The Thrill of the Hunt

Yes, we have become hunters.  We've prowled the woods, scrambled in the underbrush, and tracked through a river in seach of our prey.  We sustained scratches from thorns and sore backs from bending down, along with wet, muddy feet from the marshy areas, all in search of the wild edible known as aspargi. 

Before yesterday, I'd never seen an asparago in the wild.  I bought the neatly-rowed bundles at the supermercato, each of similar diameter and length, tied up neatly with string.  Aspargus that are coltivato, said my barista, have no taste.  She was explaining how her husband woke her up extraordinarily early the other day as he was preparing to go off on an aparagus-finding expedition.  I pleaded my ignorance publicly, asking where one would go to find the little critters.  Everyone went a little mum, each protective of their hunting grounds.

That's when Osvaldo chimed in.  A sometimes-resident of our village, he was in town for the weekend and was more than willing to talk stalks.  He started describing tracts along the Basento River: take the dirt path on the north side, keep going and you'll find the tell-tale plants.  Our blank looks led him to ask, "Uh, but you do know what the plant looks like, right?"  Well....yeah, it's the pointy green thing that you eat, isn't it?  "Mah!  What?!  You really have never seen a wild asparagus plant before?  Mah!  Andiamo!"

That's how it often happens here.  An off-hand comment results in an invitation or an offer of assistance.  And just like that, we were in his car heading downhill to his childhood home (now abandoned) and known foraging fields.  He led us along the paths, showed us the preferred hiding places of the creatures we were seeking, and how to identify their habitat - the sinewy and prickery tendrils that scream out:  Asparagus grow here.  At our elevation, it is still a bit early in the season and after about an hour of tramping around we were ready to give up when he spotted one of the hunted and called us over to show us the shoot poking up through the ground.  After that we located a few more and I felt positively triumphant when I caught my first all by myself.  All told, it wasn't a big take - 15 stalks.  Not enough for a lunch, but abbastanza for a taste.

From those few, however, many have multiplied.  As we recounted our tale of the hunt, our neighbors and another acquaintance brought bouquets of green stalks to our door.  They were more than willing to share their bounty with us - but not their hunting grounds.  Some secrets remain tightly kept.  But at least we know one place to go and what to look for.  Given a little more time (and some sturdy shoes and protective gloves) we'll become real hunters ourselves.

Happy Birthday, Italia...Sort of

Today marks the 150th anniversary of uniting this here peninsula from fractions and kingdoms into a nation .  You'd think it would draw major celebrations, national pride, fireworks even.  In some cities that is true, but much of Italy seems uninterested, even downright indifferent.  While the schools are closed and politicians will no doubt give windy speeches, there are no major celebrations planned in our area.

The risorgimento created a unified political entity but didn't fully succeed in unifying the nation culturally (or even linguistically, as many regions hold tight to their distinct dialects).  Down here, they viewed the unification as trading one foreign ruler (the Bourbon king) for another (the Savoy king, Vittorio Emanuele, who didn't speak Italian), which, they say, resulted only in territorial expansion and continued exploitation, rather than a united nation.  Loyalty stays with the region - or better to say, with the province or localized area around your town and with your famiglia; politicians and national entities can't be trusted to hold the people's interests at heart.  Campanilismo, is devotion to one's town - only people within earshot of your campanile (bell tower) can be truly trusted.

So...it's complicated.  As with all things political in Italia.  Rather than celebrating the unification, we're told that the festa della repubblica is a more worthy celebration, when a post-war popular vote sent the king into exile and the constitution was established.  But even better than the festa della repubblica, says our barista, is the festa di Sant'Antuon or a nice sagra della salsiccia.  Local celebrations, those are the ones that are most important, he says.  Unity stays within sight of the campanile.

Read Other Bloggers' Views of the 150th Anniverary of Italy's Unification:

Happy Birthday, Italy - Rob at Windrose Hotel

150th Anniversario dell'Unita' d'Italia - Bryan at 2 Italy

Crostini Tricolore - Aglio, Olio e Peperoncino's recipe tribute

Celebrating the 150th Anniversary of Italy and the Italian Language - Becoming Italian Word by Word

150 Unita' d'Italia - News From Italy blog

Celebrate Womanhood!

Auguri!  Today is International Women's Day, or la festa delle donne as they call it in Italy.  Unfortunately, my mom left Basilicata yesterday afternoon so we're not able to celebrate it together.  I can't find mimosa blossoms in our village; at our elevation they haven't opened yet.  They'd have snow on them anyway, as we received another dose of white last night.

Even though we can't go our for a cena speciale together, as is the tradition, I'm still dedicating Women's Day to my mamma, who made many sacrifices, worked her hiney off, and dealt with many obstacles to raise her three children on her own.  She had help and a can-do-attitude role model in her mother, of course.  I am proud to descend from some amazing woman.  So, buona festa to mamma...and to all you wonderful women reading my blog.  Auguri!

Read about the history of Women's Day in this post from a few years ago.

Read some of the Biographies of Notable Women, which offers countless examples of awesome, touching, or odds-defying women.  Famous Female Firsts is a slide-show presentation of ground-breaking gals.

Inevitabilities

Life has certain inevitabilities.  I'm sure you already know that.  Death and taxes are, of course, the most famous.  Living in Italy inevitably means bureaucracy must be mucked through, or that the one time something busts is the one day that the ferramenta (hardware store) is closed.

If you're from Cleveland, it's inevitable that you'll root for a losing team.  Oh sure, you'll get your hopes up at the start of the season, but in the back of your mind you know it's all for naught.  You just get used to annual sports disappointments.  Washingtonians know that traffic is as sure as death and taxes, especially if the President is out and about.  For me, monthly chocolate cravings are inevitable. Not just a little desire for a piece of chocolate, but a ravenous *need* for cioccolato (the darker the better). 

And in my family it is inevitable that the minute my mom steps foot on an airplane to travel away from the cold, snowy, frigid winter of northern Ohio for a milder clime, the weather in said clime will go to pot.  Every.  Time.

Cleveland Lighthouse encased in ice

We had been enjoying sunny, spring-like weather for a weeks.  The almond tree in the garden below us was in full blossom.  The barista had a nice spray of mimosa, the traditional flower for the upcoming festa della donna.  We were taking walks in the countryside and went so far as to have a picnic one Sunday, with gelato afterwards. 

Then.  Mom arrived at Cleveland airport, and at the exact moment that she crosssed from the jetway into the plane the weather went to hell in a handbasket and a frigid cold descended.  We had a nice dusting of snow with a thin, slick layer of ice crystals nested on top.  In fact, some of the white stuff even sprinkled its cold fairy dust on Naples, a nearly unheard-of happening.

It's now windy and finger-numbing cold.  Not the kind of lake-effect, bone-penetrating cold of northern Ohio, I'll grant you.  But enough to make Mom an unhappy camper. 

Snow on the village



But what can you do with the weather and Murphy's Law?  We'll muddle through it, see the splendors of Matera, the unusual formations of Aliano, and some other unknown hill towns.  We're sure to eat some wonderful local fare to give her a sampling of our region.  We'll just have to indulge in cioccolata calda instead of gelato as a daily treat.  And, as is our tradition whenever we get together, we're sure to go shoe shopping.  Because, after all, some things are inevitable.

* * * * * * * * 

Want to know more about beautiful Basilicata?  Read the posts in Basilicata Recap.

Flippin' Good Fun!

Well Bryan beat me to the video punch by posting a montage of the (ridiculously abundant) footage of Lucano, our cutey-pie kitty.  Sometimes the problem of a two-blogger family is that we have the same news or stories to talk about.  But I'll give it to him because that wasn't the video I was going to share, anyway. 

We spent New Year's week on a cruise with Bryan's entire family, a lovely gift from his parents.  We celebrated Christmas all over again because his sister kindly transported our gifts from Ohio (thanks, Diane!).  One unexpected gem was a Flip Video Camera, a petite user-friendly gadget that has a USB port that flips out like a switchblade to plug directly into the computer.  I've always been a little camera shy, but I gotta say, this little sucker is a lot of fun. 

We toted it along to the festa and enjoyed catching some of our friends and fellow villagers on film (or digital, as the case may be).  We also clicked it on as we drove down the main street from the church to the main piazza, to give you a glimpse of the medieval lanes 'round these parts.

So without further intro or ado, I give you the first official Flippin' Fun videos.  More are sure to follow.

La Festa di Sant'Antonio



A Ride Through the Village



WANTED: New Residents

Wanted: Residents to live in a charming Italian village. Must want a slower-paced life, laid-back mountain atmosphere, and crave fresh, local foods. Should be middle-age or younger, child-bearing age is even better; should be in good health. You'll enjoy gorgeous landscapes, centuries-old traditions, inexpensive housing, and warm hospitality.

I'm tired of funerals.  Today I attended another one, my third since arriving here in September.  It's the unfortunate fact of life that many residents are elderly and infirm, but it still seems an unusually high number even considering that.  I've never had to attend three funerals in a year before, much less in five months.  Villagers are beseeching us to import some new blood to help replenish the town.

It's not that there aren't people our age, and there *are* lots of kids running around; but unfortunately the history of southern Italy over the past 150 years has been one of emigration.  Many have moved to the north or to other countries to find better-paying jobs, or with a vision that "life will be better" in an urban or industrial center.  With just over 600 inhabitants, we really can't afford to lose any more to death or migration!

Italian funerals are an interesting contrast to the American traditions.  In the US, due to the vastness of the country and the tendency to have family dispersed in different states, funerals are usually three or four days after the person has died.  Here two days seems to be the maximum as chemicals aren't used to preserve the body.  Giuseppe passed away yesterday morning and the funeral was held today at 3:30 p.m.  (A friend informs us that by law they must wait at least 24 hours before burial to ensure that the person has, in fact, died.)

The funeral actually begins before the church ceremony.  People gather at the giardino and await the hearse.  The priest leads the procession, praying aloud as the hearse, the family of the deceased, and the townspeople follow slowly uphill to the church.  Following the funeral Mass, everyone lines up to offer condolences and then group around in the upper piazza until the casket is placed into the hearse and the procession slowly snakes down the hill through town.  The shops and coffee bars close during the funeral and remain shuttered until after the hearse has passed enroute to the cimitero.  It is a sweet gesture of respect, I think.

Giuseppe was the brother of our upstairs neighbor who passed away in October.  He was elderly and not in the best of health, and I saw a decline in him after Fabrizio had died.  Still, it came as a surprise and I was sad for him.  He was always very sweet to me.  He had retired from a lifetime of work on the national police force, and during the weeks that I was here alone, before Bryan arrived, he would sometimes come down to check in on me when he came to visit his brother, just to make sure I was alright here on my own.  He always smiled, stopped and kissed my cheek when he saw me on the street. 

The thing I love about living here is how intimate it seems, how people welcome us in and accept us as a part of the community.  That also means accepting the losses when they come and mourning together in cases such as these.  But it's still a bit difficult.  I mean, nobody likes funerals.  And I'd like to not have to attend any more for a while.

So, if you know anybody who wants to help repopulate a pretty village and contribute to lowering the average age, please let me know.  New residents are dearly wanted.

A Mid-Winter Night's Feast

The preparations started days before. A truckload of sand was mounded in the piazza. Then, for an entire day great logs were conveyed through the streets on a squeaking, suffering tractor. They were painstakingly stacked on the dirt so that, in the end, the teepee of tree trunks reached up one story high. Old men stood beholding the scene and discussing how the bonfire would be bettered if they’d have loaded the logs in a different manner; how years ago the blaze was bigger; how there were bonfires in every contrada of the village. How they used to each put potatoes and meats to roast in the coals the morning after, the whole contrada gathered and ate together. Nowadays…mah. Things have changed, they moaned.

The festa di Sant’Antonio Abate is a big-deal shindig in these parts, a mid-winter party to liven things up and have a little fun. The party is to honor the saint who is important here in rural Italy, the protector of animals. I assumed that the many Antonios and Antoniettas we know here would have special cause to celebrate, as the onomastico, or saint’s day, is often more celebrated than one’s birthday. However, they told me that they are all named for Sant’Antonio di Padova, “the Italian Antonio, naturalmente”. Ah. Sant’Antonio Abate, it turns out, is from Egypt. Who knew?

This festa is a much-anticipated party regardless of which Antonio it celebrates. The little town garnered three bands to provide music. Stands were set up to provide typical local dishes. On the eve of the party I went to watch the pasta brigade as they hand-crafted 35 kilos of cavatelli. Brave donne, all of them. I learned their secrets, and while they wouldn’t let me actually make the pasta, they did let me lay hands on it and line the little cavatelli up neatly on the trays while they rhythmically dragged out the shape and flicked them my way. At the festa, it was served with a mouth-watering sugo di cinghiale (sauce with wild boar). Naturally, that was the first thing we ate.

Then it was on the porchetta – just a taste, mind you, we split a panino between the two of us – because Bryan was committed to the salsiccia that was being grilled up by a friend, the rising aroma of which drifted up and down the corso. But not content, he also had to try the cuturiedd, a lamb and potato dish found in these parts. That’s when things got going, as Bryan was found by his cronies and made to sit. And drink. Guys bond while doing testosterone-ish stuff together, and in this case it was the pig slaughter. They spotted him and slapped him on the back and rolled out the home- made wine. “Sure, they said, you could buy some vino cheap at the booth, but Raffaele’s is much better. Taste it. Dai…now tell me, is that not good?” They didn’t want the glass to become empty; Bryan had forgotten the Basilicata Rule of “Drink Slowly”. We finally convinced them to release us so we could wander the corso between the two piazzas and see what was happening.

We joyously found friends who came from another town, and Michela and I danced (badly, but who cares) some of the country dances while Bryan stood off to the side taking video. Other friends wandered in and out; we laughed and stood by the bonfire to warm ourselves, and shuffled between venues to take it all in. I danced with another friend (again badly, but we neither of us claim any twinkle toes), though it may have gone better if Sandro had relinquished his panino during the ballo. No matter, we laughed and twirled and had fun, which is, of course, the whole point of a party.

When I was still a little dizzy from the dips and swirls, an acquaintance approached, smiled and said, “You know, we are so happy you have chosen to live here. Seeing you smile and laugh and be a part of our village…it is so nice.”

It was a notte bianca (white night), meaning the festa lasted til dawn. We capped off the night with a final glass and toast with Sandro and company and toted ourselves off to bed at 2:00 a.m., which seemed to be the magic hour when nearly all of our acquaintance also wandered away from the flickering warmth of the bonfire to the warmth of their houses.

Despite the old men’s griping about the modern rendition, we thought it was a pretty punchy party, a bigger deal than most street festivals we've attended in metropolitan areas in the US. Our village of 600 rolled out a rollicking night, a welcome break in the bleak of winter with food, fun, friendship and festivities. My kind of party, indeed.

Bryan also posted about the festa with some photos on his blog.