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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