Southern Italy

I have been finding it difficult to write lately. I am not sure why, I have started several posts but as anyone who knows me will attest, I see lots of squirrels running around with shiny objects and my focus changes. I know that part of the reason is that I am mortified and horrifically afraid of what is happening in the United States. I promised myself that this blog would be free of politics and a respite for those who want a break from the divisiveness. I will keep that commitment. I must "tell on" myself though; I have been spending way too much time looking at social media and I have concluded, again, that it's just not good for me. It does not help my self-talk and I burn tons of energy thinking about events that won't occur, conversations that won't happen and opinions that won't change.

I am writing you from Rome just having returned from a 3 week holiday. Classes ended on December 18th and tomorrow I start my internship at an 80 year old Pasticceria /Trattoria in Rome. I actually stumbled into the place the first day I was in Rome in October. This is the site, www.fiorentina1942.com. It is run by the 4th generation meaning, the place opened while Mussolini was Chief Executive Fascist. I am thrilled to learn how they do what they do and bring it back to the first coast of Florida.

I had made plans to go to Spain for holiday and I was all set to leave on Monday morning the 21st. I went out with some friends on the Saturday prior and when I got back at around 11.00PM, an email greeted me from the airlines. I was informed that I needed to present a negative COVID test upon debarking the aircraft..and it had to be in Spanish. While dispensing with the logical difference between a “+“ sign and a “-“ sign and how such difference transcends language, there was no way this was happening on a Sunday. In Rome. Ever. Despite the forgoing, I gave it my best effort. I went to 3 different places and received three different responses, none of which was a solution. I did, however, have a major epiphany..the only time an Italian acts with any sense of urgency is when they are complaining to another Italian about their lack of urgency. Or driving. Contrary to character, I threw in the proverbial towel.

I knew that I could not sit in my flat in Rome for a month. Although Rome doesn’t suck I needed a change of scenery plus I was battling guilt about not exploring enough of Italy. I also pined for the beach, the smell of the salt air, the sound of gulls, and the hypnotic rhythm heralding the ocean’s arrival and its sighs of farewell. Since living in Florida for the past 20 years, I have noticed the direct relationship between my serenity and the amount of sand between my toes. Because all of Italy was in “lockdown”. I could not travel beyond the region of Lazio. After an exhaustive 10 minute research which included finding an Air BB on the sea and not much else, I decided on Anzio. The next day, I hopped on a train south and an hour later I had arrived. The late afternoon sun peaked from the behind the horizon as I traipsed toward my lodgings. I checked into my Air BB, nested for a bit and then off to find something to eat.

Covid forced all the restaurants to close its doors to inside seating but one can always get plenty to eat in Italy. I found a slice, a beer and some gelato, the Italian food trifecta.

The next morning. I was aching for adventure. I have wasted more than one day since arriving in Italy with analysis paralysis; trying to figure out what to do and when I finally decide the day was over. I went out for a cafe and a dolci and snooped around a bit. I listened to the fisherman discuss their forced closure for the next two weeks and made a bit of small talk. There was not that much happening in Anzio so I rented a car.

I drove east without a plan or a destination. The sky was cloudy and the temperature was in the 40's; there was a light mist in the air like it wanted to rain but Tempestas and Helios were still arguing. The result was a dreamlike, surreal, ethereal sort of mood. The Mediterranean pines line the hilly two-lane highway; their ancient branches completing a canopy. I couldn't help but to wonder about a man, not unlike myself, who...never mind, I would have been dead already. OK, but like me 30 years ago traveling down this same thoroughfare maybe going to market, my mule saddled with the previous week's harvest. The overhang of foliage has been giving shade and comfort for thousands of years.

I started to get a bit hungry and my only goal of the day was to have a great meal in a bustling trattoria in lovely small town. It was Christmas Eve eve and so the next day, all of Italy would be a "zona rosso" which meant no on site dining. I held out hope as I searched through a couple of small towns as it was approaching 2.00 and to the extent that any restaurants were opened, they were getting ready to close. I found a parking place next to a piazza and having no prospects I decreed to the committee in my head that we were parking and that was that! I turned 180 degrees and literally right across the street, I saw it a small door next to a clouded plate glass window clouded a testament to the lively conversation occurring just inside. I scurried across the street, opened the ancient wooded door and walked into a scene from an Italian movie. The place had about 15 tables, but there were only four parties in the restaurant. The tables looked like people had been playing dominoes blindfolded; they had been haphazardly joined to accommodate the large parties...3 generations at each table, laughing, talking and enjoying and there were even kids' tables. The din of conversation was interrupted by silverware clanking on dishes, outbursts of laughter, and the occasional pop of a cork coaxed out of a bottle. The hostess indicated that she was sorry but that they were full. As my smile disappeared she said if I did not mind, they could seat me at a table in an auxiliary area that was sort of outside. "Andiammo" I enthusiastically replied!

Sasha was my server and she was definitely a member of the fam that owned the joint. There were no menus as often is the case so she explained what they had. I said I would like some pasta, a little salad and some meat. She nodded and returned a couple minutes later with bread, wine, and fizzy water. I was peaceful and content sitting there overlooking that little courtyard from the even littler terrace. As the Italians say, "tutto e' tranquillo".

I could go into a blow by blow account of what I ate and how good it was, but I don't think that's very nice or considerate. Suffice to say that I am taking copious notes and cataloguing everything I eat so I can bring this real, unadulterated food to the US. More soon and be well.