My Other Life

Earlier I mentioned ‘my other world,’ and it is becoming increasingly apparent over the years that my other world is the setting for another life as well.  Sandy and I are happily balanced between two lives, interconnected and mutually reinforcing but very distinct and separate.  And this at a point chronologically when we are about to step over the threshhold into a transitional phase as well.  That can only be good, I think.

One of my lives, one which I have cherished for 42 years now, is the life of a teacher, in three secondary schools and two universities.  And, despite the fact that North Carolina’s progressive government has been hijacked by what can only be described as a redneck element, my last few years of teaching have been among my favorites.  At Cary High I have had, quite simply, some of the nicest young folks I have ever had at any level.  I have been asked several times if I don’t become bored with teaching the same subject year after year.  Never.  That is because at this level, far more than at the college level, I am not teaching Latin, I am teaching students Latin.  There is a huge difference.  Am I intellectually challenged by teaching first-declension Latin nouns for what must be the 432nd time?  Frankly, no.  But do I find it competely engaging to teach it to this new crop of kids, with all their hopes, apprehensions, intellectual challenges and strengths?  Absolutely.  The first declension hasn’t changed much since crusty old Palaemon was flogging it (literally) into Gaius Iulius Caesar two thousand years ago.  But kids are infinite in their variety, and finding the right buttons to push to make them learn—and more importantly love—this old, dead language—that is endlessly challenging and fascinating to me.  People who hold up a corporate model as a way to ‘reform’ public education have missed the boat entirely, in my opinion.  Any corporation which tried to operate with the tremendous variation in the raw components of their intended product that any teacher in America confronts on a daily basis would be bankrupt in six months.  Kids aren’t widgets.  God made them all different for a reason.  And this ridiculous obsession we are currently experiencing on testing and data is, in my opinion, unequivocally the most pernicious trend in pedagogy (as opposed to teaching) that I have witnessed in my long career.  Here’s a simple truth:  teaching is an art, not a science.  Always has been, always will be.  And it is among the noblest of arts.

So I’m eagerly anticipating a few more good years in the classroom before I toddle off the stage and close my Ecce Romani for the last time.  But I wonder if that eagerness is not largely due as well to my other life, where I can give free rein to the scholar, archaeologist and writer, one who is fortunate enough to live in Italy in the summer.  Here is scope for as much intellectual pursuit as my limited intellect will allow.  Here the subject of food is actually considered a perfectly legitimate one for academic research and is actually understood and applauded by ethusiastic amateurs.  Here all that prehistory, protohistory and history of ancient wine and food springs to life before my eyes, not just in the form of archaeological remains but in the topography, the climate, the very air of the place.  Here are artisinal foodways that have a proven history of well over two millennia and a presumed prehistory of at least another thousand in some cases.  And here still, the finest artisinal products are made in the age-old ways—not more cheaply or more efficiently, just better.  

Here, too, the lifestyle seems to touch something deep inside us, to slow us down, make us enjoy the simple pleasures, make us more human, in a way.  Look, I don’t want to romanticize this land; there are enormous problems here.  Unemployment is rampant, especially, sadly, among the young.  And even those lucky enough to have a job find advancement through merit and hard work difficult because of a rigid, obsolete seniority system.  Here government is ridiculously inefficient, duplicative, inert, bureaucratic, enough to make the degree of gridlock we experience from our American elected officials actually look like a functional government.  And here those same politicians are, with depressing regularity, not only corrupt and venal but corrupt and venal at the behest of Camorra, the local version of the mafia.

But there is so much that is good, as well:  a delectable climate, the incredible beauty of the mountains, the sea, the vineyards, the olive groves, the little farms, the wild places with clear, racing streams and wildlife in abundance.  Here families are still the center of life, not just in theory but in fact.  Here work is a means to provide for those families, not an end in itself, where even professionals make no apology for going home to be with family and several generations still often live happily under the same roof.  Here the people, a bit shy and reserved at first around strangers, soon warm and show incredible generosity, kindness, humanity.  Here little girls at the beach still go topless until they are prepubescent simply because poisonous popular culture has not sexualized them.  And call me a dirty old man if you will, but I find that absolutely charming.  Here I may be a bit concerned about pickpockets, but I can walk the streets at almost any hour of the day or night without fear of being shot to death by a thug or, worse, some schizophrenic with an assault rifle.  Here good food and wine are not just a sign of wealth and priviledge but a birthright and a passion.  Here traditions are still honored.  Here we find tranquility.

So you can doubtless imagine how, toward the end of a long year of teaching, the prospect of this other lifestyle lightens the load and keeps a bit of spring in our strides.  We just keep saying the mantra:  “Italy, Italy, Italy soon...”  And perhaps you can see why we have seriously considered semi-retirement here, at least on a part-time basis.  When we’re here, we love this country and especially this litlle corner of the country, but we still sorely miss the best parts of good old Stati Uniti.  And when we’re back home, we love our native country, but we yearn for the best parts of the Cilento.  Being poised between two lives, two countries—that keeps us focused on the best parts of both, and perhaps that focus, in turn, vibrates somehow in the best parts of us.

Arrivo

       It’s the first morning in Agropoli after a hard day of travel, a joyous arrival, and the first deep, sound sleep I’ve had in weeks.  I’m on the terazza, it’s a glorious day in the Cilento, and all’s right with my world.  My other world, increasingly.

The trip was about as trial free as it has ever been, with the exception of one glitch, but at our age, a solid day of stress associated with the logistics of moving from one continent to another across an ocean, not to speak of the physical strains of moving luggage, chugging through airports, breathing toxic airline air for eleven hours, etc—that’s tough on old bodies.  Our flight from Durham to New York was a bit delayed, but basically on schedule and comfortable.   A two-hour layover in New York allowed ample time to say goodbye to Sandy’s new friend, Brittany, a first-year teacher at Fuquay-Varina Middle School, hit the potties, and find our gate.  The flight from New York to Paris departed the gate on schedule—a near miracle at any of the New York airports—and only sat in the taxiing queue for thirty minutes.  The flight to Paris was remarkably short (a bit less than seven hours), reasonably comfortable, and as smooth as it could be.  Bad airline food left us both with grumbling stomachs, but nothing too serious.  We arrived at Charles de Gaulle on time, but waited for a gate to open for so long that our comfortable layover turned into a knuckle biter, especially since at de Gaulle, as at several other European airports, you have to go through security again when changing from one terminal to another even though you’ve never left a secure area.  We headed for the gate a mere 15 minutes before scheduled departure, Sandy optimistic as usual, Dave resigned to the fact that Air France had boarded 30 minutes before and it was all over but the crying, and as we scooted down the terminal, heard “Final boarding for Air France to Naples at Gate 49!”  Good old Air France.  It was another 40 minutes before we actually departed.

We had a pleasant flight across the Alps, two hours to Naples Capodichino, and at last we were in God’s blessed land.  But our luggage was not.  Now, I confess I had jinxed us at Orly by commenting to Sandy that we had made the flight but I bet our luggage never would, so I was quite prepared for the worst.  But there were a good 30 people standing with me in the line at the lost luggage office, and that’s impressive even for Air France.  But 10 minutes into the queue, and, Mirabile dictu!, an announcement that a whole container of luggage had been located and was even now being routed through another baggage line.  And guess whose luggage appeared first on the carousel?  Relief hardly suffices for my emotion; it’s a two hour drive from Agropoli back to Naples on a good day, and Naples traffic makes Italian traffic elsewhere seem almost tame. 

When I had reserved a car back in April I had paid $200 more to go through Herz rather than  Europe Car because Hertz was ‘in the airport’ and Europe Car involved a shuttle ride, a ridiculous waste of money for which I have paid my penance.  What a clever ruse!  “In the airport’ meant exactly the same shuttle ride as all the other rental agencies, and the Hertz office was, you guessed it, right next to Europe Car.  Mild irritation, but nothing compared to that generated when I discovered Hertz could not find my reservation and the best offer they would do was a solid $500 euros more than my reserved price.  I think I’ve had my fill of European Hertz.  But, in the scheme of things, it’ll all be washed out in the laundry, and I will gladly forgo a few luxuries over the course of the next year for the luxury of having a car for the six weeks we’ll be here.

The drive to Agropoli was remarkably pleasant, even taking the A-3 autostrada through Salerno.  I don’t know if I’m becoming a hybrid Italian or what, but even the hair-raising curves and that precipitous stretch 600 feet above Salerno—straight down—I was able to negotiate with the loss of only a few years’ aging potential, probably because our timing was good and traffic was light.  The stretch down the ironically named Superstrada 18 was terrifying as usual, but we arrived a good hour before we had estimated, and I owe the travel gods big time for that. 

  How can I describe for you the joyous arrival in this blessed spot?  Around the Via Fuonte we went,  with those beautiful Cilentan mountains to the south, up the ridge, and there is the gorgeous Villa Astone, its creamy stucco exterior and orange terracotta roof nestled into a hillside rampant with a profusion of color and perfume from roses, geraniums, zinnias, petunias, laburnums, jasmine, trumpet vine, bougainvillea—I could go on—and down on the ground floor the shady terazza of our little casa secunda.  A quick glance into the apartment, spotless and inviting as ever, and then a quick trip upstairs for hugs and kisses with Rolando and Filomena (Fabio, sadly, was at work), several delicious minutes of exchange of news, a riotous welcome from our canine buddies, Cioppo, Ettore and Lacchi, and then into our cool, breezy bedroom for two hours of blessed sleep.

At 6:30 I call Fernando, who’s been at the University all day giving exams but is right now on his way back and is in Battipaglia, 30 minutes away.  Hmmm, a quick trip to the grocery for tomorrow’s necessities, or will it take too long?  Two years ago, no question, our ignorance of the logistics of daily life here forced us to build an 25% more time into any plans.  But this time, three minutes to the Maxxi Futura, a quick stroll through this ipermercato where we now can place hands on exactly what we want almost at will, and then a quick trip home, and as we put away the last of the staples, there is gentle Fernando at the door.  More hugs, kisses, and excited chatter and up strolls dear Fabio for yet more laughter and affectionate banter.

Sadly, both Fabio and Fernando are otherwise committed for the night, but there’s no doubt in our minds that a pilgrimage to Agropoli’s Centro is an absolute necessity, and so at the ripe old hour of 9:30 off we go for dinner.  The first night here, no doubt what food we’re both craving. The only question:  Pizza Borelli or Pizza Barbanera where the views are spectacular but the wait is long?  Pizza Borelli.  Our American stomachs are already complaining about these ridiculous Italian dining hours, plus Signore Borelli is a particular favorite whose food is incredible.  We sit outdoors to enjoy the cool and the hundreds of locals strolling up and down the corso in the passsaggiato, the Italian version of ‘cruising’.  Best floor show ever.  And, dear Lord, the pizza!  I order a Calabrese with local mozzarella—the real kind—and a delicious, funky little salami, Sandy orders the Ortolona topped simply with thin slices of eggplant and squash and dressed with olive oil.  Every year I wonder if my expectations will be met by the food here.  You know how sometimes you’ve invested so much in the idea of a thing that, after the romantic glow wears off, the reality is ashes in your mouth?  But, no, there really is a huge qualitative difference in the food here, not just in taste but in balance and healthfulness.  This pizza is quite simply some of the best food we’ve ever eaten, simple but perfect in its simplicity.

Aching muscles protest, but up the hill we go to the acropolis which gives this beautiful town its name, to the Piazza di Santa Maria di Constantinopoli, where the mother church overlooks the twinkling lights of the marina and the ridges behind.  And we just drink in the sensory explosion—the sights, the smells, the ravishing, cool breezes (sweater weather here still), the sounds of this place we have come to love so well.  A quick visit to the gorgeous little church to thank the blessed Mother for bringing us here safely, and then the drive home for 10 hours of deep, restorative sleep.  Jetlag, shmetlag!  It took our bodies exactly 10 minutes to put themselves on Italian time.  Is there a message there?

How can you NOT adore this land?

http://animoto.com/play/0h8L0M6Wb0dJTLMbOnrssw

Back to Agropoli

     It’s exactly twenty-four hours till we head for the airport for yet another summer in paradise.  At least, as close to paradise as I’ll ever come on this side of the Great Divide—or the other, in all likelihood.  The last few days have been filled with the usual chaos of finalizing grades, putting the classroom in some semblance of order, getting the finances in order, preparing the house for some summer guests from American Dance Festival, Amy’s old alma mater, and packing for six weeks in a foreign land.

But increasingly more a homecoming than a venture into the unknown.  Oh, there’s still enough of the nervous excitement to keep me awake half the night, as before, and frustrated by my inability to sleep at the very time this sixty-four-year-old body most needs rest.  But this year the anticipation has far more to do with seeing dear friends who’ve been sorely missed.  Not to speak of the food, the climate, the spectacular scenery, the archaeological treasures, and the thousand other things we love about the Cilento.

Our anticipation is perhaps greater this summer given the fact that this year’s trip was not really on the agenda.  If you’ve followed this blog before, you will remember that Sandy and I take tour groups to Italy every other year and then piggyback off that travel to extend our stay.  Ergo, we still have to pay a chunk in air fare, but not nearly so much.  But this past year our twenty-five-year-old, professional dancer, NYC-loving daughter broached the subject to her mom of spending some time in Agropoli with the old geezers.  How many more times can we expect that to happen?  So we began laying the groundwork to make it so.  Then, as luck would have it, Amy was offered a permanent position with a dance company.  And soon discovered that the troupe she had just joined would have a major showing in July, typically a lull in the performance season.  And obviously couldn’t even consider jeopardizing her future with the company to ask for time off at the height of rehearsal time.  We finally begged her just to approach the director, lay the cards on the table, explain that if her absence would even remotely imperil her prospects she would cheerfully cancel the trip, but since the plans were made, if by chance, maybe.....  Which she did.  The director looked at the calendar, said, “Sure, here’s a block of time when we won’t be rehearsing, so go with my blessing.”  Or words to that effect.  The upshot is that we will be introducing our American carissima to our Italian carissimi, a dream come true for us sentimental saps. Next year we start on the other three!

Actually, there are some fairly compelling reasons for making the voyage this year anyway.  Last year I finished the first draft of my second (third if you count the dissertation) book, this one on ancient Roman viticulture and winemaking, and began making revisions.  That process went well until I bumped into the fourth chapter, which, wouldn’t you know it, was based largely on a chapter in the previous book.  I don’t know what it is, but trying to assimilate the new material with the old has been like trying to graft a third arm onto a human body; the stitches are holding and the arm functions perfectly well, but dear God, that’s one ugly dude!  Painful as it is to admit that your baby is butt ugly after they just underwent plastic surgery, that’s where I am.  In the event, I’ve just decided to start over and rewrite the whole darned chapter.  Which will take a chunk of the summer.  Dave is not looking forward to the prospect—and, understand, I adore writing—but if you’re facing an intellectual slog, it might as well be where the inspiration is right outside the door.

Then, too, Fernando messaged several weeks ago to let me know that the Italian translation of the first book, undertaken by a wonderful young woman named Irina Balbi, is now complete and we need to finalize a version for publication.  We’ll need to decide whether to go with a straight translation or to incorporate new material and remove some of the warts (of which there are many) from the original.

And then there are those palmenti, the open-air treading vats for wine, chiseled into native rock at some indeterminate time in the past and increasingly abandoned and forgotten in Italy.  We want to make sure that doesn’t happen by finding, describing, and plotting the GPS coordinates and altitudes of these little beauties.  I say ‘we’ loosely, since my Italian colleagues are really doing the work here. But what magnificent work they are doing!  Over the course of the last nine months my Cilentane friends have located three new sites, and a new colleague over the border in Basilicata has apprised us of several more.  Nothing revs my motor more than boots-on-the-ground archaeology. To say I am eager is an understatement.

Finally, there’s the delightful prospect of just hanging out with those so dear to me—Fernando, the Astones, Katiuscea, and most of all my precious Sandy, with whom I’ll be celebrating thirty years of wedded bliss come June 23.  I could blather on maudlinly about this incredible woman, but I’ll let it suffice to say, we may very well be celebrating the big day in the back seat of a Range Rover, trundling up the side of a mountain to gape at a hole in a rock.  And she’ll be loving it as much as I.  That, my friends, is a keeper.

And the icing on the cake will be our other adventures into the rich cultural and natural treasure of this region.  In a previous blog I mention Roberto Pellecchia’s book, The 100 Wonders of the Cilento and Vallo di Diano.  Now, I am thrilled to say, in a beautiful English translation.  Last year at the end of the summer we counted up the sites we’ve visited and the number was a respectable 37.  

But that leaves 63 unseen!  So much to see and only six weeks to see them!  What a glorious prospect!  Hope you’ll come along for the adventure.

Molto Gentile!

Molto Gentile

       I know it sounds smarmy, but again and again we discover that the most memorable thing about our trips here is the Italian people themselves—so warm, genuine, helpful.  I can’t even number the times I have said, sometimes several times a day, in my bad Italian, “Tu sei molto gentile! (You are very kind!) in response to some act of generosity on the part of some total stranger who took the time to help a struggling foreigner and did it with a  quick smile and a gladdened heart.

     That started the first time we were here, way back in 1995.  We had our five-year-old daughter Amy with us, and we had heard how much the Italians dote on children, but we really had no idea.  Now, Amy was an adorable tot by any objective standard: cute little redhead in pigtails, sweet disposition, a melting smile, and a sweet little voice that could charm the angels.  And of course the people in Malmantile, in Tuscany where we were living, could tell at a glance that we were foreigners, although they automatically assume still that we are Germans.  Lots of Germans drive across the Alps to Italy to enjoy warm weather, good beaches and a respite from their uptight, rigid social norms.

     But it was still a bit of a shock, frankly alarming, the first few times that total strangers came up and offered Amy a pastry or stroked her hair.  They just wanted to take a few minutes and dote on a little girl and let her (and us) know that she was very welcome in their country.  One encounter was especially memorable.  Malmantile was about 13 miles from downtown Florence and we often rode the bus in with the locals to tour in the morning.  By noon it was far too hot even for Americans to be abroad in that torrid river bottom, so we’d hop the bus back home to the cool, breezy hills for lunch, a nap and a relaxing swim in the pool at the agriturismo where our apartment was located.  But by the time we boarded the bus my little fair-skinned redhead was always flushed and sweaty.  On one occasion the bus driver stopped in a little hamlet half way back to Malmantile, ran inside a bar, and proudly emerged with a cold Fanta which he smilingly handed to my daughter.  Naturally we were charmed and grateful but a bit alarmed; after all, there were lots of other people on the bus.  But as I glanced around to catch the mood I saw nothing but smiling faces.  That, my friends, is Italy in a nutshell:  not so busy and self-absorbed to enjoy vicariously a simple act of kindness to a little girl.

That trip was when we, including Amy, fell in love with this country.  I cannot tell you how many kind strangers took the time to say hello to her, make her welcome, ask about her constant companion, her little stuffed squirrel named Squirrelly (Scurrili for the struggling Italians).  And of course they were almost as generous with us, what with our struggles with the language, with customs, with the protocols of shopping, garbage disposal, flushing the toilet (don’t laugh; it’s a challenge sometimes), even mopping the floor of the apartment.

Over the years we have learned that a smile and a badly pronounced “Buon giorno!” is about all you need to gain an introit with most Italians.  Oh, there are stinkers here, don’t get me wrong.  But they are few and far between and most of them are behind the wheel of a car.  I suppose it’s something about the anonymity of that position which invites a certain amount of rudeness.  But there are so many more kind ones that worrying about the few is quibbling.

This trip has been no exception.  Here’s a sampling of the many.  There was the municipal policeman Maurizio in Agropoli who patiently explained that there was no reprieve from my parking ticket on grounds that I didn’t understand the byzantine system because these are handled by a semiprivate consortium, but then sat and filled out the forms for me, left his office and the building it is located in to go outside and point me in the direction of the post office, where, believe it or not, fines, utility bills, phone bills, you name it are paid.  I was tempted to ask if I should take my postcards to the pharmacy to mail, but I was so grateful for the help that I didn't.

There was Annibale, a wonderful young man in Buccino.  We had traveled eastward for an hour to see this beautiful little hill town situated on the site of an ancient city, only to discover that the archaeological museum was closed.  But a local policeman made a phone call and ten minutes later Annibale was there to let us in and turn on the lights, after which he proceeded to give us a two-hour, guided tour of that incredible facility, housed in a Medieval monastery!  And it wasn't too shabby either being instructed on the Roman period by a guy named Hannibal.  After offering profuse thanks to Annibale, we had a delicious lunch of orecchiette and fusilli, both lovingly handmade there at the local trattoria.  I asked our waiter Ciro (who had made the orecchiette, by the way) how we could find the castle and the archaeological site and he patiently explained the route, left, and two minutes later came back and announced that he and Nina, the owner’s daughter, would lead us to the sites.  Which they did, after which they gave us another two-hour guided tour!  We grinned like lunatics all the way home, basking in the sheer kindness of those young people.

There is Aniello and his father, Signore Botti.  Aniello is a younger colleague in our search for palmenti, who lives about 25 miles away in Vallo della Lucania.  Aniello is a grad student at the University of Rome but is home this summer to work and be with his family.  Understand, Aniello’s dissertation concerns a Medieval manuscript in Naples, not some crazy open-air treading vats.  But he’s insisted on taking us to two of the local palmenti, once insisting on driving his own car because ours was new and the roads were bad (they were a bit bumpy but paved and perfectly fine), then heard that we also wanted to see a Lucanian city nearby, called work, called his dad, and before we knew it we were meeting Signore Botti at a local bar where we were treated to caffé and pastry and then whisked off to Civitella for, you guessed it, a two-hour tour guided by both of them!

There was the young man in Stio who, when we had tried three different restaurants in a 20-mile radius looking for some kind of lunch after a hard day of hiking and touring, only to discover all three closed, on hearing our plight, took out his cell phone, called a friend to confirm that he would open his restaurant for us, then insisted on leading the way in his own car!  Not to speak of the kind young man at Il Ritrovo Ristorante who saved the lives of two starving Americans (it was 3:30 pm by this time) with two delicious pasta dishes.  Then there was Angelo, a native of Stio.  As you may be able to tell from the photo, Angelo has some special mental challenges but like so many of those wonderful people he embraces the world with wide-eyed innocence and gusto.  Angelo knew instantly that we were strangers in this tiny town and he could hardly contain his beaming enthusiasm as he asked all about our home, our sojourn in Italy, our family.  By the time we left Stio, Angelo was my new best friend, insisting that I call him the next time I came to Stio so we could tour togther,  and as we waved goodbye pulling out of the parking lot he shouted repeatedly in Italian, “I love Americans!  I love Americans!”

There was another Angelo in the tiny hamlet of Valletelle who, when we became hopelessly turned around trying to find a Medieval church and mill, explained in great detail how to get there, then revealed that his grandparents had lived in New Jersey but had returned home for retirement and again insisted on hearing all about our native state and family.  A simple explanation turned into twenty minutes of delightful human interaction.  Before we left, Angelo and his mother agreed to a photo, one I will treasure because the kindness in their character is so obvious on their smiling faces.

There is Signore Borelli, owner of the local pizzeria, who treated us to incredible pizza our first night here and never fails to make us feel like celebrities when we show up for more, even sending his lovely daughter over once to announce in English that he hoped we enjoyed a wonderful holiday.

And then there are our wonderful friends, the Astones, and dear Fernando, and lovely Katiuscea.  But if I start detailing the thousand acts of kindness we’ve enjoyed from these nearest and dearest, I’ll be blogging the rest of the day and most of the night.  At some point “Molto gentile!” becomes “Troppo gentile!” At least, too many kindnesses to list.  But we carry them in our hearts, believe me.

An Italian Bakery

    This morning we were up and out early again, this time, mirablile dictu, at the instigation of Miss Sandy.  Meanwhile Dave was grunting in monosyllables and nursing a small cup of espresso.  What could prompt such a radical shift?  Nothing less than a visit to the pasticceria, the Italian bakery.

Last week as we were leaving the Centro we ran into Fabio while he was on duty, but he took the time to lead us down the Via Gasperi to the bakery of a friend, Signore Andrea, appropriately named the Pasticceria Carmen, after his wife.  Fabio introduced us to Andrea as well as his wife and son (it’s a family business, as so often in Italy), and we were treated to a delicious little sfoglietello, cheesecake, but in this case encased in crispy pastry and flavored with orange zest and (I think) orange water.  We had just finished eating at a local pizzeria where we had been porci, in the interest of research of course, and ordered two different pizzas.  Now, I’ve seen many an Italian down one of these pizzas, some 14” in diameter, and I confess I have myself on several occasions, but it was late by American standards, 9:30 pm, though still early for dinner by Agropolesi standards, and I’ve learned by experience that a stuffed stomach and sound sleep are not good bedmates for the Americano.  So we both ate several slices (in Agropoli the pizza comes unsliced and with a knife so you can DIY) and declared that we were finished.  And then ate another.  And another.  So we could tell that Signore Andrea’s sfoglietelli were delicious, but we really weren’t the best judges at the time.  

Fabio explained that I wrote about traditional foods and Sandy did the photos and Andrea generously offered to allow us to come back some morning to see the process.  Ergo our early morning visit.

Monday morning is a delight in Agropoli.  The hordes of weekend beach-goers have made their way back to Salerno, Naples, Rome, and points northward, jamming the superstrada with stop-and-roll traffic from 8 pm Sunday till some ungodly time I’ve never determined.  The air is cool and crisp in our little town, the streets are just beginning to come alive as locals make their way to work and stores begin to open.  Best of all, parking is a snap.

When we arrived at the bakery about 8:30, three young women were hard at work, one up front tending the counters where partially filled racks of gorgeous pastries were already displayed, and two in the laboratorio, the workroom.  Quarters were cramped and we were obviously in the way, but in the typical southern Italian way, these signorine gentili were incredibly generous with their time and workspace.  A large cooling rack held trays of assorted pastries fresh from the oven and the aroma was unbelievable.  Overpowering scents of freshly baked pastry, enough butter to resurrect Julia Child, and faint hints of almonds, orange, lemon, chocolate; Sandy was completely incapacitated for several minutes, not even able to take a photo.  In a large electric oven, sfogliatelle, the shell-shaped ‘many-leaved’ pastries for which this part of Italy is famous, were baking.  The spelling is not a typo; apparently the change of gender of the noun is enough to denote another kind of stuffed pastry. On the counter a tray of taralli were cooling.  Meanwhile, our two young artists were quietly, efficiently producing little masterpieces.  Maria loaded pastry cream from a generous bowl on the counter into a large piping bag and began to pipe cream onto little cookies, then covered them with a second cookie and quickly smoothed the edges before deftly pushing crumbled nuts onto the edges.  She explained that they were aptly named deliciosi.  
       Meanwhile her cohort Nina had filled another piping bag with chocolate cream and was filling little profiterole-looking puffballs that she said were called bigne, perhaps a cousin to the French (and New Orleanean) beignet.  Then she took two and glued them together with chocolate cream to create little pastry porcini mushrooms.  Maria checked the sflogliatelle in the oven (the little ‘leaves’ of pastry for which they are named are paper thin and easily burned), quickly rotated the tray to achieve even browning, and went back to work.

All quietly choreographed from some mental list that must have been ingrained from thousands of such mornings.  We never saw a list of items to be made, much less numbers of each, but there was never a wasted minute as these women whizzed through their routine.  Next Maria brought out little chocolate cannolini and piped cream into each end.  Behind her a stand mixer on the floor, big enough to make any Kitchen Aid in America die of embarrassment, some 4 1/2’ tall, rested quietly from its night’s labors.  Out came monster cannoli, 6” long, and were deftly filled with cream or chocolate.  Maria dusted both as well as her deliciosi with powdered sugar.  Nina laded what looked like eclairs with cream or chocolate.  Meanwhile, a special order:  Rita darted in from the front, grabbed two cornette, the huge croissants so popular in this area, as well as a big tub of apricot jam, sliced the cornette almost in two, smeared a generous blob of jam on each, and placed them in a bag.   Another young woman rushed in with motorcycle helmet in hand, was startled by our presence, retreated to the front of the store to deposit the helmet, then came back in, smiled shyly and quickly loaded a tray with fifteen sflogliatelle, wrapped them, and was out the door in a flash.  Italian bakeries deliver!  I assume to local caffé bars, since the whole population is not grossly obese.

Another special order, cornette filled with chocolate cream.  And out from the oven came the tray of sfogliatine, little cousins of the sfogliatelle that had recently left.  The aroma was amazing.  

I would continue, but I think Sandy’s pictures once again will tell the rest of the story better than I.  The display racks at the front held a gorgeous assortment of pastries of all sizes and descriptions: bocannotti, cassatine, zeppoline, crostatine, babá, ochio di bue, corteccie al cioccolato: even the names are delicious.  A cooler in the corner held equally beautiful torte, cakes.  We bought an alarming assortment of pastries, (mostly) as a gift, and the total bill was 12 euros, about 15 bucks.  

How in the world DO the Italians avoid obesity with that kind of temptation at such a price?  A few thoughts.  First of all, Italians enjoy their food and never feel guilty.  By not creating the allure of ‘forbidden fruit’ they seem able to place such indulgences in their proper place, an occasional treat to be savored without guilt. And then go back to their healthy Mediterranean diet. Meanwhile in America every other medical type in the country is screaming about our diets and we grow fatter as a nation all the time.  Could there be a connection?  Perhaps we need to quit shouting about the evils of food or, alternately, deeming it magic or medicine, and enjoy it for its own sake. 

Secondly, Italians rarely eat sweets as dessert.  The dessert of choice here is a luscious piece of fruit and perhaps a small piece of cheese.  Sweets are generally eaten at midmorning with a good cup of rich coffee, or perhaps as a spuntina along about four in the afternoon, with coffee or perhaps even with a tiny demitasse of Tio Nino’s homemade liqueur.  And then only in the company of friends and as a special treat.  

And that is perhaps the real key to the healthy Italian lifestyle.  Food is not just sustenance but an integral part of the social fabric.  Italians don’t just eat, they dine with family and friends, and the social interaction is more sustaining than the food itself.  As the ancient writer Plutarch said, “We come to the table, not to eat, but to share food with those we love.”

As more and more Italians are adopting the crazy American lifestyle, with family members grabbing a bite and rushing off in all directions, that healthy social system is starting to crack around the edges and, perhaps predictably, obesity is starting to become more and more common here.  But, grazie Dio, the majority of Italians still cling to their traditions, especially in small towns and here in the South.

Night Sounds

       Sorry, friends, none of Sandy’s wonderful pictures this time.  This is an auditory blog.  One of the pleasant adjustments we make to living in this environment is learning NOT to be encapsulated in a house insulated from the larger world.  Our windows are open twenty-four seven to admit the wonderful breezes here and keep the apartment cool.  As often as not the doors are wide open as well, and it’s not unusual to have a little canine or feline visitor invite himself or herself in.  How different from Piedmont North Carolina where daytime temps in late June and July and August are consistently in the high eighties or above and the humidity is oppressive so that the need for air-conditioning forces us into sealed cubicles.

One of the joys of living in contact with the outdoors is the sounds with which we are inundated.  The cicadas are buzzing down in the olive grove below the terazza and one little cicale sits in a tree directly across it and sings for all he’s worth, a happy sound when it doesn’t imply oppressive heat.  Magpies chatter in the trees across the terazza as well.  I’d attach a photo of these handsome guys, but they’re so cagy neither of us has managed to get one.  It’s not as if they aren’t in close proximity either.  Our last two visits, two perched in the mulberry trees 20’ from the door and chattered while they ate, but always, infuriatingly, on the opposite side of the trees from us so that no photo or even clear view was possible.  This year we were astounded to see that both mulberry trees, the black and the white variety (I never knew there were two varieties) were gone.  At least so we thought until Rolando showed us their remnants, the butts of trunks some 8’ tall.  Disease?  No, he cut them down.  They were simply too big.  But there’s healthy growth from those stumps and if God grants us a chance to be here again, I’ve no doubt that we’ll get to enjoy those little jewel fruits again.  Meanwhile, our magpies just perch in the olive tree a bit further away, not to eat as before, but apparently just to talk.  I should explain that we’ve never seen magpies except in pairs.  I don’t know if they are Mr. and Mrs. Magpie or just buddies, but they are definitely Italian because the one thing they seem not to be able to live without is conversation.  They cackle to each other constantly, on the wing, while they eat, as they hop from branch to branch—it really is comical to listen to them and imagine the gossip that must be passing between them.

Perhaps the most dramatic differences, though, in auditory life here and in the States is at night when our bedroom window is wide open, though screened to keep out the zanzari.  As quiet descends upon our snuggery, a regular symphony of night sounds begins.

There is, for example, CNN, otherwise known as the Canine News Network.  Dogs all up and down the ridges can be heard yipping some item of news.  Luckily most are far enough away that the sound is soothing.  Occasionally, however, our own boys get cranked up.  For several nights at the beginning of this week, for example, all three went in to periodic paroxysms of  almost frantic yipping.  A strange dog or other animal in the neighborhood?  Perhaps.  My own theory is that we had yet another donna impassionata giving off pheromones  and the guys wanted to make sure she knew they were available and very manly.  None of our dudes are spayed and they spend the night locked in on the Astones large front porch, where they have ample opportunity to sample the breezes and react.  “Hey, Belissima, just give me a second while I unlock this *&^%$ gate and I’m your man!  No, no, regazza, not that chump, for goodness sake he’s got a stumpy leg and mange, and look at me!  Give me five minutes more and I swear I’ll jump this wall!”  Happily, they’ve since settled down.

        Not so the karaoke bar up at the top of the ridge.  From time to time when the breeze is calm we get a real earful.  Can I give you some advice you probably won't take?  The next time you think about doing karaoke remember why you haven't quit your day job and DON"T.  On one particular night there was a young woman who had no chance of following the melodic line, she was a third octave too low.  But the incredible thing was she created a discord every single note!  You'd think she would have hit a melodic chord just by accident on occasion, but nope.  It sounded like some sort of Satanic ritual.

But there are far more delightful sounds.  There’s the sighing of the breezes, something that makes me sleep like a babe at the North Carolina beaches.  Here it is defined by our tramontana, mountain thermal, as it move through the trees on and around the terazza.  First you hear that wonderful sound, you wait in anticipation and several seconds later you feel that caress on your skin.  We’ve actually had to sleep with the coverlet up many nights since our arrival as the nighttime temperature dips into the lower sixties.  Heaven.

There’s the plaintive sound of the trains whizzing by on the tracks about a mile to our south.  All the trains here are electric and the sound they make, unlike the thunderous roar of American diesels, is a wonderful whirring sound.  I can only compare it to the sounds of our little Lionel train sets we played with endlessly as kids, only amplified to carry over several square miles.  Italian trains operate often and around the clock, so on a typical night you may have the chance, if you are conscious, to hear five or six trains.  Occasionally if one is stopping at the Agropoli station it will sound that little high-pitched plaintive whistle, also strangely soothing.

And the night birds:  goshawks and owls and doves.  We had a little dove that would settle in the palm tree right outside the bedroom window two years ago and twitter away along about 2 am.  At first it woke me, but soon the subconscious, genius as it is at maintaining deep sleep, had incorporated her twitter into my dreams.  But as long as she woke me she evoked powerful memories of childhood.  When I was a kid living in Martin, Tennessee, our little house on University Street had a driveway right outside my bedroom window.  Now, any youngsters reading this must understand that there was a time in the distant past (gulp) when even in the South we lived without air-conditioning, and keeping the windows open at night was the only hope you had of not sleeping in a pool of sweat.  That combined with window fans and attic fans which created a powerful draft and artificial breezes, since this little town in the Mississippi flood plain was way short on natural ones in the summer.  Outside the window and across the driveway from my bed was a large mulberry tree where the mourning doves loved to perch and coo.  Unless you’re of a certain age you’ve probably never noticed, but these birds are aptly named; their coo sounds something like “Ooo-OOO-ooo....ooo....ooo...ooo!” and it could just as well be a bereft mother mourning her lost child, it’s such a mournful sound.  At least to a nerdy little kid like me, terrified of almost everything.  My friendly old closet, my favorite hideout which my imagination turned into everything from fort to rocket, was across the room at the foot of my bed, but somehow at night if the door was left open it managed to transform into the very wellspring of every terrifying goblin in the universe.  Look, I know darn well they were there, I could SEE them moving about, ready to jump me!  And that prospect combined with that mournful cry outside the window was just a little too much!  Somehow I would finally muster the courage (desperation?) to sprint across the room, slam that closet door (my ogres were stupid and didn’t know how to open a door), then zip back to the bed and under the covers with the pillow over the head to block out those banshees outside the window.

In the early morning I was often awakened by a different sound, the sound of my dad cursing those same birds who had been eating mulberries all night long and leaving evidence of it all over his pride and joy, his 1953 slate blue Plymouth, before he took off to make rounds at the hospital.  I’ll not go into specifics of the discourse, but I learned at an early age that my normally restrained father had a large and colorful vocabulary.  I’ve now made my peace with mourning doves and love to hear their gentle coo, and I hope he has as well, there in the other world.

But I have to tell you, there is one Italian bird I can never forgive, dead though he now is, may he rest in everlasting torment.  Our first summer here I consistently woke up at four am and was awake for an hour or so before I drifted back into lovely oblivion.  Don’t know why I awoke, it made no sense at all as far as biorhythms are concerned.  Italy is 6 hours ahead of the States and so 4 am here is 10 pm Stateside.  Why 10 pm?  Can’t tell you.  At any rate, more often than not when I awoke, there was one overachieving rooster several villas down the ridge who felt the need to protect his job security by crowing.  All night long.  On average, every 13 seconds.  No, I’m not making that up, friends, I did a highly scientific survey to determine his average rate of crow.  As I sat there fuming because I couldn’t sleep.  But the really demonic thing about the little devil was that he was a master of suspense.  Hitchcock was absolutely right, suspense is not the viewing of violence, it is the anticipation of violence.  Or obnoxious crowing, as it were.  From time to time, just to infuriate his audience, Mr. Rooster from Hell would delay his performance.  Imagine Dave in the bed, stewing because a stinkin’ rooster is keeping a hick like me from sleeping.  And counting, “One...two...three....Wait, I’m already up to 26 and he hasn’t crowed.  Could it be, could it possibly be that he’s finally shut up, that he’s gone to...”  “COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOO!!!” “Noooooooo!”

Well, I’m happy to say Mr. Rooster has gone off to the perdition he so richly deserves.  And I like to think before he left this mortal coil he wound up in the stew pot of some irate Italian farmer.  And that the mode of his demise went something like that of another obnoxious rooster, a renegade who tormented Sandy’s Aunt Madge for several months by running around her neighborhood in the Tennessee mountains randomly crowing all night.  Until one blessed night when Madge heard through her own open window, “Cock-a-doodle-BLAM!”  And that was the end of another pestiferous rooster.  Am I being purely vindictive if I pray that he, too, found his way into the stewpot?