Mountains

      I ran this morning, on the first single-digit day in the countdown to my departure. I didn't think I would. I didn't think I could. I got home late last night. 1:15 AM, my neighbor, Fernando, told me whenI greeted him today. He watches me like a hawk. He raises his eyebrows and corners of his mouth and wags a finger at me when he reveals the hour at which he clocked me returning home on any given night. When this first happened, I didn't know if I should be offended or creeped out. But I came to see he is just looking out for me. Last night I went to the opening night of my favorite summer festival - Valfino al Canto, the Fino Valley in Song. It is a musical unleashing of traditional Abruzzese music, dance, song, food, and crafts that floods the streets of tiny Arsita and sweeps everyone in them up in a tsunami of jubilation. The whole community prepares the town for this event two or three days prior to its start. Men, women, children, teenagers, old folks set up tables, assemble decorations, prepare arrosticini, pasta, and coatto (mutton slow cooked in tasty to ato sauce) and oversee the construction of puppets to be used in the opening procession. I was willingly swept away in the festivities. I ate a lot. I drank a lot. I danced a lot. I slept a little. My body was not in a running mood this morning.

Spontaneous song and dance

Content Participant

         Then I threw open the shutters of the bedroom window. That has seemed an innate gesture since the first time I did it on my first trip to Italy. It harkens back to an archaic memory, one that has been buried so deep and for so long in my DNA that the memory rings like a tuning fork in the core of my being. It echoes all the gestures of all the people who did them and stored them in their own DNA to be echoed in me. The open shutters revealed the mountains. They are clear today,
calm and steady after a summer of tumult. Capricious or angry or sullen or unexpected storms. The most recent seems to have been their last release of pent-up winter force. The rain was a wide, grey, impenetrable curtain twisted every which way by winds that bent Signore Gambacorta's eight foot almond try nearly to the ground. Lightening pierced the ridge just south of Montefino, narrowly missing impaling its bell tower. Hail tapped insistently at the bathroom door. But for the past few days those massifs have been gentle giants. Only a puff of a cloud resting on a peak or a shoulder tells of the past rants and  rages.
       The mountains are my strongest and steadiest companions here. I had to run towards them, like a child on her first day of school who knows she'll soon be torn from her mother. I ran towards them with an open heart. They stayed as they were, accepting me, guiding me. I was hot, sweaty, at times a bit giddy from the effort. But I kept running. Running and
running past my usual turn-around point. Wanting to run I to the arms of those mighty, scary, powerful, soothing beasts. On my way back, panting, soaked, leaving droplets of salt water in my wake like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, I recalled that the author Ignacio Silone had remarked on the mountains of his native land. Back at the house, I looked up his words:
"   The destiny of the people living in the region of Abruzzo.....has been defined mainly by the mountains...the people of Abruzzo have experienced a common and singular destiny, characterized by persistent loyalty to their economic and social
ideas, even beyond any practical utility; all of which would be inexplicable unless we consider that the constant factor in their existence is the most primitive and stable of all elements: nature. Yes, Signore Silone, and nothing defines or dominates nature like mountains. I saw, heard, tasted, felt this primitive and constant life force in the exuberance of of the singers, the joy of the dancers who pulled anyone and everyone, including yours truly, into the dance to partner with them in that joy, in the blurred lines of boundaries as strangers became dining buddies at the food tables, in the laughter and stories that erupted there as we connected in any language that served us. The Abruzzese people are those mountains and
the mountains are those people. In nine days both will be gone from me. I had to run. I had to throw myself in the mountain's embrace. So it can sustain me for whatever waits me in the months to come.

The Gran Sasso d' Italia mountain range

Good People

A Grrek woman I knew and loved as much for her unabashed opinions as for the unabashed sass with which she expressed them would listen politely when people would talk of their travels outside the US. Every once in a while she would murmur "oh, yah" with what seemed like enthusiasm. When the erstwhile traveler left her presence, though, she would plant herself in her rightful kitchen chair, throw her arms arms across her chest, raise her nose so she could sway her chin side to side and proclaim "What a show-off!" There were many of these offenders, and I suppose,were she alive, I would now be added to the list. I accept the moniker and readers, be forewarned, I am now going to show off.
Within days of my arrival in Abruzzo in general and this area of it in particular, there occurs an attitude adjustment of such magnitude that I become a different person. It comes inadvertently from the people here. I visit my favorite ceramics shop in Bisenti. The shop owner, Patrizia, and I hug, genuinely happy to see each other.
     "La familia, sta bene?" "Your family is well? "
      "Si, si!" I say, and she beams, even though she has never met my family. "E la tua? Tue figlie stanno crescendo, vero? " "Your girls are growing, right?"  I have met her daughters and they are beautiful.
       "Si, si! Anche la piccola!" "Yes, yes, even the youngest!"
        I can't wait to see her. I can't imagine her growing. She has been the tiny one ever since I met her four years ago.
        I pick out a spoon rest to replace one I broke last summer. It depicts a country scene in sepia, green, and yellow with an old stone farmhouse near a creek. The scene is alive with detail. Her husband, Camillo's specialty, I know. I also pick out a card of hand-made paper. I need to send a thank-you note. She looks at the price on the spoon rest ans shrugs.
       "Veinte euro." 20 instead of the 24 euro on the price tag. The card she slides back to me.    
        "Nineteen. Un regalo." "Nothing. A gift." 

          The next day guests drive me to see a new pasticeria they have found in nearby Castilenti. Tony, one of them, is a passionate foodie and is excited to have discovered this treasure. As soon as we enter, the woman behind the counter recognizes him.
        "Bon di! " she greets him, local dialect for "buon giorno". Her wattage increases exponentially as she and Tony continue chatting in the dialect, which neither his wife nor I can understand. After a particularly bright word punctuation, the bakery woman zips behind the counter and pops back around with rotund sugared doughnuts, each about the size of a golf ball.  We must each tek one. Tony and Mary decline, so the woman hands all three to me, beaming with expectation. So even though I never, and I mean never for as long as I can remember, eat doughnuts, I politely take one and bite into it. It is the best piece of pastry I have ever eaten! Light, mildly sweet, even with the sugar, and filled with real, creamy smooth egg custard. My eyes bug out and a smile explodes on my
face. The woman claps her hands and proceeds to fill a lunch bag sized sack full of these and other
pastries. All the while the three of us are waving our hands and crying, "No, no, no, no!".  To no
avail. The woman rolls down the top of the bag and thrusts it at us.
      "Mangia domani, doppo domani. Non e' molto! " "Eat tomorrow, or the day after. It's not much."

The rounds in the middle tray are known as "bomba" : bombs. You certainly could eat enough of them to explode!

       The town's butcher, Donato, does likewise with sausages. Plus he buys us all coffee.

Donato the butcher. 

       These could, by our skeptical American minds, be dismissed as a uniquely Italian form of
product promotion. The equivalent of free samples in the local grocery store. But wait - there's. Ore to show off.
       Twice I have been invited for dinner to the home of Giovanna, the woman who cleans my house. Mine is not the only one she cleans. She works for several other people. She cleans, cares for a bed-ridden elderly lady, and baby-sits three small children. Carlo, her husband, works in a nearby factory that makes bathroom fixtures. When we arrive each time, he gives us the grand tour of their farm - the impossibly tidy rows of chicken wire, straight and even that house his ducks, geese, hens, roosters, and goats. In back of them is a long, low barn with pigeon pens, rabbit hutches, and a stall for this year's suckling pig. He walks us through the vegetable garden, past his fig trees, over to the
vineyard, and points out the hillside with their 150 olive trees. The equipment for caring for all of this agriculture is stored in an open set of bays under a corrugated tin roof supported by massive concrete
and rebar pillars. All of this he maintains himself. While working full time.

Carlo firing up the grill for arrosticini. Yes, with a blow torch. 

When he had stalled us enough so that Giovanna can complete her tasks in the kitchen, he ushers us into the house. We eat. Frittelli (a fried dough kind of bread), antipasto of prosciutto, capitols, and pancetta made from last
year's pig, pappardelle pasta, two additional meats for "il secondo", not pepper condiments made from those grown in their garden, homemade wine, salad with their exquisite olive oil, strawberries and fresh whipped cream, limoncello, crema limone, and chocolate liquor. My house gift to them of a box of chocolates from the gourmet chocolate shop in town seems blatantly paltry. When we are all able to breathe again; when I am sure I can drive up/down the one-lane road that winds from their house to mine, we take our leave, expressing thanks with words that cannot hold them. We make our way to the car gingerly, so we don't drop the eggs, meat, lemons, wine, fritelli, and preserved peppers sotto olio that Giovanna has insisted we take home. She also insists we come again.
      At home, it is all I can do to flop on my bed, worn out from feasting. Giovanna has piles of dishes to wash, food to put away, napkins and tablecloths to launder. And work to go to early in the morning. But as we left, as she shooed us away from helping her with any clean-up, she told us how
happy she was to have us,
      "E' stato un piacere!" "It was a pleasure!"  "Voi siete familia!  Tu e  Mary siete come sorelle", she finished as her eyes shine. "You are all family! You and Mary are like sisters!"
        On my bed, my head spinning like Dorothy's after the tornado-instigated bonk on the head, I know I am not in Kansas any more. Or anywhere else in the States. I am in a land where sharing, opening one's heart to others is so much the norm it is unthinkable to do otherwise. Generosity, the joy of sharing, the pleasure of opening one's home and being to others is innate. Crack. I hear the sound of an American attitude adjusting.

I Am the Egg (wo) Man

I outfitted myself for a morning run. Well, okay, more like a combination run/walk/slog. It was still 3 days before the Bearman was due to arrive and usher in three weeks of hiking and sea kayaking. I needed the dusty hills of the country road leading out of town to get my cardio system ready. Curling uphill, downhill, past olive groves slanting downwards from undulating hills, the road changes from macadam to gravel before reaching my turn around near a football field sized tomato patch. The final uphill slog into town comes a half hour after this. Even though I had been running every other day for the past 6 weeks, I felt unprepared. I was planning to tackle the Corno Grande this summer, after all - at nearly 3,000 meters the highest peak in the Appenines. And very rocky. And steep. So it was time to get moving. Everything was in check - cell phone in pocket in case the nasty dogs nastied at me, frozen water bottle thawed just enough for the sippy thing to pop up, sunglasses - oops! In ran upstairs to retrieve them. When I ran back down, there she was. She stood well inside the front door. In her hand she held a bulging plastic bag. I didn't recognize her, although she dressed like all the other older ladies in town - black, shin-length dress with a discreet floral print, square-toed shoes that provided a sturdy platform for her swollen ankles, grey hair cropped just short enough to reveal gold rosettes on her earlobes, and the obligatory gold cross at her neck.
      "Do you need some eggs?" she asked, holding up the plastic bag. It looked half full. I did, in fact, need some.
      "Six euro for the whole bag."
      "Oh, no,no,no", I said. "I don't need that many. I'll just take a few. Maybe four or so."
       The woman continued as if she hadn't heard me. Or maybe my Italian was too bad to understand.
       "Three euro a dozen. But the whole bag for six euro. And I'll give you six for free. A gift."
        I shook my head. "No, thank you. That's too many. I'm here all by myself"
        The woman wobbled further inside and peered around. She tapped on the door to the downstairs kitchen.
        "Isn't there another family here?"
        "Yes, for now, " I said."but they are guests. They don't live here all the time. I'm here alone. I
         can't eat all those eggs."
         "She shrugged. "Put them in the refrigerator"
         I tried to speak, but didn't have the words I needed with which to counter her.
         I stammered. "But, I still won't be able to eat so many eggs. It will take me a long time. They'll go bad before I can eat them all."
         "Six euro," she insisted. "And six eggs as a gift."
          "What if I buy six eggs? How much?"
            Egg Woman opened her arms wide, palms upturned, and fixed her eyes on mine.
           "No! No! It is such a good bargain! Six euro. The whole bag. Six eggs I give you as a gift!"
            The sun was rising in the sky. I less than an hour it would be straight above, broiling the road and me on the last leg of my run. The frozen water bottle was weeping on the desktop.
           "My Italian is not so good," I said. "So tell me - you are saying I can buy the whole bag of eggs for six euro?"
           Egg Woman nodded.
           "Okay. But I don't have six euro exactly."
            "Give me a ten. I'll make change." She held the bag out to me and shook it just enough so it could whisper in collusion. She smiled.
             I ran upstairs, got a 10 euro note, and gave it to her. She gave me change in 50 and 20 centessimi coins.
            I then placed 32 eggs in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator.  As I ran I though about my attempt to resist the Egg Woman. It occurred to me that climbing the Corno Grande might be the easier task.

I am your Egg (wo) Man . You will obey. 

Trivial Thoughts

Morning. Coffee on the terrazzo. Sitting and watching a thunder boomer, un "temporale" play out over the silhouette of Citta' Sant' Angelo. I think trivial thoughts like "I hope it blows over; this is a designated beach day." And "Is it headed this way; I wonder if I should water the plants?"  I used to find these kinds of thoughts shallow. I used to be ashamed of them. After all, there are wars, gun violence, rape culture, starving children, aids, Alzheimer's, and illnesses occurring at the same time these thoughts arise. But now, I admit, I find the trivial thoughts a relief. A break from all the chatter exhorting me to save the world. A release from the Facebook memes and the petition signing requests and pleas for a $50 or whatever-you-can-give-we-are-grateful-for which will make a difference between us and the baddies winning on any issue.
Man, that thunder just keeps rolling along!
Whoa! Three streaks of lightening flashed in perfectly timed sequence, as if they were illuminating a Rolling Stones concert on the other side of the hills.
Whoa! Now the Stones have moved north towards Montefino and are really kicking up the light
show!
But the woman from the pasta shop, in her pink smock and white triangular scarf leans against the bellevedere railing having a slow smoke. There goes Fernando down the stairs to the parking lot. He pauses briefly after a loud boom, looks up, and continues down without changing his pace. Here comes Donatella's voice, always full of laughter, even when she is just speaking. It's mingled with the men's voices jabbing the humid air more and more sharply as their excitability grows. A dog runs across the main road. He slows to a stroll once he is out of the traffic flow and licks himself.  This is the way of a localized way of living. Life in the here and now. With the people next to us who we can see and touch. Whose lives we observe or in which we are involved first hand. Whose presence (or lack of it) is felt (or missed) daily in the vegetables, fish, bread, clean laundry, clothing, smiles, and conversations they provide. Whose impact is felt first hand when they are gone. That storm? It's on the other side of the world.
I think I will water the plants. And let the light show roll on.

The Queen of CMR

"Once upon a time..." That's how fairy tales begin. That's how this one begins, too. Although as far as I know there were no fairies or magic involved. Once upon a time....a palace was built. In the 1400's. When the hamlet that would eventually be ruled by Raimondo Caldara and named "Castiglione Messer Raimondo"  was emerging from its feudal state. There was still a vestige of feudalism when the palace was built, a landed gentry system. Wealthy families who owned hectares of land grew what was needed for the village to survive. They owned the space where artisans and craftspeople made the scythes, dishes, cloth, and where they ground grain. Where the miller's wife,  the mugniaia, made the region's signature pasta which would bear her name. Those who didn't own land were employees of those who did. Kind of like corporations today, only rustic. There were several landed gentry families and at least 4 of their palazzi survive in Castiglione Messer Raimondo. Gilda lives in one of them.
She wasn't born there. Nor did she begin her life there.

She began her life on a rotating board placed in a small, arched opening of a convent. Kind of like a lazy Susan for unwanted babies. The nuns took her in. No one has told me how long she was there before being taken in by the padrone of the grand palazzo. Its vaulted ceilings in the entrance hall and in each room are decorated with frescoes. The terrazzo at the far end of the hall has an unrestricted view of the Gran Sasso mountains. The surface of its travertine floor is easily twice that

of my daughter's Brooklyn apartment.

"C' e' una grande cantina sotto" she tells me as she guides me through the fraction of the 30 rooms that make up the palazzo. She points to the floor below as if I can see through it to the big cellar she is describing.

 "Una volta c' era una festa per piu' di 300 persone!" 

My eyes widen. "A party for 300 people down there?!" 

"PIU ' di 300!" MORE than 300! She exclaims, throwing her arms in the air. 

"Wow." is all I can manage, unable to find an Italian equivilent.

Gilda now throws her arms around me. "Brava! Capisci bene l'italiano! E' parli bene!" 

Her compliments about my language competence seem to magically make it a fact.

No one knows how long Gilda has lived in the palazzo. No one knows or will tell her age. Perhaps per Gilda's orders. But she will tell you she was quite young when she began working in the house, cooking, serving, doted on by the padrone until his death. His will stipulated that if his children did not wish to keep and live in the house that it should go to her. They didn't and it did. 

Watching her move about her kitchen, directing us dinner guests who have offered to help her prepare the pasta fagioli, deep fried green olives, and quiche-like appetizer stuffed with spinach and ground meat, it seems as though Gilda is simultaneously servant and queen. Her movements are quick, direct, accurate as she drains the pasta, stirs the sauce, removes the beans from the flame, and pours all of them in a graceful cascade into a deep, wide bowl. 

We, her adoring assistants, scurry to bring the food out to the long table on the terrazzo. She has invited my current Casa da Carmine guests, 8 of their family members, and me to a Sunday evening cena. 

"No, no, no!" Tony, my houseguest, had protested. "E' troppo lavoro! Too much work!"

Gilda had pointed at each of us, one at a time, and said "La domenica. Alle 7." Sunday at 7. 

One by one we acquiesced.

When we sat down, Gilda was at the head of the table, chin high, eyes sparkling. No one dared begin to eat until she gave the all clear. 

"Buon apetito!" She said, and as if choreographed by a gran dame of dance, we began passing plates around. Gilda sat and beamed. She had not always been this way. The stalwart, big-hearted, undisputed queen of CMR. No one knows what prompted her turn of fate. From serving girl to property owner. No one knows why il padrone ceded his palace to her. There are speculations. You 

may join in them with your own imagination. There is no speculation or doubt, however, that Gilda has taken the scepter with complete aplomb.