My Paesani

One more full day here in Castiglione Messer Raimondo before returning stateside and nine months of longing to be here. When asked what is the best part of this town, most guests say "the people". Indeed, they are rare and golden. They are what I will miss the most. Here is a sampling of some of them.

Donatella
Each morning I hear her voice through the kitchen window. Her "ortofrutta" is directly below it. It is resonant enough to rise above the thunks and thuds as she and her husband open the truck doors to unload the produce they have driven from their farm only 2 km away. There's a scrunching sound of metal on metal as she pulls up the folding door of her shop. And the ubiquitous, comforting "buon giornos" that tumble one after another as each person passes the shop on his or her way to begin  the day.
The barber steers his bicycle up the road, getting off to walk it the final few meters up the hill. At lunch time, I will see him circle around and around the bellevedere, killing time or exercising, I can't tell which.
 [I couldn't upload a photo of Donatella! Sad. One of my favorites.]

Sandrina

Sandrina and the Fish Man

On the way to meet the fish guy, who pulls up across from the bellevedere every Tuesday and Thursday, I encounter the woman who lives across the largo from my house. Right next to the house of the two other American men from my very own Lancaster county who have bought a house here. But that's another story! We are both seeking the fish guy, who seems to be late in arriving. So we wait and chat together. After all this time I finally find out that her name is Sandrina. But only her friends call her that. I am allowed. The more formal name is Sandra,
short for her full name, Alessandra.We buy our respective sea creatures,

Sandrina places her order

 and then walk back to our "neighborhood" together. We arrive at her door first. Of course, there is the usual offer to come in for coffee. I have time today, and so, I can happily accept. As I sip the amazingly strong but delicious elixer, she asks if I'd like some tomatoes. Would I? Of course! She ducks into a tiny pantry room off the kitchen and brings out a single tomato. I know this is not the end of the story. "Aspetta" she says, and disappears towards the rear of the house. About 15 minutes later, she returns with at least 5 pounds of freshly picked, ripe, plump pomodori, all of which I am obliged to take. No argument from me. Fried calamari with fresh tomato sauce tonight!

The Woman on the Piazza
On my way back from the Saturday market I greeted a woman sitting outside her house on the main square. She and I exchanged pleasantries, which always lately seem to begin with "Fa caldo! [it's hot]" Then she turned a bit sad and described her inability to leave the house for any length of time. She gestured towards her open door and said something about her "marito" who had been something for 7 years. Dead, I thought. Then she waved me inside. As soon as I entered, I saw an old man sitting in a Barcolounger, the kind that pushes you to standing with the flip of a lever, like the one my dad used at the end of his life. The man was very slowly placing cut up cubes of cheese into his mouth. He looked at me with a distant, beatific face and gently took my hand. I introduced myself. He responded in a hoarse whisper. A non-sequiter sentence. But his smile widened. Clearly he was in an advanced stage of Alzheimer's. Rina, the woman on the piazza, his wife, shook her head.  His name is Tomaso, she told me. And he has been that way for 7 years. "Piacere, Tomaso", I said. He smiled even more beatifically as he stared at me, trying to think of a response. Rina reminded him "Mangi, Tomaso."
Then, of course, came the invitation to coffee. I apologetically declined. Rina looked embarrassed and asked if tea would be more suitable. I put down my groceries. "No, grazie," I said. "Prendo un caffe' con piacere." [No, thank you. I'll take a coffee with pleasure.]. She made me one of those amazing espresso's, served in a tiny, delicate, beautifully decorated china cup.
In the open door then came another older woman. Solid. Square. Thinning hair dyed the reddish-brown tint standard in Italian women over 70. Her voice was booming; just her greeting echoed in the room. She sat down across from Rina; I sat at the head of the table between them. The new woman, whose name I cannot remember, launched into an introduction, and then, without pausing, swelled into intense conversation about all the houses for sale in town, punctuated by jabbing hands and sweeping arms. The two of them slipped into dialect. I couldn't understand a word. Suddenly, I was 6 years old. Sitting with my grandmother in her cousin Concetta's kitchen. Listening to Concetta's booming voice. Watching my gentle grandmother, like Rina, listen and nod. Slip in an occasional short response before being run over by that thunderclap voice. The delicate cup, the bitter aftertaste of my first espresso. And though I couldn't understand anything of what was being said then, either, like now, I  knew/felt safe and secure in this singular world. Intuiting that because it was a world particular to us, I would always be an integral part of something that would hold me and care for me. We had the bond of being like beings. As I sat at Rina's table, existing in two time zones simultaneously, I was hit with a magnum force - this is the reason I am here, to go back and exist in the only extended time in my life when I have felt completely safe, happy, and loved. Completely immersed in the comforting sphere of cultural identity. To know I belong.

The Butcher Lady
Gran Sasso Sausage is the best!

Sandro
I have written of him before. Although he is from Bisenti, not CMR, his nature is indicative of the Abruzzesi. Especially here in the Fino Valley. He has been a vital source of car advice and help all summer. Indeed, he has saved me, automechanically speaking.
I had to suspend my insurance before leaving in order to avoid paying for coverage I don't need for 9 months. Sandro has reminded me at least half a dozen times NOT to forget to suspend it! However, it's August! Everyone is on vacation. That means not just one or two people from an office, but the entire office itself! The insurance people will not be back until August 26, 5 days after I return to the states. So Sandro found a way to take care of it for me. While I was there finishing up this business, he cautioned me NOT to leave the technically uninsured car in a public place, as I was planning to do. It is illegal and if something were to happen, I could be fined, or worse, the whole darn car could be yanked from me. He suggested I leave it with a friend who lives about 5 km from CMR. He saw my hesitancy to take this advice, so I explained that I was worried about finding a ride back home after dropping off the car.
"Find a friend to help you, " he said. "Someone will take you back to your house. We're used to doing that here. We understand that sometimes we need to help each other. I live in Bisenti; you live in Castiglione; you need to get home. It happens. We understand and so we help." Then he offered, "I will be at the beach with my family on Sunday, but I'll be back by 8. If you need a ride, call me. I'll come get you."
He probably read the incredulity in my eyes. His tone was gentle, but slightly chastising. "It's not a problem," he said. "That's the way it is here. This is not America."
Indeed.