Casa da Carmine: January 2012

My dear little town of Castiglione Messer Raimondo. You are a sneaky devil. But I'm wise to your wiley ways now. I see the pattern! I'm calling you out on it. I see this is how you work:
Unsuspecting travelers arrive in Rome. Not Pescara. Oh, no. That's too close. Only a 40-minute drive away. It would be too easy. Rome. Yeah, that's it. Have them arrive there after an overnight flight in which they've barely slept. Then they rent a car. At the airport office where the laconic desk clerk rolls his eyes at every question and speeds through the fine print in heavily accented English in order to not miss a millisecond of the conversation with his Italian colleague that was interrupted. Then they exit the airport, trying to navigate the roads, the signs ("What! They're in ITALIAN!"), and the maniac drivers simultaneously. When their bleary eyes finally alight on a recognizable road number, the A25, it's buried in the following: A24/25E80Naples/L'Aquila/Rome/Pescara. Whoa! "Is that the exit?" Quick cut to the right, barely missing the Cinquecento that suddenly appeared to pass them on the right. The driver yells at the poor travelers as he tacks to the left and disappears down the straigtaway.
30 minutes later, they are out of Rome and breathing a sigh of relief.
10 minutes later, they are in massive, grey, lonesome-looking mountains with isloated towns perched precariously in the distance, miles from any obvious road. The travelers nervously keep their eyes peeled for vultures circling above them. And search for a rest stop that assures them they've not permanently left civilization. And search. And search. And search. And narrowly miss the entrance to one because they've misjusdged the distance to get there because all the signs give distances in KILOMETERS!
No matter. There's the exit - remarkably reading just as they were told it would: Pescara Nord/Citta' Sant'Angelo. Saved!
Maybe.
There are two kinds of native drivers on Italian mountain roads: those who drive very slow, and those who drive very fast. The ones that drive very fast ride the newbies' tailpipe until they zoom past them and narrowly miss the front bumper as they zip back into the lane to avoid the freight truck barelling down the mountain in the other direction. The slow drivers trap the newbies behind them, causing the fast drivers to pass both of them (or three or four other cars) at once resulting in the same scenario as above.
The entrance to Castiglione Messer Raimondo is marked by a concave mirror which allows cars negotiating the sharp turn out of the main road to see the fast drivers as they come up a blind curve. This is the traveler's landmark to turn left - a sudden, sharp left into town. 3 1/2 hours after picking up the rental car, the traveler has arrived in Castiglione Messer Raimondo. Parking and leaving a vehicle never felt so good.
By now the weary traveler is so frazzled, tired, and disoriented, that he and/or she looks around to try ground themself in THE REASON. Where is THE REASON for the trip? There is no Colloseum begging entrance, no ornate Duomo commanding a photo session, no glistening canals eliciting romantic sighs, no bustling street vendors capitalizing on the oggling crowds to sell them memories in 4 X 6 cardboard photos. There's just the Chiesa di San Donato Martiro at first, its tall rotunda topped by a giant iron cross. Its bells may ring for mass. And the traveler gets his or her first glimpse of the people of Castiglione Messer Raimondo filing up the steps: the old women with their black sweaters shuffling up sideways to save their knees, the slighlty tired looking housewives nonetheless well-dressed and coiffed, the little boys and girls in hair tamed with oil or ribbons. And that's when the sneaky magic begins. The traveler is drawn to the people. Curious. Fascinated as they recognize a fantasy of Italy recalled from images 50 years old, or

see now in front of them an exact replica of a childhood neighbor or aunt, or hear a sound that sets into motion heartstrings long dormant. And then it begins. The Castiglione witchcraft. The insidious charm that starts to permeate the travelers weary, unguarded bones.
In a few days, Teresa will have motioned one over to point out the best loaf of bread in the bread wagon. Manola will have given one the best haircut ever - for 35 euro. The bar owner will have sat one down for a complimentary beer. A shop owner will have invited one to his accordian and mandolin concert later that night. The little auntie look-alike waves enthusiastically the fourth time she passes the house on her way to mass, shouting "Tutto aposto?" (Everything in order?). And then the traveler will know why they've come. They will have recognized THE REASON. They came not to see what Italy is famous for, but to see Italy. To be Italy. To participate in the life of Italy. They will know that they have come home. Whatever their idea of home was.