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.