And so we’ve reached Ferrara. Everything is different here. The weather is colder, as are the people, but there is a lot more English spoken. We are in the city, walking distance from the centre, in a brand new apartment building specifically for students. I live on the 4th floor of tower 1, looking out over the main enterance to the building. On the ground floor there is a mall, much like the ones you’d find in the US, with a large grocery store, several clothing and shoe stores, and many little cafes and places to eat. My favorite place is the tea bar, where any tea you order comes in a full tea set: a clear glass pot with loose-leaf tea, clear glass cup and saucer, tiny silver spoon, red clay plate with flaky little tea pastries. If you get the floral tea, there are jasmine and lavender flowers floating around in your teapot. Our schedule here is completely different as well: we have Italian only on Mondays, for 3 hours straight. Our cooking labs are at an actual culinary and bartending school in the city, but they are also only three nights a week. The majority of our schedule is filled with my favorite thing- fieldtrips. On Tuesday we split into two groups to go to an agroturismo and a restaurant called Pirate (I went to the agroturismo- more on that later). Wednesday a reception and press conference was held for us at the school that is hosting us, and we got to meet the headmaster of the school, the commissioner of Ferrara, and several of the top teachers in the program, who we’ll get to take a class or two with later. Then followed a reception with a buffet of all the specialties Ferrara is most proud of: Coppia Ferrarese (funky chromosome-shaped bread), Salame di Sugo (ridiculously salty), cappellacci (pumpkin ravioli- amazing), pasticcio alla Ferrarese (noodle pie- better than it sounds), and more wines than I could (or should) taste. After that, we rode the bus back to our apartment to change, and took a walking tour of the city: we walked through the castle (every city has it’s own castle- this one has a real moat with big fishes), tip-toed through the cathedral, bought gelato, and almost got locked into a cemetery for the night. Our guide and general mother here, Agnese (pr. Awn-yay-say), is young and new at her job, but speaks very good English, and is lots of fun to talk to and walk around with- the large majority of our group decided to split off to explore or shop on their own once we got into town, so those of us that were left had a personalized tour and got to see everything we wanted (including the best gelato place in the city).
Today we’re off to tour a rice farm, and then a canning factory- I’ve always wanted to tour a canning factory! No, really, I’m being serious. Factories are cool. And so is rice.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Cantine Due Palme (transcribed from my lost and newly found road journal)
Yesterday, I acquired five bottles of wine and a 3-liter metal canister of olive oil. It was our last day in Otranto, and so Pino took us on one final grand field trip. We drove to Brindisi, and a bit outside the city we entered a town call Citta Di Vino- City of Wine. We toured the winery Cantine Due Palme, a large facility with a grand conference room and walls full of awards. They work with hundreds of small and large grape growers in the Salento region, who bring their grapes in by the truckload to be weighed and poured into huge crushing vats. The fermenting tanks are the size of small grain silos. The juice and mash are churned in cement-mixer tanks (not really, but you get the idea), then separated: skins and seeds are sent to be made into grappa, an intensely grape distilled liquor. Red wines have the skins left in them for a day at most- rose wines for 4 hours max, whites not at all. As the wine ferments, the sugar and alcohol content is monitored carefully every day or two, chalked up on a slate attached to each tank. The sugar content of the grapes themselves was measured when they first came in, to determine what types of wine may be made from them.
Cantine Due Palme produces over a million bottles of wine a year- 90% for foreign markets. Most of the wine they sell will be last year’s vintage: only a couple types are aged for more than a year. The oldest is stored in French oak barrels for 3 years, but that is a very select wine not even sold in their store. The winery’s store has wine pumps, like an old-fashioned gas station, where you pay by the liter for primitivo (a regional variety), rosso (red), rosato (rose), bianco (white), or moscato- you may bring your own jug or buy a reusable plastic one. While we were there, a man brought in a big green glass jug wrapped in straw netting, filled it with rosso, and then left, walking out to his bike and putting the bottle in the front basket. The store also has a wall of bottled wines, from which I made my selection after the rest of my group was done mobbing it: I got a bottle of rose spumante, one of chardonnay, one of the spicy red negromaro we tasted on the tour (found only in Salento), one of a dark primitivo that won top standing in an international competition, and a slender, beautiful bottle of sweet dessert moscato. I think everything but the spumante will be taken home with me, although it depends on what other wines I manage to accumulate along the way. The grand total for my five bottles? Roughly $36.
We then visited Pino’s olive oil factory, a small nondescript building in an industrial park. Olives don’t ripen until November, so the building was clean and empty. The equipment for washing and pressing the olives took up only a small corner of the room- one person could run everything if need be, although all the bottling must be done by hand. After the oil is filtered, it goes into a tank about as tall as me, next to the bottling table, where bottles of all sizes can be filled with a big yellow funnel. There was no stock of any kind kept during the off season, at least in the factory. We were all rather disappointed, as we were hoping to buy some oil from our host’s own company before we left. One of the girls asked Pino where all the oil was, adding a pout like a grandchild who was expecting presents. Pino just laughed and led us back to the main entrance, where we had all overlooked a stack of 27 three-liter canisters of extra virgin olive oil. “Oneh for each”, as Pino said. We swarmed the stack, each cradling one of the huge containers in our arms like a baby, in awe of the unexpected gift and the virtually infinite supply of oil we now had. What could we possibly do with it all? How much weight would this add to our luggage? Pino had told us that to make 1kg of oil, you needed about 12kg of olives: I roughly calculated that I held the product of 44lb of olives in my hands. Between our entire group, Pino had given away over 1,000lb of olives. I wish I could adopt him as my Italian grandfather.
Cantine Due Palme produces over a million bottles of wine a year- 90% for foreign markets. Most of the wine they sell will be last year’s vintage: only a couple types are aged for more than a year. The oldest is stored in French oak barrels for 3 years, but that is a very select wine not even sold in their store. The winery’s store has wine pumps, like an old-fashioned gas station, where you pay by the liter for primitivo (a regional variety), rosso (red), rosato (rose), bianco (white), or moscato- you may bring your own jug or buy a reusable plastic one. While we were there, a man brought in a big green glass jug wrapped in straw netting, filled it with rosso, and then left, walking out to his bike and putting the bottle in the front basket. The store also has a wall of bottled wines, from which I made my selection after the rest of my group was done mobbing it: I got a bottle of rose spumante, one of chardonnay, one of the spicy red negromaro we tasted on the tour (found only in Salento), one of a dark primitivo that won top standing in an international competition, and a slender, beautiful bottle of sweet dessert moscato. I think everything but the spumante will be taken home with me, although it depends on what other wines I manage to accumulate along the way. The grand total for my five bottles? Roughly $36.
We then visited Pino’s olive oil factory, a small nondescript building in an industrial park. Olives don’t ripen until November, so the building was clean and empty. The equipment for washing and pressing the olives took up only a small corner of the room- one person could run everything if need be, although all the bottling must be done by hand. After the oil is filtered, it goes into a tank about as tall as me, next to the bottling table, where bottles of all sizes can be filled with a big yellow funnel. There was no stock of any kind kept during the off season, at least in the factory. We were all rather disappointed, as we were hoping to buy some oil from our host’s own company before we left. One of the girls asked Pino where all the oil was, adding a pout like a grandchild who was expecting presents. Pino just laughed and led us back to the main entrance, where we had all overlooked a stack of 27 three-liter canisters of extra virgin olive oil. “Oneh for each”, as Pino said. We swarmed the stack, each cradling one of the huge containers in our arms like a baby, in awe of the unexpected gift and the virtually infinite supply of oil we now had. What could we possibly do with it all? How much weight would this add to our luggage? Pino had told us that to make 1kg of oil, you needed about 12kg of olives: I roughly calculated that I held the product of 44lb of olives in my hands. Between our entire group, Pino had given away over 1,000lb of olives. I wish I could adopt him as my Italian grandfather.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Nord
Saturday we traveled north, through Lecce, Brindisi, and Bari, to il Grotte di Castellana, a magnificent cavern and large tourist attraction. While we waited for our tour to start, we meandered through the many touristy shops that surrounded the actual entrance. We met with many friendly shopkeepers (“you look at this wine? Sei buono! You try! Taste! Taste! Goes well with this kind of biscotti, you try that too!”), and found such exotic gifts as pyrite samples from Illinois, and small cubes of polished coal. I guess gift shops are universal in the relevance to their actual location.
Our tour began- we all got excited when we gathered at the meeting point for the English tour, but no such luck. We were led down into the cavern by a small Italian woman who babbled in high-speed Italian while walking, so I only caught words here and there (was that something about 500 steps?). Even our translator could barely keep up, and since there were several other Italian tourists thrown into the tour with us, we couldn’t slow down for bilingual versions of everything. I made do with the humorously translated pamphlet on the cave itself (they’re very enthusiastic about karstic concretions), and assuaged my frustrated comrades by “translating” the tour as best I could, rambling off everything I knew about caves, stalactites, and stalagmites, as well as naming formations (We like to call this room the broccoli forest, and over here are the wizards fighting with candlesticks…), and reminding them to watch their step and head every time we moved. All in my best foreign accent. We may not have learned much from the tour guide, but we certainly had a fun hour- and the cavern was quite impressive in itself. The first cave on the tour was definitely the tallest cave I have ever been in, and it had a natural hole at the top with sunbeams streaming in, only adding to the effect of the height. I don’t know whether it was all the stairs down or the staring upwards once we came out into the main room, but we all found ourselves with shaky knees when our tour guide came to the first stop. I didn’t realize until afterwards, but that first stop was at the grave of the founder (finder? discoverer?) of the cavern- he didn’t simply fall into the hole first, but actually explored the whole cave long before his death, and requested to be buried there, in the knee-shakingly tall cavern. It does seem to be a fittingly solemn and ancient place to rest, with stalagmites growing up from your grave.
When we were once again back on the surface, readjusting to the shimmering heat and sun, it was announced that we would now go on a “zoosafari”. Zoosafari? Well, okay… Italian zoosafaris (read:zoos) have some interesting differences to American ones. While the basic idea is the same, they have both a “safari” portion (in which you drive through larger enclosures, with large groups of, well, large animals) and a pedestrian part, which includes some buildings (reptile house, aviary, etc), but also some ride-through exhibits- to see monkeys, polar bears, kangaroos, or penguins, you had to board a small cage on wheels, and ride through mysterious doorways and curtains to the animal exhibits. In addition to this, almost everything had a separate cost- our tickets got us into the reptile and bird house, the “large mammal” ride, and anything that you could walk to. Any other exhibit or ride cost €2 or €3 more. After driving through the safari and seeing bears, giraffe, lions, tigers, panthers, and all manner of deer-like species, we were given an hour and a half to explore the rest of the park. I found the group of students who weren’t planning on spending any extra money, and walked around with them until we had seen everything we could, then sat in the shade and enjoyed €1 granite lemone until everyone else filtered out to the bus in their chronically late way.
Our last stop of the day was Alberobello, a little town that called itself the “Capitale di trulli.” I have seen trullo here and there since we first drove down to Otranto from Rome: they are funny little cone-shaped buildings, white-washed bases with the cone built on top from flat bricks of limestone, carefully stacked inward without mortar, then held in place by a plastered keystone at the very top. They are old, with mystical symbols painted on the roofs, and messages hidden in the shapes of the keystones. The ones I had seen before always stood alone, in olive groves or along the coast- Alberobello had a city of them. Disappointingly, most of our group didn’t want to explore them: they stayed in the bus and pouted like children at being torn away from the zoo so soon, while those of us with some appreciation of culture and history (i.e. the cool people) ventured out with the translator and Francesco, who’d skipped the zoo but somehow caught up with us in his sleek BMW. We climbed steep winding streets lined with the little houses, many of which were converted into tiny shops, to the top of the hill where the church sat with the same stacked stone roof, but tripled in size (I think they might’ve used mortar on that one). I felt like I was walking through a hobbit village of sorts, because all the houses had doors I had to duck through, and the streets were too narrow for any American car to get through. Cats and dogs sat on almost every stoop, enjoying the afternoon sun and the appreciation of gullible passing tourists. Trumpet vines, wisteria, and other flowers draped many of the roofs and doors, although I could never see where they found the earth to start from. I think out of the entire day, I enjoyed walking through the trulli village the most, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for (if not disgusted with) those who had chosen to stay behind.
Our tour began- we all got excited when we gathered at the meeting point for the English tour, but no such luck. We were led down into the cavern by a small Italian woman who babbled in high-speed Italian while walking, so I only caught words here and there (was that something about 500 steps?). Even our translator could barely keep up, and since there were several other Italian tourists thrown into the tour with us, we couldn’t slow down for bilingual versions of everything. I made do with the humorously translated pamphlet on the cave itself (they’re very enthusiastic about karstic concretions), and assuaged my frustrated comrades by “translating” the tour as best I could, rambling off everything I knew about caves, stalactites, and stalagmites, as well as naming formations (We like to call this room the broccoli forest, and over here are the wizards fighting with candlesticks…), and reminding them to watch their step and head every time we moved. All in my best foreign accent. We may not have learned much from the tour guide, but we certainly had a fun hour- and the cavern was quite impressive in itself. The first cave on the tour was definitely the tallest cave I have ever been in, and it had a natural hole at the top with sunbeams streaming in, only adding to the effect of the height. I don’t know whether it was all the stairs down or the staring upwards once we came out into the main room, but we all found ourselves with shaky knees when our tour guide came to the first stop. I didn’t realize until afterwards, but that first stop was at the grave of the founder (finder? discoverer?) of the cavern- he didn’t simply fall into the hole first, but actually explored the whole cave long before his death, and requested to be buried there, in the knee-shakingly tall cavern. It does seem to be a fittingly solemn and ancient place to rest, with stalagmites growing up from your grave.
When we were once again back on the surface, readjusting to the shimmering heat and sun, it was announced that we would now go on a “zoosafari”. Zoosafari? Well, okay… Italian zoosafaris (read:zoos) have some interesting differences to American ones. While the basic idea is the same, they have both a “safari” portion (in which you drive through larger enclosures, with large groups of, well, large animals) and a pedestrian part, which includes some buildings (reptile house, aviary, etc), but also some ride-through exhibits- to see monkeys, polar bears, kangaroos, or penguins, you had to board a small cage on wheels, and ride through mysterious doorways and curtains to the animal exhibits. In addition to this, almost everything had a separate cost- our tickets got us into the reptile and bird house, the “large mammal” ride, and anything that you could walk to. Any other exhibit or ride cost €2 or €3 more. After driving through the safari and seeing bears, giraffe, lions, tigers, panthers, and all manner of deer-like species, we were given an hour and a half to explore the rest of the park. I found the group of students who weren’t planning on spending any extra money, and walked around with them until we had seen everything we could, then sat in the shade and enjoyed €1 granite lemone until everyone else filtered out to the bus in their chronically late way.
Our last stop of the day was Alberobello, a little town that called itself the “Capitale di trulli.” I have seen trullo here and there since we first drove down to Otranto from Rome: they are funny little cone-shaped buildings, white-washed bases with the cone built on top from flat bricks of limestone, carefully stacked inward without mortar, then held in place by a plastered keystone at the very top. They are old, with mystical symbols painted on the roofs, and messages hidden in the shapes of the keystones. The ones I had seen before always stood alone, in olive groves or along the coast- Alberobello had a city of them. Disappointingly, most of our group didn’t want to explore them: they stayed in the bus and pouted like children at being torn away from the zoo so soon, while those of us with some appreciation of culture and history (i.e. the cool people) ventured out with the translator and Francesco, who’d skipped the zoo but somehow caught up with us in his sleek BMW. We climbed steep winding streets lined with the little houses, many of which were converted into tiny shops, to the top of the hill where the church sat with the same stacked stone roof, but tripled in size (I think they might’ve used mortar on that one). I felt like I was walking through a hobbit village of sorts, because all the houses had doors I had to duck through, and the streets were too narrow for any American car to get through. Cats and dogs sat on almost every stoop, enjoying the afternoon sun and the appreciation of gullible passing tourists. Trumpet vines, wisteria, and other flowers draped many of the roofs and doors, although I could never see where they found the earth to start from. I think out of the entire day, I enjoyed walking through the trulli village the most, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for (if not disgusted with) those who had chosen to stay behind.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
I can see Africa from here!
I must say, our fieldtrips this weekend were much more extensive and interesting than our short trip to the agrotourismo last Saturday. We spent two entire days traveling, leaving in the morning and returning late for dinner, and saw so many things that I don’t think I can cover them all in one go. On Friday we went south, along beautiful coastline, to Leuca, the southern-most tip of the heel of Italy. On the way down the coast, we stopped in Santa Cesarea Terme, a little village perched on the cliffs next to the sea, with old stone stairways and parts of rooms leading out into thin air, the rest of their building in chunks further down, under water. We wandered around taking pictures for a while, then it was back into the bus. I could’ve ridden the bus down the coast forever. Everyone else slept or dozed (oh the horror of getting up at 8 a.m. on a Friday), but I stared out the window the entire time. The road never strayed out of sight of the sea, following every curve of the coast, climbing up the high cliffs and winding back down right to the sand of the shore, squeezing through little towns and edging around rocky fields and olive groves. We stopped again at a little gorge, Ciolo, and walked down to the water underneath the bridge. There were people snorkeling into a cave in the cliff- I wanted to join them so much. But we were back on the bus and onward down the coast. We went through many more towns perched on the cliffs, with little white houses lined up like lemmings, ready to plunge off the edge… I wonder how often a piece of cliff really does just give in and crumble away. Most of it is sandstone or limestone, not the most timeless of rocks.
When we finally reached Leuca, we were given two hours to roam or swim or sightsee on our own. While many of our group headed straight for the public beach, Kayla, Kelcey, Matt, and I decided we had to go to the exact southern-most tip of the heel. Just the town wasn’t good enough. We ventured off the road and down the coast, heading for what looked like the furthest out point, a rocky cliff jutting out towards Africa (or so we imagined). After scampering around many rocks, carefully avoiding cliff edges, and giving less than wide berths to the clearly fenced off private areas, we made it to the very tip-top. The view of the sea, and the coastline stretching out and back from us in both directions, was incredible. We had taken a full 15 or 20 seconds to enjoy the panorama when, upon turning inland, we realized there was a very large hole in the slope behind us. With child-like attention span, we abandoned the spectacular view to go investigate: the hole was even larger than it had looked, and appeared very easy to climb down into. It was also fenced off, but only with very rudimentary log fencing, really more just to keep people from falling into the hole accidentally, we decided. Therefore, we very purposefully climbed over the fence and down into the cave, which turned out to be a beautiful little grotto of sorts- there was another hole leading out the other side that let light in, and further down the cave opened up directly into the sea. The echoes of waves lapping into the cave were dampened by our excited squeals at having found such a place. We clambered down to the water and waded out a little, climbing on the rocks that had fallen from the ceiling of cliff still above us. The outlet to the sea was deemed to rocky and dangerous for any real swimming, so after exploring every corner we made our way back out of our cave, Kelcey and I climbing up to the higher window hole and out around the side of the cliff, Matt and Kayla going back the way we’d come in (toting our shoes and cameras for us). We all concluded that discovering and exploring a cave was far better than anything anyone else in our group could’ve done. On our way back up the coast, we found a not-quite-as-rocky cove to swim in, but didn’t stay long, as everyone but the Hawaiian among us (Kayla) was unnerved by how quickly the rocks ended and the water got deep. Just a dead leaf brushing your leg was enough to bring up thoughts of sharks or poisonous jellyfish, or the spear fishermen we’d seen suiting up earlier. After drying off, we found a short-cut to the road and made it back to the meeting point early enough to get gelato and lemon granita, and to put on our best “you’ll never guess where we’ve been” faces before the rest of our group returned for the ride back.
When we finally reached Leuca, we were given two hours to roam or swim or sightsee on our own. While many of our group headed straight for the public beach, Kayla, Kelcey, Matt, and I decided we had to go to the exact southern-most tip of the heel. Just the town wasn’t good enough. We ventured off the road and down the coast, heading for what looked like the furthest out point, a rocky cliff jutting out towards Africa (or so we imagined). After scampering around many rocks, carefully avoiding cliff edges, and giving less than wide berths to the clearly fenced off private areas, we made it to the very tip-top. The view of the sea, and the coastline stretching out and back from us in both directions, was incredible. We had taken a full 15 or 20 seconds to enjoy the panorama when, upon turning inland, we realized there was a very large hole in the slope behind us. With child-like attention span, we abandoned the spectacular view to go investigate: the hole was even larger than it had looked, and appeared very easy to climb down into. It was also fenced off, but only with very rudimentary log fencing, really more just to keep people from falling into the hole accidentally, we decided. Therefore, we very purposefully climbed over the fence and down into the cave, which turned out to be a beautiful little grotto of sorts- there was another hole leading out the other side that let light in, and further down the cave opened up directly into the sea. The echoes of waves lapping into the cave were dampened by our excited squeals at having found such a place. We clambered down to the water and waded out a little, climbing on the rocks that had fallen from the ceiling of cliff still above us. The outlet to the sea was deemed to rocky and dangerous for any real swimming, so after exploring every corner we made our way back out of our cave, Kelcey and I climbing up to the higher window hole and out around the side of the cliff, Matt and Kayla going back the way we’d come in (toting our shoes and cameras for us). We all concluded that discovering and exploring a cave was far better than anything anyone else in our group could’ve done. On our way back up the coast, we found a not-quite-as-rocky cove to swim in, but didn’t stay long, as everyone but the Hawaiian among us (Kayla) was unnerved by how quickly the rocks ended and the water got deep. Just a dead leaf brushing your leg was enough to bring up thoughts of sharks or poisonous jellyfish, or the spear fishermen we’d seen suiting up earlier. After drying off, we found a short-cut to the road and made it back to the meeting point early enough to get gelato and lemon granita, and to put on our best “you’ll never guess where we’ve been” faces before the rest of our group returned for the ride back.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Gattino
I found a kitten and brought him home. We were walking to the beach, past an old church and convent that looked pretty abandoned, when I heard him meowing at me, sitting on top of the wall on the other side of a fence. At first I thought he was stuck in the fence, he was meowling so urgently, but as soon as I came over he squeezed through the fence and rubbed against my hands, friendly as could be. I was a goner. We had to continue to the beach, so I left him there, even though he tried to follow us. I didn’t see him on the way back, but I called for him, and he instantly popped out of the long grass, jumped up onto the wall and practically into my arms, meowing non-stop the entire time. He was perfectly content to be carried all the way back to our resort, and he’s been hanging out around our house ever since. I’ve named him Gattino (yes, just kitten). I feed him whatever I can bring back from lab- today he got an entire roasted fish that was almost as big as him. I feel like I rescued him, and I think he’ll be well cared for here even after we leave. The resort is full of semi-stray cats, none as friendly as my Gattino, but all of whom seem well fed and quite happy. I let him in our room occasionally, and he likes to take naps with me during siesta. I feel like my life is complete now <3
Sabato
Saturday was the longest day I’ve had in Italy, both literally and mentally. We started out with a group field trip (postponed from Friday because it was raining again) to an agrotourismo- a small resort with a farm that produces all the food provided to guests in their restaurant. The idea goes something like this: rich folk from large cities or towns usually take an extended vacation in the summer, and like to get out to the country to relax. Vacations, for them, mean doing as little as possible. Amusement parks or exhausting sightseeing tours make no sense to them. Instead, they go to an agrotourismo, a lovely little place where they can rent a nice cabin and spend their days going to the beach, lounging in the shade of olive trees, or playing tennis or miniature golf. And, of course, enjoying the food: spending two hours eating lunch and two and a half for dinner is not unheard of, and what a better way to get the best food than to stay on the farm where it is made? Hence, the agrotourismo. On our short tour of the farm, we saw dairy cows, chickens, turkey, pheasant, peacock, Tibetan goats (pigmies), lamas, pigs, ostrich, and a miniature pony and donkey, kept more for petting and crooning purposes than anything else. We also saw a little bit of the gardens, and the olive groves. We learned when ostrich lay eggs (once every 3-4 days, only in late winter and early spring), the difference between olives for curing and olives for oil (the oil ones have a much bigger pit, but are smaller overall), and how to make the fresh cow’s milk cheese that they serve every day. The cheese is called Primo Sale- literally “first salt”, but technically the first cheese you make from the milk, after adding the necessary enzymes to curdle it (they use all-natural fig sap rather than rennet) but before adding salt. Any aged, kneaded, or otherwise flavored cheese must pass through this point as a first basic step. It tastes much as you’d expect- like solid milk, saltless and ricotta textured, and in our case unpleasantly warm. I can imagine it would be good in small amounts, perhaps on a plate of antipasti as I’ve seen served at Basiliani, accompanied by some salame picante and balsamic reduction.
Later that afternoon, we arranged a soccer match between us (the five boys in our group, Kayla, Kelcey, and I), and the Italiano employees of the resort. They play against each other on the little Astroturf field almost every evening, and I’ve always been tempted to join in. The game was great fun, and our opponents thankfully went a little easy on us. We played for nearly two and a half hours, ending the game at something like 12 to 15, Italiani winning, but Americani keeping their self esteem. I played as keeper most of the game, but Astroturf is brutal on the knees. I learned the Italian word for Band-Aids: Cerotti.
After patching myself up and hobbling to dinner, Francesco announced that he was going to an Italian dance club that night, and that we could all go as a group trip if we wanted- few of us could pass up the offer, and even though I’m not much of a dancer (and had never been to a club of any sort before), I decided to make a go of it. We were supposed to be immersing ourselves in Italian culture, right? And my knees didn’t hurt that bad, now that I thought about it… While everyone else went off to don their best clubbing outfits and gussy themselves up after dinner, my equally uncool friends and I wisely decided to take a nap: we weren’t leaving for the club until midnight, and Francesco said we probably wouldn’t return until 3 a.m. No matter how long I had to sleep in the next morning, I was not staying up that late without a nap to support me. We all set out alarm clocks for 11:30 p.m. and planned to meet for espresso before heading out.
The club was everything you’d imagine an Italian dance club to be- the kind the Italian mafia owns in movies, where all sorts of rich, powerful people go for under-the-table dealings. We waited in line to get in, an Italian line, which is incredibly pushy and unorganized. Everyone was better dressed than us. Everyone was more Italian than we were. We must’ve stood out like white on black, but somehow Francesco got us all in. I noticed that most of the male employees of our resort showed up as well, blending in perfectly, probably there to keep an eye on us. The doors were guarded by three bouncers, the tallest Italian men I’ve seen yet. They all wore earpieces like secret service men, and one had a long black ponytail and multiple earrings. Inside the club, the Italian line became an Italian crowd- there were people packed in like sardines, to the point that some of us held hands to keep from getting separated. We managed to elbow our way around the bar, where the main traffic jam was, and out onto the slightly less crowded dance floor. Still, you couldn’t move more than a few steps, and other dancers backed into you or pushed by your shoulders constantly. The room itself was quite nice, from what I could see of it. There were crystal and black chandeliers on the ceiling, white walls sprinkled with Andy Warhol style portrait art, and shiny black floors. In less crowded corners of the room there were groups of white couches, square and clean and modern. It was mostly dark except for the strobes and colored lights from the dance floor, but occasionally they’d turn all the lights on for a moment or two, and suddenly the room became much larger, and you could see all the people you were surrounded by. There were some who had clearly come to dance, but most people seemed to be there just to stand, drink, and socialize. How they could do the latter I have no idea, as the music was so loud I was afraid I’d loose my hearing. The night (well, morning) went uneventfully after we got over the shock of the place. I stayed on the dance floor, where I felt the least conspicuous. The music was mostly good- the Italians have their own popular music, songs I’ve heard many times by now, but they also mix in a lot of old American music. YMCA, Video Killed the Radio Star, and I Will Survive were all blended with Italian techno. By the time we left, my ears were ringing and my nose was congested with a hundred different Italian colognes, perfumes, and cigarettes’ smoke. We could now say we’d danced the night away at an exclusive Italian club, but we all agreed that if given the opportunity a second time, we’d go to bed early instead.
Later that afternoon, we arranged a soccer match between us (the five boys in our group, Kayla, Kelcey, and I), and the Italiano employees of the resort. They play against each other on the little Astroturf field almost every evening, and I’ve always been tempted to join in. The game was great fun, and our opponents thankfully went a little easy on us. We played for nearly two and a half hours, ending the game at something like 12 to 15, Italiani winning, but Americani keeping their self esteem. I played as keeper most of the game, but Astroturf is brutal on the knees. I learned the Italian word for Band-Aids: Cerotti.
After patching myself up and hobbling to dinner, Francesco announced that he was going to an Italian dance club that night, and that we could all go as a group trip if we wanted- few of us could pass up the offer, and even though I’m not much of a dancer (and had never been to a club of any sort before), I decided to make a go of it. We were supposed to be immersing ourselves in Italian culture, right? And my knees didn’t hurt that bad, now that I thought about it… While everyone else went off to don their best clubbing outfits and gussy themselves up after dinner, my equally uncool friends and I wisely decided to take a nap: we weren’t leaving for the club until midnight, and Francesco said we probably wouldn’t return until 3 a.m. No matter how long I had to sleep in the next morning, I was not staying up that late without a nap to support me. We all set out alarm clocks for 11:30 p.m. and planned to meet for espresso before heading out.
The club was everything you’d imagine an Italian dance club to be- the kind the Italian mafia owns in movies, where all sorts of rich, powerful people go for under-the-table dealings. We waited in line to get in, an Italian line, which is incredibly pushy and unorganized. Everyone was better dressed than us. Everyone was more Italian than we were. We must’ve stood out like white on black, but somehow Francesco got us all in. I noticed that most of the male employees of our resort showed up as well, blending in perfectly, probably there to keep an eye on us. The doors were guarded by three bouncers, the tallest Italian men I’ve seen yet. They all wore earpieces like secret service men, and one had a long black ponytail and multiple earrings. Inside the club, the Italian line became an Italian crowd- there were people packed in like sardines, to the point that some of us held hands to keep from getting separated. We managed to elbow our way around the bar, where the main traffic jam was, and out onto the slightly less crowded dance floor. Still, you couldn’t move more than a few steps, and other dancers backed into you or pushed by your shoulders constantly. The room itself was quite nice, from what I could see of it. There were crystal and black chandeliers on the ceiling, white walls sprinkled with Andy Warhol style portrait art, and shiny black floors. In less crowded corners of the room there were groups of white couches, square and clean and modern. It was mostly dark except for the strobes and colored lights from the dance floor, but occasionally they’d turn all the lights on for a moment or two, and suddenly the room became much larger, and you could see all the people you were surrounded by. There were some who had clearly come to dance, but most people seemed to be there just to stand, drink, and socialize. How they could do the latter I have no idea, as the music was so loud I was afraid I’d loose my hearing. The night (well, morning) went uneventfully after we got over the shock of the place. I stayed on the dance floor, where I felt the least conspicuous. The music was mostly good- the Italians have their own popular music, songs I’ve heard many times by now, but they also mix in a lot of old American music. YMCA, Video Killed the Radio Star, and I Will Survive were all blended with Italian techno. By the time we left, my ears were ringing and my nose was congested with a hundred different Italian colognes, perfumes, and cigarettes’ smoke. We could now say we’d danced the night away at an exclusive Italian club, but we all agreed that if given the opportunity a second time, we’d go to bed early instead.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Mia compleanno
My birthday went quite normally, up to a certain point. I went to classes and work all day, at restaurant Umberto and Basiliani resort. My lovely classmates announced my birthday to the chefs at Basiliani, and so I got the customary kiss-on-both-cheeks from them. After class, four of us walked into town to get groceries for a nice dinner later this weekend. I wanted to walk further and get gelato as well, but everyone else was strangely against it- they all agreed we should go back with our groceries and get dessert at the restaurant in the resort. So we walked back, headed to the restaurant, but stopped outside the door. At this point I was a bit suspicious. Again, the rest of my group unanimously decided that it’d be better to go to the little bar by the outdoor dance floor for dessert, instead of the restaurant. So we went there, and walk in to find everyone else in the Paul Smith’s group, half of the students from Monroe College (who we’re traveling with), and Francesco, Pino’s son and the boss of the whole resort while Pino’s away. He comes up, wishes me a happy birthday and says, “Cake in about an hour, but you all stay here! We have dance and drinks!” And then I am swarmed by people wishing me happy birthday and offering to buy me drinks… Someone (who shall remain nameless) had told Pino about my birthday last week, and he had an entire party planned out. Everyone got invited, and told not to let on about it. Matt, Kayla, and Kelcey had been assigned to get me to the bar at the right time. Francesco set up lights and a sound system in the bar, since it was raining, and hooked up his laptop and digital turntable (I think Francesco only runs the resort because of his father- what he really enjoys is DJ-ing). It was an awesome party. When the cake finally arrived (about an hour late, true southern Italy style), it was announced with loud and incredibly glittery party poppers, and brought out with bottles of prosecco. Everyone sang happy birthday, although some were singing in English, some in Italian, and the ones who’d had a few drinks in English AND Italian. One cake was dense chocolate brownie with hazelnuts, covered in powdered sugar and cocoa: the other was a cheesecake topped with red and black currants. I was overwhelmed.
On a side note, I did have one drink: I refused everyone’s offers and pressures to do 21 shots or some other such American nonsense, but Cortez made an offer I couldn’t say no to. “I will buy you an alcoholic beverage for your birthday, but I’ll light it on fire for you too!” How could I resist? I’ve always wanted to see a mixed drink that you can light on fire…. I watched the bartender pour a tiny bit of about five different bottles into a little glass- the first two were clear, the third made it turn cloudy, the fourth made it turn antifreeze blue. Then he lit the top, and I watched blue flames lick the surface and slosh over the sides weirdly. To put it out, he slapped his hand over the top of the glass, sealing it. After the fire went out, he shook up the drink without holding it, because it had suctioned onto the palm of his hand. At this point everyone was watching, and the bartender looked at me very seriously and said “are you ready?” before taking his hand off the glass and letting me drink it. It was only two swallows, but it was warm, and tasted like licorice and blue raspberry, which was nasty. I felt light headed for the next half hour, and had to drink a liter of water before the taste left my mouth. I told Cortez never to tempt my pyromaniacal tendencies again. Maybe on my 42nd birthday I’ll try another flaming beverage, but not until then….
On a side note, I did have one drink: I refused everyone’s offers and pressures to do 21 shots or some other such American nonsense, but Cortez made an offer I couldn’t say no to. “I will buy you an alcoholic beverage for your birthday, but I’ll light it on fire for you too!” How could I resist? I’ve always wanted to see a mixed drink that you can light on fire…. I watched the bartender pour a tiny bit of about five different bottles into a little glass- the first two were clear, the third made it turn cloudy, the fourth made it turn antifreeze blue. Then he lit the top, and I watched blue flames lick the surface and slosh over the sides weirdly. To put it out, he slapped his hand over the top of the glass, sealing it. After the fire went out, he shook up the drink without holding it, because it had suctioned onto the palm of his hand. At this point everyone was watching, and the bartender looked at me very seriously and said “are you ready?” before taking his hand off the glass and letting me drink it. It was only two swallows, but it was warm, and tasted like licorice and blue raspberry, which was nasty. I felt light headed for the next half hour, and had to drink a liter of water before the taste left my mouth. I told Cortez never to tempt my pyromaniacal tendencies again. Maybe on my 42nd birthday I’ll try another flaming beverage, but not until then….
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Lecce (transcribed directly from my road notebook, hence the incomplete sentences and uncharacteristic poetic license)
We enter through Porta San Biagio, a columned gate with many baroque decorations. It was built specifically for a visit from the king. We walk down to the church of Saint Matthew, tall and elaborate, set so the sun hits it. Past the church of Saint Claire, onto wider trafficked streets, to the Chair, the throne of an ancient king who was once bunkered inside the city. There is an amphitheatre, with fallen arches and rusted gates. Only half of it has been excavated, because the Pope refuses to let the main road to the church be rerouted. The stone is soft. So soft, I can cut it with my fingernail. This is why they redid the city in stone, covering every wall with cherubs and saints, flowers and animals and scrolls. Superfluous decoration.
The first patron saint of Lecce was the virgin martyr Irene. Her church is tall and white and full of evening sun. People have lit many candles inside, and there is a mother with a child begging for change in the shadow of one of the monolithic doors.
Here in the piazza Duomo, where the highest priests live and children set for a life of religious service go to school, there is a wedding just beginning. The bride and groom are beautiful, and very picturesque, kneeling before the alter. Tourists still wander in and out of the back of the church, flashing pictures with their cell phones.
We found a little piazza with glass windows in the ground, showing steps and walls leading down. There is a whole city under the one we’ve seen. People used to walk through the streets there, looking up to the sky where there are now new basements and roads. We’ve built our houses on the roofs of our ancestors.
The first patron saint of Lecce was the virgin martyr Irene. Her church is tall and white and full of evening sun. People have lit many candles inside, and there is a mother with a child begging for change in the shadow of one of the monolithic doors.
Here in the piazza Duomo, where the highest priests live and children set for a life of religious service go to school, there is a wedding just beginning. The bride and groom are beautiful, and very picturesque, kneeling before the alter. Tourists still wander in and out of the back of the church, flashing pictures with their cell phones.
We found a little piazza with glass windows in the ground, showing steps and walls leading down. There is a whole city under the one we’ve seen. People used to walk through the streets there, looking up to the sky where there are now new basements and roads. We’ve built our houses on the roofs of our ancestors.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Siesta
It’s raining. This is apparently the first rain they’ve had in almost six months, but it has cancelled our fieldtrip to the vigna (vineyard), so I’m not as appreciative of it as I should be. It’s been pouring, non-stop, for the last day and a half. Yesterday we decided to get soaked and walk into town, to the supermercato and tabacchi (both basically what they sound like) to buy food, laundry detergent, and stamps. It’s about a half-hour walk to downtown Otranto, which is full of little shops and gelaterias. A large part of the tourist downtown is in the castle, which is now just a walled in section with tiny crooked streets lined with tiny oblong shops. Most shops spill out into the street and have awnings that almost meet each other in the center, making a largely rain-free tunnel. Pedestrians must share the streets with the city’s drainage system (or lack thereof), however, and some streets are essentially rivers. I was rather glad I wore my open sandals, because keeping your shoes dry became a moot point. We (Kayla, Kelcey, Matt, and I) mostly window shopped, wandering in and out, looking at fancy colored pastas and ceramic espresso cups and beautiful leather sandals (I think I’m going to have to get a pair before we leave). I ended up buying a nice black shirt (just so I can say I have some Italian clothes), and a pair of earrings for Julie (yes, I just gave away the surprise, Ju-ju). We then meandered through the supermercato, deciding on some maccheroni (the real form of macceroni), cachiotta di Lecce (a fairly local, semi-hard aged cheese), blood orange juice, salame Napoli (salami of Naples), and fresh rolls that turned out to be full of zucchini chunks. We also got a very cheap bottle of local vino rosa (pink wine) before trekking back to our rooms through the rain. After all drying off, we spent a very pleasant afternoon enjoying our food and wine together- we’re all getting quite used to meals taking at least an hour and a half, and being very social, conversational events. I do quite like the Italian way of eating.
Today, since it was still pouring, we all had a long breakfast and then went about whatever indoor activities we could find, which are rather scarce here… being a summer resort, they aren’t used to having to keep guests occupied in the rain. I cleaned my room and then did essential laundry in the bathroom sink, because the Italian washers are very small and cost 3.50 euro a load, and there are no dryers anyway. We’re going to pool our money and do one washer load with all of our uniforms, but the rest of my clothing is easily washed by hand. Every edge, hook, and door in our room is now hung with drying laundry. Pino, our host and owner of the resort we’re staying at, said we can take a trip to Lecce this afternoon, as it’s supposedly not raining there, and the city is larger than Otranto. There are ancient Roman ruins and a huge cathedral, and much classic baroque architecture to see, or so I’ve read. Right now, anywhere that’s not in my room with the rain beating down on the roof sounds wonderful to me.
Today, since it was still pouring, we all had a long breakfast and then went about whatever indoor activities we could find, which are rather scarce here… being a summer resort, they aren’t used to having to keep guests occupied in the rain. I cleaned my room and then did essential laundry in the bathroom sink, because the Italian washers are very small and cost 3.50 euro a load, and there are no dryers anyway. We’re going to pool our money and do one washer load with all of our uniforms, but the rest of my clothing is easily washed by hand. Every edge, hook, and door in our room is now hung with drying laundry. Pino, our host and owner of the resort we’re staying at, said we can take a trip to Lecce this afternoon, as it’s supposedly not raining there, and the city is larger than Otranto. There are ancient Roman ruins and a huge cathedral, and much classic baroque architecture to see, or so I’ve read. Right now, anywhere that’s not in my room with the rain beating down on the roof sounds wonderful to me.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Settembre
É molto bella qui. Every day there is something more amazing than the last, and we all declare that it simply could not get any better, and then it does. I feel so spoiled by the food here, and the kitchens, and the people, I’m afraid it will be painful to have to work back at home now. The kitchens here are immaculately clean and spacious: they have windows and open screened doors to let in sunlight and fresh air, more than enough space in refrigerators and freezers and ovens, and all the right equipment. Everything is fresh. Even mushrooms and tomatoes out of a can are still from within the region. Today while we were waiting outside Restaurant Umberto, where we have culinary classes, a couple of men drove up in a little car with a delivery of fresh riccio (sea urchins) and ostrica (oysters) from the western coast of the heel of Italy, a couple hours away. They had collected them that morning- all of them were still alive in a plastic bin. (On a side note, as I saw, live urchins will do their best to creep away if you leave them on a flat surface) With the help of our translator, we learned that only the female urchins are eaten, because male urchins taste horribly bitter, and urchin eggs are very dulce (sweet). The particular kind of oyster they brought can only be found on the western side of the heel of Italy, and smell slightly spicy. The barers of the seafood were more than happy to teach us about them, and patiently repeated their names until we pronounced them correctly (RIck-chi-o and os-TRICK-ah).
I’m getting to the point now where I can communicate a little in Italian, which is quite exciting. In the evenings, when we work at restaurants in the area, we do not have a translator with us, and so must learn to improvise on our own. Most kitchens have at least one English speaker, although on our first night at Brasiliani (our restaurant for the next two weeks) the only English-speaking chef was on his day off, so we mostly worked in sign language and copying. High-end restaurants here usually have fixed menus (meaning there are only options for one or two of the courses at most), and the pace of service is much more relaxed than in the U.S, so the chefs had some time to show us how to do things. I at least know how to ask questions in Italian, so I’m working on learning the names of all the ingredients they use- most are things I recognize and know the English name of, but many are regional specialties that you can only find locally, and some the translator admitted had no English name that he knew of.
I’m getting to the point now where I can communicate a little in Italian, which is quite exciting. In the evenings, when we work at restaurants in the area, we do not have a translator with us, and so must learn to improvise on our own. Most kitchens have at least one English speaker, although on our first night at Brasiliani (our restaurant for the next two weeks) the only English-speaking chef was on his day off, so we mostly worked in sign language and copying. High-end restaurants here usually have fixed menus (meaning there are only options for one or two of the courses at most), and the pace of service is much more relaxed than in the U.S, so the chefs had some time to show us how to do things. I at least know how to ask questions in Italian, so I’m working on learning the names of all the ingredients they use- most are things I recognize and know the English name of, but many are regional specialties that you can only find locally, and some the translator admitted had no English name that he knew of.
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