In the past 12 years or so, Italy in general and my little village of Castiglione Messer Raimondo in particular have become my grownup "miracle land ". I have never felt so attached to a place, so linked to one for its own sake, as I do to Castiglione Messer Raimondo. In the past, a place had only been a location from which to DO something: go to college. start a theater company, teach. But this place - this is home. And yet.
There comes a time with an "innamorato" when reality sets in. Seven years seems to be the standard time market, ad in "the seven year itch". It's when you begin to notice your beloved's annoying habits- like how he or she makes those noises when chewing- somewhere between grinding teeth and clucking tongue. Or when you have to admit "Yeah, my best friend really does interrupt me all the time to talk about herself". Then some little nerve at the base of your skull is set abuzz- squirming like a bug exposed under an overturned rock. You can no longer believe in their perfection. You cannot unsee the sight of that unruly nose hair.
Castiglione was like that for me this summer - my seventh there. I found myself, for the first time ever, becoming annoyed, frustrated, even angry to the point of wanting to leave. Why can't I simply fix a tiny piece of land to help stop damage to my neighbors property below? Why do I have to jump through so many hoops? Why aren't municipal offices open past noon? Why don't handymen return my phone calls? Why does it take 21 days for a check from my American bank to clear the Italian account? At times my internal chatter replicated the bitch sessions I read on websites for ex-pats living in Italy - posts I'd hated and complained about. My heart sank. Being here is my yearly infusion of joy, of unadulterated love, of rejuvenation. It resets me and adjusts my attitude for the rest of the year. But this year, by the first week of July, my heart sank like a drowning person giving up and abandoning herself to hover lifelessly at some murky depth beyond the reach of sonar.
And then. My neighbor Amalia saves the flowers in front of mo house by watering them while I am away. The coleus is three feet high! I visit a winery during the "cantine aperte ( open cantinas) event and sample the most extraordinarily fresh and smooth red I have ever had. It is being produced by a mailman in his "spare" time.
A guest finds a ceramic plate hand-painted in exquisite detail in a tiny shop near the house. She buys it as a celebration of her 38th wedding anniversary. The celebration of never-ending gastronomic delights at Mario's astounds even me, who thought I was used to it.
The Festival of San Donato, our patron saint, approaches. One morning, staggering home from a morning run, I notice a door along the town's promenade which has never been opened before. I peek inside. There are men inside two huge, cavernous, adjoining rooms. They are covered in fine tufa dust from the volcanic rock on which the town is built. One man notices me and ushers me in. He gives me a tour, explaining that this used to be one of 11 olive oil production facilities (frantoio) in the town. The men are cleaning up the space to create a display for the festival- an homage to the people who once worked there . He smiles through a mask of grime. Then he disappears into a red cloud of dust hanging in one of the caverns. It is 100 degrees out. But he lovingly continues the work.
The first night of the festival there is a talent show. I watch a 6-year old boy play his heart out with consummate skill and aplomb on the organetto, or " du bot", a traditional Abruzzese accordion. As he settles into his chair to position himself and the instrument, I notice his feet don't reach the stage floor. But he doesn't notice. He plays with love and passion. After a winter that has pummeled the Castiglionese with six feet of snow that knocked out electricity for ten days, and a subsequent earthquake that toppled buildings and destroyed so much of their livelihood, these folks find the resilience to celebrate the life this region offers.
One morning, shortly after the festival is over, Amalia approaches me quietly. Might I look at a house in the country that used to belong to her son? Maybe I know someone who wants to buy it? Her son is deceased and she had assumed the mortgage. She can no longer afford the payments. I follow her into the house and she shows me photos. I immediately recognize the house. It was owned Massimo, the owner of the Sampei, the pizzeria behind my guesthouse. I had no idea this was her son. He had provided my guests with innumerable thin- crunchy crust deliciously topped pies, soothing their travel weariness with nourishment and his exuberance. This continued right up until 4 weeks before he died of pancreatic cancer. I can still see him in his signature wrap- around shades, zipping through the narrow town streets on his motorcycle, his 10-
year old daughter seated in front of him, laughing and squealing.
I tell Amalia I will publicize the house on all social media I know. She touches my arm lightly with two fingers.
"Grazie," she says. "I can't bear to go there any more ."
Hey eyes fill with tears. She looks away.
"I'm sorry ", she says.
I'm sorry, too. Sorry for allowing the new view of the good and not- so -much sour me, even briefly, on the magic and charm this place holds. We can love someone, flaws and all, right? Perhaps we love them with a deeper, more profound love than before, seeing them for all they are.
Castiglione, the itch is soothed. You are firmly embedded in my heart like no other place on earth . Here's to another seven years- and more.
