provisions.  And this level of familiarity is after an all-too brief visit; I have been shopping at the same stores here in Viriginia for several months without a single employee recognizing me, greeting me warmly, or even attempting anything akin to an actual conversation.

Our village may be small but it is not spartan.  It has practically everything we need for daily life; the necessities that we can't find here can be procured in Potenza.  There are three bars, two food shops, and a fruit and veggie store, along with a butcher, a baker, and an iron-works maker.  They have a respectable weekly mercato, and a pretty piazza for gathering and gabbing.

The views from the ridgetop are mesmerizing.  Verdant, thickly-forested mountains unfold into thin, jagged gorges.  Birds with differing songs raise harmonized chirpings in the chill morning sun.  Hawks and falcons dance on the wind currents.  Faint fluffs of clouds skid along the peaks and tuck into hillside folds and hang suspended above the river valley.  Distant sheep bells clatter a rhythmic melody.

We have been hesitant to put the name "out there"; once it's online it can't be erased.  We have decided to call the village Lucanella.  Being newcomers into such a small town we don't want to publicize the real name of the village, unsure of how our fellow townsfolk would react to internet publicity.  We would never want them to think we're patronizing or exploiting them.  Besides, at the moment we feel rather possessive, and kind of like it being our little secret.

Lucanella will be home...one day.  For the moment our bodies are in Virginia, but our hearts are on that hilltop.  I close my eyes and I can hear the tinny clang of the church bells.  I can see the barista's smiling face and feel her warm and enthusiastic embrace when I told her we purchased the appartamento.  I walk through the streets in my nearly-asleep state each evening and say buona notte to the sheep in the valley below.  But I'm not asleep, it's not a dream.  Lucanella is real...it has already become a part of us, and we are slowly becoming a part of the village, as well.

La Nuova (Vecchia) Casa

My new house is about 350 years old. There has been much discussion among our acquaintances as to the real age of the building. There are probably records in some great book at the city archives that we may one day be able to consult, but that would take away some of the lively debate we have been enjoying. Some friends say it is even older, while others argue for a more "modern" construction-meaning it is "only" 250 years old. Judging from the layers of dirt we've encountered I'd throw my vote on the older side of the coin. Maria and I think we could actually see the varying epochs of history in the strata layers that covered the floor. Curtains of spider webs had to be parted, like something you'd see in an Indiana Jones movie. We have breathed in and sneezed out some ancient dirt, my friends.

There is a very old-fashioned fireplace with a very small and irregular bocca, a particular feature very peculiar to this area.  The small hole consumed less wood and wasted less heat, I'm told.  They were also built this way because the primary function of the fireplace was for cooking, and coals would be brought out onto the stone where a pot was hung from a metal ring.

In addition to an apartment likely built in the 1600s we have taken possession of two cantinas and a legnaia. Because the town is built onto the hillside these storage rooms of old are carved out of solid rock. The cantine were the key selling point for Bryan, who envisioned demijohns of vino and legs of prosciutto merrily aging in their naturally climate-controlled depths.

The legnaia, or "woodshed" as it is translated, was a bonus, a room we hadn't seen during our original property tour, which rests below our flagstone terrace and, like the cantine, is chiseled out of the mountainside. It currently contains about 30 big glass demijohns ready for a trip to the local winery, along with a discarded bathtub where, legend has it, potent moonshine was once-upon-a-time brewed up. The legnaia is roomy and cozy and may one day be converted into a taverna or office. We're told we can hack away at the rock to enlarge it, if we should ever feel the urge.

View from the village edge to see how it is built into the hillside

The terrace is going to be a fabulous space once it is weeded. There is room for a bistro table and maybe a wood-burning grill. There are stone built-in planters for herbs and a banco for sitting. Giovanna told me that women would sit there to shell peas or mend clothing while chatting.  I foresee a pretty wrought iron gate at its entrance and wisteria or honeysuckle on an arbor. I will sit there and enjoy my cappuccino while taking in the view and listening to the church bells clang out the time.

Below, in the garden that we are told belongs to us, a nest of cats live in playful harmony, climbing a tree trunk up to a cozy perch of dried foliage that looks like they have taken over an eagle's nest. They are probably descendants of cats who roamed this village with roots dating back hundreds of years, like everyone else who lives here. We are the newcomers, the only foreigners in town, but we have been told that since my heritage hails from a nearby village I am already considered a paesana. With warm smiles, friendly chats, rounds of caffe, and helpful assistance given freely, I have already been made to feel like a local, confirming our choice of this house and this village.

The Quest for the Keys

“I don’t have a key or a deed to show for it, but we now own a house in Italy,” I told Bryan in a phone call immediately after the closing. After signing the papers, the notaio informed me that it would take about  a month to complete the official document and send it to me.  As the previous owner dashed from the notaio’s office to catch a taxi, she absentmindedly informed me that she was not in possession of a key to the house we had just purchased, thrusting us in pursuit of a relic that was akin to a search for the holy grail.

“Probabilmente le si trova da Peppe,” she told us cryptically. Upon arrival we duly sought out Peppe, who did not have them, but who linked us to the last known keeper of the keys. Peppe held up his hands in front of his chest and, with a regretful expression, informed us that he had turned them over to la signora’s local accountant who handles matters for her in this region. This ragioniera, like all good antagonists, claimed ignorance and cast blame back onto the previous relic-holder, namely Peppe. An impasse lasted several hours.

Local guides were enlisted to help us seek out clues to its whereabouts. They surveyed the situation and assessed varying motives for concealment. After about an hour of piazza-side discussion, a consensus was reached that the ragioniera, acting as an agent for the insensitive land baron, was to be held accountable. Peppe, after all, was a neighbor who was happy to have us buying property in the vicolo, and he had explained quite worthily to my guides that he had returned the key because he fully expected that it would have been sent to the signora, so she could present it to me at the closing. All involved, including eavesdropping passersby, agreed the ragioniera was the key-keeping culprit.

Phone calls were made, but the noble’s agent, not wanting to stoop to drive from Potenza into the hinterlands to search for them, suggested that it was our problem and we should “just have a locksmith come over and change the locks.” That’s when our friends, Peppino and Giovanna, donned their armour, stepped in, and got themselves into a true chivalric lather. “This is unacceptable! How can this woman not have a key ready after all the months Valeria has waited? What do you mean you expect her to go through hoops to get inside the house she has just purchased? It’s not her responsibility to get keys made! You get them made and bill them to la signora!”

More inquiries ensued involving a widening circle of players; our righteous search for the holy grail led us through shadows and rocky terrain while our hopes of finding the coveted key flagged. Finally, in late afternoon, la signora deigned to return a call to Giovanna, wondering why everyone was so worked up. Her condescending nonchalance set Giovanna, a normally sweet-tempered, angelic-faced woman, into a diatribe explaining to la signora the meaning of courtesy, telling her that her actions were not just rude they were of cattivo gusto, socially unacceptable and uncouth. This may be how you do things in Roma, she railed, but it is a slap in the face to Valeria, who wants merely and rightly to enter the house she purchased a couple days ago. It is your duty to get her a key, and get it to her NOW!

I’m always amazed at Italians’ ability to argue forcefully and then end a conversation on an amiable note. Giovanna returned to her normal self, uttered some pleasantries, chirped a sweet buona sera and a series of musical ciao-ciao-ciao’s and snapped her phone shut.

“Scusami,” she said, “but this has me so angry!” Then she was off in pursuit of la signora’s local housekeeper to see if she had an extra set of keys for this particular apartment. The elderly lady was appalled at the story, delved into a search in la signora’s “big house” and came up empty.

With spirits flagging we all tromped down to the coffee bar like a dour parade. The ragionera was not happy to be among the peasants dealing with this, even more so now that half the town was angry with him and his boss. He had, somewhat suspiciously, located the small keys for the cantinas, our rock-hewn storage chambers where generations of prosciutto-making and sausage-curing has taken place. One door opened easily; in the other, the key fit and turned but not enough to ease the lock open. He suggested WD-40. While it may well have been a sensible idea, our knights were not going to allow him to shirk any of his full duty. There followed more arguing from Peppino. More waiting.

The ragioniera went off somewhere; I figured he escaped back to Potenza, out of reach of the villagers who were clearly enjoying the show and whose ire was mounting against him in favor of the povera signora americana who had been innocently, fruitlessly, diligently searching and was being held out in the cold by the landed gentry.

Suddenly the ragioniera appeared with a long silver key. He held it aloft like a religious icon. We don’t know from where he procured it or whose door it was meant to open. “It just might work,” he said. I knew it was not the original key for our door; when we looked at the apartment the key that had been handed to us was a big iron thing. He made a ceremonious gesture and inserted his new find into the old-fashioned keyhole and twisted it. The door snapped open.

Amid cheers and a reverently spoken ‘finalmente’ we crossed the threshold into the inner sanctum. It may have been the dulling light, or perhaps my newly-inspired suspicion of the suddenly-discovered relic, but I thought I detected a slight smirk on the face of the ragioniera as he departed.

The original iron key has not turned up, still secreted away to confound the seekers. The mysteriously-appearing replacement is duller than the original grail perhaps, but it gave me access to the castle nonetheless, with my fellow villagers wishing me a warm welcome by their solidarity in the search.