More Italy: My Stupor

I can’t begin to tell you what a great experience this has been. This entire family has taken me under their wing just because I had a conversation with their son. I’m not sure what he told them (he was a bit of a mama’s boy – but then I am beginning to realize that lots of Italian men are that way), but you would have thought I was a long-lost relative. My first night here, jet lagged out of my mind and confused about where I was going and who these people were, was a blur of screaming down little winding roads in the back of their Fiat, squeezed in between two Italian women (who kept squeezing me) and talking frantically in a mix of English and Italian about everything we passed. I felt I had been plunged into the middle of a video game; the driver would be screaming into turns while at the same time steering with his knees and gesturing wildly with both hands while turning back to look at me. I think I found God somewhere on the twelfth turn.

180 kilometers later, we made it safely to Parma and their house, which is sometimes used as an agriturismo. For those who don’t know, the Italian government encourages farmers to open their homes to tourists as hotels along with their normal farming operations (they have to keep farming). They get a nice tax break and travelers experience life in the country. Some are nothing more than finished barns, but this one has six rooms. Since this is the off season I am the only traveler and have the whole guest house to myself. The room has a great view down the hillside towards Quattro Castella. This house was built over 150 years ago and though it was damaged during the war, has been extensively remodeled and is full of old charm.

I barely had time to collapse on the bed for a few minutes before I was summoned to the kitchen to meet the grand matriarch of the family. She must be in her late 80’s, but spends the bulk of every day in a big commercial kitchen putting together the daily meals. Everything is done by hand, and I spent a fascinating hour watching her make tiny pasta orecchiette, as her daughter translated back and forth between us. There was something about sitting in that great old kitchen with the sun streaming through the windows, watching two generations cooking together, that suddenly made me forget all the troubles of the world. Soon enough, I was up to my wrists in pasta dough, trying to duplicate the little pasta ears. I could do a single rather misshapen one in the time it took Mama to do five. She assures me that if I keep at it, I’ll be just as good as she is by the time I am 90.

The main house would most accurately be called a mansion. It is a large two story stone building with brightly painted blue doors and window frames. Colorful pots line the stairways to the second floors. I feel almost like I am in a museum. They gave me a tour and casually handed me things that were hundreds of years old. The main dining room has a huge stone fireplace, which seems to be the main heat for the downstairs. The table holds 22 people and is surrounded by all kinds of wine memorabilia. 75-pound wheels of reggiano are stacked in a butler’s pantry; all stamped with the family crest and the official government seal. I am in engulfed in gustatory heaven, and am being called to dinner!

The whole family was there. I don’t think this is an every night thing, but I’m not quite sure what the occasion is, except for my presence. Introductions are a blur, but I manage to remember the most important names. These people put food away like nothing I have ever seen. Platters and platters are carried out of the kitchen by the women, steaming with tigelle e gnocco fritto, pasta, pork, chicken. The wine… good god, the wine… It never stops flowing. It started with lambrusco and went on and on. Everyone is drinking toasts to me, to their son in Sonoma Valley, to pregnancies, a new marriage… Every time a toast is made everyone drinks and glasses are immediately refilled. Remember, I am still hung over and jetlagged and am beginning to feel like I’ve stepped into the middle of that Greek Wedding movie. I speak a little bit of Spanish, a bit of Greek, and a small amount of French, and somehow my mind was mixing them all into one sentence. They kept looking at me like I’m some poor addled American, until I finally got too hammered to talk, and just sat there with a stupid grin. We finished with amazing old balsamic vinegar drizzled over prosciutto. At one point I seriously considered whether I could get way with crawling under the table and taking a short nap without them noticing.

I can’t really describe the rest of the evening except to say that it was a blur. A lot of time was spent with the family arguing back and forth over what I should see while I am here. These people are big on dramatic gestures, so I was happy just sitting and watching. Finally the decisions were made. One day heading south: Montalcino to taste wine, Montepulciano to lunch with family members, and finally Cortona to the Museo Diocesano to see a work by Fra Angelico. The next day we will head west (I think) to Ferrara, and Maranello, and the Duomo of Modena.

The next morning I was awakened early with breakfast in bed (served with a little bit too much attention by one of the sons whom I am starting to wonder about). Then five of us piled into the little car and headed out into the countryside.

Most of these small towns are fairly close together, at least the way Italians drive. My hosts seem to know people wherever they go so I am constantly being introduced to more people. Hell, I’m still trying to remember family names. At this point I just smile and try to keep up. I find my Italian is getting better and I’m now able to understand everyone fairly well. Just don’t ask me to speak it back, as they all laugh.

Montepulciano is high on a hill in Tuscany. It is a wonderful place to explore with lots of tiny medieval alleyways and Renaissance churches. I’d like to spend more time there. The town is quiet, and they tell me this is the only time of year to visit without being overwhelmed by tourists. One of their cousins has a great little restaurant on the square. When he heard I like to cook, he gave me a tour of their tiny kitchen and then served us plate after plate of food. We started with the local vino nobile di Montepulciano, or “the king of all wines.” Multiple courses followed: lamb, winter greens, custard… there is a huge black truffle (I can’t imagine how much it cost, as it is the size of a child’s fist) that everyone keeps grating onto things – wonderful on eggs. I’ve had so much fine food with all the truffles, vinegars, and cheese that I’m starting to crave a burger. We zoomed past a McDonalds today and I found myself having inappropriate fantasies about French fries.

After lunch we walked around the town. Long and skinny, it stretches lazily across a ridge, with lots of hilly walking. We went to a great enoteca inside a 14th century fortezza at the edge of town where more wine was consumed, fortunately followed by more walking. This whole area reminds me of some of the California wine country: very hilly, the locals or Poliziani obsessed with wine and food. It seems everyone has bottles of vino nobile under their stairs. The only problem with these hilltop towns is they catch the full brunt of the wind and it is quite cool and showery right now. I could have spent more time here, but this is my “cruise ship” version of Italy, and I am told we must keep moving. Soon we were whizzing down more winding roads to Montalcino. I can’t keep the people straight, and now they are throwing all these towns with similar names. I hope I’m remembering all of this correctly!

Before we reached the town, we stopped at the abbey of Sant’Antimo, built in 1118. It is an amazing Romanesque temple; one of the finest in all of Tuscany. We walked through and listened to the French monks, their Gregorian chant bouncing off the walls. Light streamed in through the windows, setting one of the alabaster carvings of Daniel in the Lion’s Den aglow. It was hauntingly beautiful, and I had to wander off for a few minutes to collect myself. I found myself running my fingers across the travertine, thinking of all the people that had passed; one of several times I’ve done that this trip; history under my fingertips.

Montalcino is a walled town, high on a hill. As you approach on a twisting road through the vineyards, a large old fortress dominates the southern end. Spires of medieval towers sprout from the middle. Stone buildings hanging off the cliff make it look very imposing. This is a no cars city, so you park in a lot outside the walls. Entering, the city feels less intimidating, and even older than Montepulciano. We ignored the touristy La Fortezza and instead wandered deeper into the city, following twisting stairs and alleyways until we arrived at the house of yet more cousins.

It seems every city in Italy has a signature wine, and here it is Brunello, which I really enjoy. Maybe I was just overwhelmed, but sitting in this tiny, incredibly old house, surrounded by happy people, the wine seemed fantastic. I could never be a wine buyer, as I’d get swept up in the spirit of things and end up importing bottles that were much less impressive in a Portland condominium. A bit more food and it was time for another cold walk. They took us up onto the walls for an amazing view of the valley below, lit in a patchwork of moving light from passing clouds. Standing in the wind, another memory forged.

At this point it was decided we didn’t have enough time to go to Cortona – I’m not sure I could have taken any more. Instead we headed back towards Firenze and the American Cemetery and Memorial just south of the city: 4,400 crisp white headstones laid out in perfect rows. There was something about the thousands of graves on that slope, with endless rows of perfectly maintained white marble crosses and informational plaques, obviously written with great respect by the Italian people – so many young Americans, so far from home. How many could have guessed they would end up here? All these men giving their lives for a country they had never seen. Having just watched the Ken Burns series on the war, the enormity of the whole thing crashed down on me, and I spent the longest time there with the Grandmother, just sitting and taking it all in, listening to her stories about when the war came to Modena, and realizing how easy I have it. They wanted to know if I had family that had fought in the war and were impressed with how much I knew (thanks to my grandfather’s journals). I didn’t get the full story, but came to understand that at some point during the war, a group of Americans had saved her mother and helped evacuate the family, but were then killed themselves. Now the Grandmother comes every year to lay flowers. I suddenly realized why the Italian people put up with the huge hordes of American tourists every summer.