Overcast skies obscured the hoped-for pinks and corals this morning. An hour after sunrise light shone through a few cloud-holes casting dazzling pools on the sea.
I pulled on my ‘outside’ clothes – I have wooly leggings and a sweater for inside and black jeans with a couple of layers under my sweater for outside. Plus a jacket and scarf. I could have left the rest at home – so far. You never know when Cinderella might get an invitation to the ball!
There’s a marked difference in Via Roma during the week – no traffic. On my long Sunday walk, motorcycles, buses, and cars whizzed past. Today they’re all back at work and I have the luxury of the open road virtually to myself.
I stopped to admire several houses I’ve passed before but never really looked at.
This sweet casa has a real driveway winding down to it. A luxury.
This one has steps up from the street but note the tuck-under garage. Maybe there’s an elevator inside – or maybe not.
This might be old. If so, it’s been renovated and beautifully maintained.
And just look at this driveway! It feels fairytale-ish. Like any moment I will see Goldilocks, or Hansel and Gretel skipping along holding hands.
Like the road, Che Bontà was all mine. I thought I wanted pizza. Then I remembered Blackbeach, my favorite Italian restaurant in Ubud. They make melt-in-your-mouth panini. It’s all I ever order there. I had to know if the real thing, made in Italy, would measure up.
While I waited for my order, I chatted with Claudio who, bless his handsome heart, speaks English.
“Claudio, I want to buy the hard bread. The really hard bread. What is the name?”
“Yes, you must ask for pane biscottato.” I repeated the words, perhaps not very well since he added, “Or you can just say pane duro, that means hard bread.” I added it to my shopping list that consisted of coffee and limoncello – staples.
After not much time at all, out came panini and Claudio! What’s not to love? As he set the fragrant plate in front of me I asked him, “Che Bontà, Claudio…what does the name mean?”
The smile grew bigger, “It means, how tasty,” he said.
You have no idea how badly I wanted to comment on that. But I bit my tongue and smiled back. “Grazie,” I said.
Crispy-fried focaccia, melty mozzarella, mushrooms, tomatoes, the flavors melded in my mouth and went straight to my heart. How tasty indeed. I weighed the evidence, did Blackbeach or Che Bontà have the better panini sandwich? I think it’s a tie. I’m going to have to go back for another round.
I could only eat half. The rest is in the fridge for later tonight when the nibble bug bites.
The bill was eleven euros. Claudio showed it to me and said, “But for you, ten.”
“It says eleven,” I replied, confused.
“Yes, but for you, signora, ten.”
How tasty!
Need I mention, Claudio got a handsome tip? Then I was off to Centro Market to try out my new Italian words.
I felt like I was back in Bali when I saw the terraces…almost.
We left the coast and climbed into the Lattari mountain range. It’s cold enough up here for trees to drop their leaves but warm enough for grass to stay green. Nicola had his phone tuned in to Google maps but still asked locals for directions a few times.
I’d originally thought I’d take the bus from Praiano to Tramonti and walk from the station to the winery. Had I done that, I may still have been walking. Our trail through the mountains reminded me of the last lines in a poem by Robert Frost:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
The story of my life.
Four people watched us expectantly as we approached the winery. It was the tour group waiting for me.
Sophia, the daughter of one of the owners of Tenuta San Francesco, was our guide. The three gentlemen were from Brazil and I was the lone American.
Sophia is a teacher. She was brilliant, speaking Spanish to the Brazilians, English to me, and Italian to anyone else. She explained we would do a tour of the vineyards then have our tasting, was that all right? We agreed, three Si(s) and a Yes.
I’d been awed by the elegant pergolas spiderwebbing the mountainsides as we’d driven through this area. I asked about them. The framework is chestnut wood, Sophia said, and workers use willow twigs to tie branches to the beams. She explained that willow is organic material and deteriorates. When that happens, it takes four months for experienced knot tiers to replace all the bindings on the vineyard’s thirty acres of vines.
We were standing under the spreading branches of a vine that was over 500 years old. Sophia told us when Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD, volcanic ash created perfect soil conditions for grapes. And when phylloxera, a type of aphid that attacks the roots of grapevines raged throughout Europe, many originals were lost.
The infestation began when plants carrying the phylloxera aphid were brought from North America in the late 1800s. What followed changed the wine industry in most of the world. Since only vines from North America were immune, in order to preserve and perpetuate the varieties of grapes throughout Europe and other countries (even Australia) original vines had to be spliced onto plants with roots imported from North America.
But because volcanic soil resists phylloxera the vines of Tenuta San Francesco were protected and survived. In a few other areas of the world where similar conditions exist, original vines remain, some over 2000 years old.
She explained that the quality of wine from the rare Tintore grape, which is the variety produced by the original vines of Tenuta, is some of the world’s finest. But the yield from old vines is not large so supply is limited. It’s considered a boutique wine.
The branches from this twisted, ancient specimen create a network overhead covering an area the size of a toddler’s playground. Gardens are planted underneath. Sophia pointed out a plot of fava beans sprouting just behind us.
The vineyard tour completed, we headed inside.
Buildings in Italy seem like they’ve existed for all time. I’ve never been comfortable around glass and steel. Give me rocks, timber, crumbling plaster and I feel at home. There’s a sense of being grounded in antiquity, a connection with the past that I felt as I walked through those doors.
“How old is this cave?” I asked as we entered.
“It has been in the family since the 1700s,” Sophia replied. Sleek steel and electronics against three hundred year old stones jarred me in an exciting way, a bit like waking up to the mechanical hum of a drone peering in my bedroom window in Bali at six a.m. (Don’t laugh, it happened!)
The winery logo was stamped on barrels lining the walls. Sophia showed us how it can be read as a T for Tenuta, and an F for Francesco. She also explained this type of cross was used by the Knights Templar. The designer added a stylized bunch of grapes at the bottom. Classy.
Information continued to flow. Whites are prepared and aged in the steel vats. Reds start there then are transferred after many months to wooden barrels where they age for two years before being bottled. Red wines, we learned, can handle the wood undertones. Whites cannot.
When we were saturated with Sophia’s knowledge to the point of overwhelm, she said, “Would you like to taste?”
She didn’t have to ask twice. We followed her into a sunlit area where our table waited.
Sophia’s mother was preparing food for us.
Gaetano Bove, the man I met in the cafe who invited me to tour his vineyard, introduced the first wine, Per Eva, which he’d named for Eva, his wife.
Sophia’s mother set plates in front of us. “Winter salad,” she said. Fresh goat cheese, warm potatoes mixed with olives and onion, and tomatoes with chucks of hearty farmer’s bread. Silken crispness of Per Eva, like spring rain, enhanced the subtle flavors of the salad and softened the onion’s sharp surprise.
Before we emptied our glasses of per Eva, Gaetano was pouring Turmiento, the winery’s organic red.
I’ve only tasted a few organic wines and wouldn’t go out of my way to find them again. Turmiento was an exception. If you know organic restaurant owners who import wine, recommend this one. It’s rich, warm, and it paired brilliantly with the dark farmer’s bread, pecorino cheese, and sliced salami that had just appeared on our table.
Gaetano radiated love for his craft. As he brought out our third wine he mentioned famous people who had visited the winery, among them Justin Timberlake and his wife, actress Jessica Biel.
Then, as our glasses swirled with liquid of the deepest, richest crimson, Signor Bove told us he’d recently gone to France to attend a meeting of top international wine makers. He’d taken E’ Iss, the red, made from the ancient pre-phylloxera vines. Each of the fifteen attendees had brought their specialties, some bottles selling wholesale for as much as 25,000 euro ($27,000 USD). They did a blind tasting, he said and shook his head. “Mine was better. And only thirty euro per bottle.”
We sipped, and sighed a collective, “Ahhhhh.” I thought Turmiento would be my favorite. It was smooth, seductive. But it turns out E’ Iss was like the difference between the boy you date on the sly and the one you bring home to meet Mom and Dad. I brought E’ Iss home.
Which, by the way, was no small feat. When the food was eaten and the wine was drunk, I said goodbyes and Gaetano drove me as far as Maori, the coastal town where he has a veterinary practice, and dropped me in the square. From there I’d catch the bus to Praiano.
Nicola had instructed me on the finer points of navigating the bus system. I had to buy a ticket before I got on, and he suspected in Maori I could only buy a ticket to Amalfi. I would need to buy another in Amalfi to get to Praiano.
I found a helpful person by this playground who pointed the direction to the Tabacci shop where I could purchase my first ticket. I set out. It only took two more queries to locate the tiny place.
Ticket in my pocket, I started back to where I’d seen people waiting in bus shelters. “Where do I catch the bus?” I asked a street vendor tending her cart. The woman took me by the arm and steered me to the side of the road and pointed.
“To Praiano?” I asked, just to make sure.
“No,” she said, and pointed to the opposite side of the street.
It was a twenty minute wait. I boarded, took a window seat, and snapped photos all the way. If you scroll through fast, you’ll get a feel for the wild twists and turns of the fabulous coastal road.
Then we were in Almalfi with another ticket I had to hunt, kill, and drag home! I asked for directions and was shown the newspaper shop across the street.
Done.
A bus with no driver idled nearby. The sign above its front window said Sorrento. I asked a man if this bus stopped in Praiano. He didn’t know. Then I heard, “Yes. To Praiano.” A face with a neatly trimmed gray beard and mustache nodded at me from the front seat. Gratefully I boarded, inserted my ticket and turned to walk toward the back. The bearded old man patted the empty spot beside him.
“I can sit here?” I asked. He nodded.
Within a few minutes the driver appeared and another gut churning ride commenced, but this time I had a seat companion. “You speak English,” I said.
He nodded. “I speak three languages, French, English, and Dutch. You know pork?” he asked.
It seemed a strange question. “You mean pig?”
“Yes, pork. In French pork say this.” A strange, pig-like grunt erupted from his mouth. “In Dutch pork say this.” The intonation was different but still unquestionably porcine. “And in English…”
To say I was happy when we reached Praiano would be an understatement. Still, I was grateful when Signor Pork reached across me to ring the bell for my stop or we would have sailed right by.
By now it was dark. I stood alone at the corner where deserted Via Umberto heads uphill and Via Roma, with more traffic, is a straight, level shot to my blue gate. I poked around in my memory trying to bring up the map of Via Umberto. Without data on my phone I couldn’t request Google’s help. Dressed all in black I’d be invisible on the busy Via Roma, narrow and without sidewalks…
I started up Via Umberto knowing with the certainty of experience that somewhere there would be a staircase going back down. After about 150 meters (apx. two city blocks) a footpath veered off to the right at a serious downhill slope. It was beautifully lighted so I took it. A few hundred yards later I knew exactly where I was. The stairs that take me from Tutto per Tutti to my house were right there.
I just want to say to senior women, men too, if you’ve ever dreamed of solo travel, if your feet sometimes itch and your eyes long to gaze on something other than your own backyard, do it now.
No matter what creams, dyes, or wrinkle retardants we use, we don’t get any younger, and time doesn’t wait.
There’s a lot going on in my head. There often is, but my thoughts are taking a detour from the usual these days. It’s little wonder. Italy isn’t Bali. Praiano isn’t Ubud. A change of scene opens up mental space to imagine.
The timing is perfect. December ends the twelve-month cycle on the Gregorian calendar but Pisces, February 20 – March 20, marks the wrap-up of the solar year. Tomorrow, 2/20/2020, the sun enters the sign of the fish to complete the last thirty days of its journey through the zodiac.
For months my friends have been muttering about feeling unfocused and edgy, as though they’re waiting for something without a clue to what that something might be.
I’ve felt the same.
Of course, turning seventy has a certain shock value. Even though I knew for 365 days that I was sixty-nine, and I’ve known for much longer than that how to count, actually becoming seventy years old surprised me. It compelled me to look back at my life and ask, “What have I accomplished?” And to look ahead and say, “What’s next?”
I’m happy with the past. That’s a good thing because it’s too late to change it and I wouldn’t if I could. It made me who I am.
But this moment in time feels pivotal, like stepping out of one reality and entering another that’s cleaner, clearer, and shorter than what’s gone before.
On my terrace, gazing at the vast horizon where water and sky collide sometimes with no line of demarcation to indicate where one begins and the other ends – breathing air salty and moist – hearing the lilt and staccato of a language I don’t understand but am growing to love – lifting my face to be kissed by the sun, it suddenly doesn’t matter that I don’t know what lies ahead.
I’m filled with a sense of release, letting go of everything I don’t want to carry with me into this new cycle that’s about to begin. It feels like a time of rest and patience. Of slowing down the outer world and focusing within. Of making new choices.
As I wrote that last line, butterflies came to life in my stomach and my arms sprouted goosebumps.
Making new choices…
Tomorrow, to give special attention to 2/20/2020, I’m choosing to accept Sig. Gaetano Bove’s invitation to visit Tunata San Francesco, the winery he co-owns with three associates.
Whether I write about the experience immediately or at some future date will depend upon how enthusiastically I taste the samples on offer.
Welcome back, Pisces, it’s been a long eleven months!
It was a three-hour meal. A three-hour, gourmet, how many courses I don’t know, Italian, homemade meal. Thank you Felicia. I love you Felicia.
I was told to come at twelve o’clock. I’d been to the house a week ago for a brief introduction but Nicola sent a picture of the doorway to ensure I would find it again.
I was certain it was somewhere on the same stairway that I travel almost every day. Ten minutes should be plenty of time to get there. I labored to the top passing many doors but not THAT door. I must have missed it…how? Impossible! Back down. Still no door. Back up to the top. Breathing hard. No internet. Cannot call for help. Panic. Maybe it wasn’t this stairway.
It wasn’t.
At 11:58 I found the right stairway. At 11:59 I found the door.
Nicola greeted me and I followed him to the kitchen where Felicia was already hard at work. Moist air, heavy with the scents of Italy, wrapped around me like a mother’s hug. Then Felicia gave me the real thing with the two-cheeks kiss that is customary here and cooking class began.
First it was totano – a variety of squid caught in the rocky depths close to the coast. Nicola explained the totano found near the shore are red, but those caught farther out to sea where the bottom is sandy are white and the flavor isn’t as good. These, he said, were red ones.
Fresh from the frying pan into the mouth. Hot and…oh, my! The flesh was delicate, so tender and sweet. “How many totano does it take to make all this?” I asked. Nicola translated my question. Felicia opened the fridge and pulled out a monster.
“Grande!” I said, backing up a few steps. They laughed.
Nicola had to run an errand. Suddenly Felicia and I were on our own to navigate the language as best we could. I connected to her internet and brought up Google Translate. I’d come prepared with a list of questions, first in English so I’d know what I was asking, then in Italian so I could practice the language.
It was great. She got every question immediately, even though I stumbled and bumbled and massacred the words. Her answers were long, emphatic, emotional – even Google couldn’t follow. Nonetheless, we managed, and had good laughs in the process.
When the last tentacled leg of squid had been fried, I was moved out of the kitchen to a table on the terrace set for four and told to sit. The plate of crispy totano was set in front of me followed by a bowl of buffalo mozzarella, then salami, pepperoni, prosciutto, bread, and wine.
Mangiare, my hostess said. I started to ask if others were coming but she interrupted. Mangiare! Mangiare! and disappeared into the kitchen. Like it or not, I was to eat regardless of three empty chairs awaiting other guests.
I nibbled on a leg of squid. Love that stuff. Helped myself to one of the smaller balls of mozzarella and a strip of prosciutto savoring the contrast of the salty meat with creamy cheese. Every so often Felicia made an appearance to re-issue her command, Mangiare, mangiare!
When I couldn’t mangiare another bite, I ventured back into the kitchen.
Tomato sauce bubbled on the stove. I asked her what ingredients she’d used. Pomodoro, olio, acciuga, origano, basilico, acqua. She ticked them off on her fingers. I’ve been grocery shopping often enough now to know all of the words except acciuga. She spelled as I typed and up popped anchovies. Is that the mystery ingredient that makes Italian tomato sauce a culinary triumph?
I pointed to another pot. Melanzana, she said but this time didn’t let me Google it. She went to the refrigerator and pulled out an eggplant then motioned me to the windowsill. Mozzarella, parmigiano, and pecorino cheeses waited in majolica bowls.
Basilico, she said, laughed, and flung open the window.
Basil doesn’t get any fresher than that.
It was time for pasta. As she poured it into the kettle I asked what kind it was. Scialatielli, she said. I’d never heard of it. She showed me the label.
I decided to throw in a few more questions while the pasta cooked. “Where did you meet Rafaele,” I asked. She looked confused. I tried again. “Where did you meet your husband?” I understood the word for school in her answer and the sparkle in her eyes told me the rest.
“Did he chase you?” Oh, the laughter.
“All the way from the school to the sea,” she said, motioning the trajectory down the mountainside with a sweep of her arms.
“What did Rafaele do for work?” Again she looked confused. “Rafaele, your husband,” I said.
If I thought she’d laughed before, this time tears squirted from her eyes. I double-checked the the word for husband. It appeared correct. When she was finally able to speak, she said, “Rafaele is my brother. Gaetano is my husband.”
I was shocked to my toenails. I thought the old man sitting with his walker was her father. Come to find out, she’s seventy-nine and he’s eighty but he broke both hips this year and is housebound. She takes care of him.
“I’m sorry, Felicia. That’s hard.” She agreed.
Just then Nicola returned from his trip to Positano and joined us. Out came the pasta, biscotti, and wine. The empty chairs were filled and we had our translator back.
I’d been a wee bit skittish about the anchovies – I’m not a fan. But they did their job. The pasta was magnificent.
When I was certain I couldn’t eat another morsel, out came Felicia with an enormous bowl of fresh fruit, chiacchiere, and a pineapple upside-down cake.
The slab of cake she cut for me could have served four people. But did I eat it? You better believe I did, then drank the little cup of Neapolitano mocha espresso which guaranteed I would stay awake to finish this post even in a food coma!
What an amazing day. What special people. What spectacular food. “Now you can go home to Bali and make this dinner for all your friends,” Nicola said as I bid them farewell.
After the blast of insight – the revelation about food that has now been playing with my head for over twenty-four hours – I felt compelled to spend the day at home. Life-changing information can be overwhelming and the question, Where do I start? begged an answer.
The morning held a promise of warmth and I envisioned sunbathing on the terrace – fully clothed of course, it’s not THAT warm – while allowing random thoughts to morph into an action plan, a ‘how to’ guide for loving food.
I took The School of Essential Ingredients, with me to a lounge chair and immersed myself in its pages. The sky was a cloudless blue bowl and the sun soaked gently into my bones.
I skimmed chapters, looking for clues. How do I do this? How do I go from food averse to food lover?
The first hint came on page 45:
If you think about it, she went on, every time we prepare food we interrupt a life cycle. We pull up a carrot or kill a crab – or maybe just stop the mold that’s growing on a wedge of cheese. We make meals with those ingredients and in doing so we give life to something else. It’s a basic equation, and if we pretend it doesn’t exist, we’re likely to miss the other important lesson, which is to give respect… So we start there.
So we start there.
When I imagined the life cycles I’d interrupted by eating pizza last night – and tiramisu – and wine…I felt a little ill. Then there was the banana this morning. Those were alive once. Vital, vegetable beings. A pig had been sacrificed to make the pepperoni sausage I’d enjoyed earlier in the day. The life-force within those ingredients had been transferred to me.
Acknowledging the obvious, which hadn’t been obvious until now, had an affect. I doubted I would ever eat anything again without the thought-flash that lives were lost to provide this meal and respect should be shown because of that fact. But show respect how?
Some people pray before eating. That was the routine growing up. GodblessthisfoodinJesusnameamen. Did it make me respect the gift of food? No. In Balinese Hinduism, there are ceremonies honoring plants, and rituals performed before taking animal life. It’s a beautiful way of showing respect in that culture.
Neither of those would work for me.
I kept reading. On page 115 I found another profound thought:
…every meal you eat, you eat time — the weeks it takes to ripen a tomato, the years to grow a fig tree. And every meal you cook is time out of your day…
Cooking had seemed a monumental waste of time. I resented having to peel potatoes and wait for them to boil. They were knobby, awkward to handle, and covered with gritty soil. They left a residue of sandy earth in the sink so it wasn’t just about peeling a potato, it included the necessity of cleaning the sink.
Fruit was my friend. Slice and eat. Done. Only minutes of prep…seconds…then I could get on to more pressing things. I suddenly felt a weight of guilt for dismissing the months it took for the potato to become mature and the mere minutes it cost me to prepare it. A few paragraphs later I was confronted by that very thought:
Antonia made celebrations of things he had always dismissed as moments to be rushed through on the way to something more important. Being around her he found even everyday experiences were deeper, nuanced satisfaction and awareness slipped in between the layers of life like love notes hidden in the pages of a textbook.
Like love notes hidden in the pages of a textbook. Yes! That’s the feeling I have to capture. That’s how I want to relate to food – with a thrilling rush of excitement – like finding an unexpected love note from the only one who matters.
I schedule time for yoga, meditation, and writing. From now on I will set aside time for food. The white chocolate covered fig I’m planning to eat in a few minutes took over two months to ripen. The tree it grew on was five years old before it could produce fruit. I owe that fig my time. Even if no prep is required, I need to stop, acknowledge the energy transfer that is about to happen, and experience every bite with gratitude and respect for the sacrifice of a life.
I confess I had no idea where this article was going when I started writing it. I’d found the excerpts today while skimming through the book, but they felt random and disconnected. Somehow in processing my questions in this post, I’ve gotten closer to finding answers that work for me.
Now onward to the respectful, exciting enjoyment of eating my fig!
I heard a rumor. A pizza restaurant reopened for the season just above Tutto per Tutti market.
I waited until noon, then grabbed my jacket and – did I say above the market – the market that is 228 steps above me?
I’ve learned to do twenty steps then rest. Twenty more then rest. That way I make it to the top without exciting my heart to the point of beating itself right out of my chest!
I ascended and found the road that took me higher. At the top was La Moressa, a white-washed cafe with tables overlooking the sea. I went inside and greeted the man behind the counter.
“You’re open,” I said.
“Yes, the door is open,” he replied.
“Do you have pizza?”
“Yes, we have.”
“I’ve been waiting for days to have pizza. Everything is closed. I’m so excited! May I see a menu?”
“Yes, Signora, but perhaps you will come back. We don’t serve until five.”
I’m not dismayed. I’ve found a restaurant that serves pizza and it will be open tonight at five. I don’t have to go through any tunnels. It’s literally directly over my head. I’ll be there!
On my way down I stopped at Tutto per Tutti. I wanted pepperoni. It’s a meat I recognize.
I had big plans for this sausage…
…and the oven I’d yet to touch.
Has a pan ever been watched so closely? Was the heat actually on? Patience paid off. Soon the cheese was bubbling and turning a light caramel color. I sat down to an open-faced sandwich fit for angels: focaccia bread base, tomato sauce laced with juicy chunks of green and black olives, thinly sliced pepperoni, fresh tomatoes, and buffalo mozzarella.
I took my plate and wine to the terrace.
The flavors romanced my tongue. I groaned with pleasure licking my greasy tomato-stained fingers. The Remole Toscana provided a perfect balance of bold yet subtle support to the rich meal.
Then, holding true to my latest intention (which you’ll hear about shortly) I opened the package of white chocolate covered figs, poured a little more wine, and exponentially upped the ecstacy factor.
Warm Mediterranean sun and lapping waves, birdcalls, soft breezes, felt like all the dreams I’ve ever dreamed of paradise.
So what’s going on with the sudden focus on FOOD? Sit back. It’s a story.
Several months ago I was gifted an astrological reading. But this wasn’t an ordinary birthchart recap. This one centered around Ceres, an asteroid that represents food, nurturing, relationships, and all the phases of a woman’s life.
It was, as readings should be, affirming, uplifting, and had ah-ha moments that astounded me. Beauty, the practitioner said, played a huge role in my life. But the planet Saturn maintained a strong presence which indicated starvation.
Starvation, she continued, can be other than food. Neglect by parents, not enough approval, not enough love are all forms of starvation as understood by this reading. It may also indicate harsh dieting. Fasts. Self-inflicted restrictions around what is eaten, how much, and when. What she said resonated.
At the end of our session she summarized. I had a healthy relationship with food. I didn’t live to eat, I ate to live. I wasn’t ruled by food nor did I use it for comfort, distraction, or as a substitute for pleasure. I had low expectations for food unlike much in our modern culture, she said.
I felt pretty good about myself after the reading. I’d basically been given a green light to keep doing what I was doing.
When I landed in Italy, on the shelf in my house was a book: The School of Essential Ingredients, by Erica Bauermeister. It was the only one in English besides a guidebook.
Strange title, I thought. It will either be superbly boring or, with a title like that, quirky.
About one-third of the way through I started getting uncomfortable.
At the half-way point awareness lights were flickering on.
I cried at the end, something I haven’t done with a book for a very long time. Yes, the characters were intelligently and lovingly portrayed. Yes, the writing was beautiful to the point, almost, of poetry. Yes, the story was compelling and the plot nicely resolved. But that’s not what brought me to tears.
In contrast to the author’s voluptuous, tantalizing, reverent treatment of food I saw my starvation.
But it went far beyond that. The connections were heartbreakingly clear. My hostility toward food had drifted over everything in my life and cast shadows where sunlight should have been. I’d held myself too tightly for true intimacy. I was far too regimented to let loose and love. I hated to grocery shop, hated to cook…and, Play? What was that?
I remember my mother coming to visit me at one point in my mid twenties. She opened the refrigerator to a lone head of lettuce. Turning a worried frown toward me she asked, “Honey, what do you eat?”
“Lettuce…?” I shrugged.
Since moving to Bali eight years ago, I’ve been happy. Insanely happy. Food has become more interesting and I’ve developed an obsession for nachos, probably because good ones are next to impossible to find. A cafe in the rice fields has amazing black rice pudding and coconut gelato. I order it with Vietnamese coffee.
But after reading Essential Ingredients, I’ve gained a broader perspective. Food is life, and if I want to experience all life has to offer, I need to radically change my relationship to food. I want to invite food to take its honored place in my life. I want to take time to prepare delicious meals and then to eat mindfully, submerged in flavors and textures and the joy of sustenance.
Is it any accident that Erica Bauermeister’s book was on my shelf? That I’ve come to Italy to gain clarity for the path ahead? That food would show up as a central issue in a place where food and love go hand-in-hand? And that I’d be so ready?
Ah! The magic. The synchronicity.
Ahhhhh! Italy!
So…before you ask…yes. I went back to La Messaro tonight and had a PIZZA!!!!!
Gorgonzola and walnuts. With wine. And tiramisu for dessert.
And then…
I walked home. Down all those stairs. In the dark!
At noon I set out for La Brace. I’d been told it was the only restaurant in town that served pizza during off season.
The map indicated a one mile (1.6 km) walk. Perfect. I’d had an apple for breakfast. By the time I hiked uphill for thirty minutes I’d be ready for a sizeable lunch.
I was about one-third of the way when I rounded a bend and Praiano appeared in miniature. I crossed the highway to get a better look. The detail! All the major landmarks were there, totally recognizable.
Who maintains this art? How does it survive the ripping winds and rain torrents that slam the coast? My questions, of course, went unanswered.
A shadow slid over the wee village and I looked up. The weather app said no rain but the sky suggested otherwise. I resumed my journey but picked up the pace. I didn’t care what that foreboding black mass did AFTER I was safely ensconced in the cafe eating my pizza.
In spite of the gloom the air was warm and, as I’ve come to expect, I was the only human strolling the streets. When they say it gets quiet in winter, they mean graveyard quiet.
I passed San Gennaro with the blue dome and there was the sign for La Brace. The door stood open and I walked in. A lone gent behind the counter greeted me. “Buongiorno.”
“Buongiorno. Do you have pizza today?”
“No pizza,” he said.
“Is this La Brace?”
“No. That’s upstairs. They’re closed.”
No. Say it isn’t so. All I want is pizza. “Are they ever open?” My tone was accusatory with a tinge of whine.
“Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. You like pasta?”
Do I like pasta? I haven’t eaten it in years unless you consider the noodles in Balinese mie goreng. But, bottom line, I was hungry. “What kind?” I asked.
“I have pasta with tomato and mozzarella, pasta with clam sauce…what kind you want? You want white wine, red wine?”
So it was decided. I would have the house white with tomato mozzarella pasta.
I settled at a table. Bread, olive oil, and wine appeared. “My name is Piccolo,” my cheerful host said.
The cafe was empty except for us so we chatted. He told me he’d married a woman from Argentina thirty years ago and their son was now 26.
I asked if I could take photos.
“Of course.”
I’d just returned to my chair when a Taiwanese couple walked in and sat at the table in front of me. I said hello and the conversation began. She was an English teacher and spoke the language perfectly. She asked where I was from. In 2004 she was with a tour in Ubud and remembered Monkey Forest.
I laughed. “When you were about twelve?” I asked.
“No, I was twenty-three. I love to travel.”
We’d both been to Budapest. I remembered the bridges. She’d gone to the Turkish baths. In Italy they were touring from Venice to Amalfi by scooter. “You should come to Taiwan,” she said. “Bali is so close. But don’t go to Taipei. It’s just a big city. Come to Tainan. I live there. That’s the real Taiwan.”
I told her Tainan had just gone to the top of my travel list.
Cooking aromas swirled around us. Piccolo delivered my pasta with a flourish.
Mama mia! This was not five-for-a-dollar boxed mac ‘n’ cheese from my domestic goddess days. This was the real deal, cooked by the real deal, served by the real deal.
My Taiwanese friends ordered the pasta with clam sauce. Our feet tapped and heads bobbed to classic American rock playing at just the right volume from the cafe’s sound system.
In the midst of our cheerful intimacy, two men came in carrying a couple of bottles of wine. Piccolo greeted them loudly then called to me. “Sherry! These men have the best wine in Italy.” He herded them to my table and introduced us.
Gaetano handed me his card. “You must come. I have the only grape of this kind in the world. My wine is the best.”
“I think I must,” I said as I studied the gold-embossed logo and the name: Tenuta San Francesco Winery.
“Call me,” Gaetano said. “I will make a special tour for you. Through the farmlands. We are in a beautiful valley.”
They left me and headed for the back table. Piccolo winked. “You are ready for dessert?”
What? Dessert? On top of a week’s worth of pasta?
“Tiramisu?” I asked. What the heck! It’s my month-long birthday celebration. I will eat and drink as often and as much as I want.
“Yes, I have tiramisu. I make it myself.”
“Bring it on, Piccolo!”
There’s tiramisu and tiramisu. This was by far the best I’d ever eaten anywhere. It made me forget how full I was. Made me wish I’d ordered two.
Things happen for a reason. It was the kind of day I’d envisioned, the Italy I’d hoped for. Spontaneity. Connection. Authenticity. Surprise.
Domestic goddess I’m not. I did my stint. Raised a family. Managed to feed, clothe, and nurture three daughters into high-achieving adulthood. Was not as successful with husbands.
I’ve created a life in Bali that doesn’t require the skills I lack. But I’m in Italy for a month and I’ve found it necessitates a bit of do-it-yourself-ing.
You’ll need a frame of reference. At home I have a college dorm size refrigerator, a cooktop, and a yogurt maker. That’s it. No oven, no dishwasher, no mixer, not even a rice cooker. Why? I think you’re getting the picture. I don’t cook.
In Ubud there are 700 restaurants within steps of my door. In Praiano I’ve found one that’s open. The rest are closed for low season. Time to sharpen those non-existent homemaker skills.
I rolled up my sleeves and tackled the electric teapot. Easy. Then the toaster. Nothing to it. The espresso machine was slightly more challenging but after a few bungled attempts I mastered it.
The toaster oven? I hid it in the cabinet – frivolous, unnecessary gadget. Won’t go there.
And the dishwasher? The control panel looked like the console of a commercial jetliner. I snapped the door shut and turned with gratitude toward the old-fashioned sink, faucet, and drainboard.
Over this first week I’ve grown comfortable with the kitchen conveniences. But today was day eight and I was out of clean clothes.
There’s a cute little washing machine tucked under the counter. It’s compact like the cars here. Very European. My host introduced us briefly when I arrived and it looked like every other automatic washer I’d seen. I didn’t give it a passing thought. Big mistake.
Unaware of impending doom, I gathered my soiled clothes, stuffed them inside and closed the door. I studied the controls…
and studied…
and studied.
Holding my breath, I pushed a button. Then another. Nothing happened. What was I missing?
Before I started, I’d glanced at a leaflet lying on top of the machine hoping for a how-to guide. It left me just as baffled as I already was. I picked it up again and noticed something I’d missed. At the top, written in pencil, was the helpful inscription, On power switch is beside kitchen window.
I walked to the kitchen window and turned the power switch on. The washer beeped.
When I pushed buttons this time, red lights flashed. Progress. But the machine still didn’t start. I twisted the knob and tried every combination of buttons available. Nada.
Frustrated, I sat back reminding myself I’d been washing clothes for a very long time and this couldn’t possibly be that difficult. Then I made another stab at the buttons.
What’s the Einstein quote about insanity – doing the same thing over and over expecting different results?
Should I call the landlord and admit defeat? Take a direct hit to my pride?
Or…
I Googled YouTube: Instructions for operating Aquamatic Class AA 800 rpm, and guess what? Within moments my clothes were swishing happily.
There’s no dryer, maybe a good thing under the circumstances. But in the storage room a monster rack looked like it could do the job. I wrestled it to an upright position – easier said than done – and dragged it into the bedroom.
The washer droned on. I kept a suspicious eye on it while tending to emails, not fully trusting it would do its job without further intervention. But finally, with a hiss and sigh, it stopped. I emptied it and festooned the rack with clean, sweet-smelling clothes.
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I have this ridiculous sense of achievement that is grossly out of proportion to the task accomplished. Like I climbed Mt. Everest. Or swam the English Channel. Go ahead and laugh, but if this is the way it feels to conquer a machine, I may just give that toaster oven a go.
Liquid gold sunrise, 7:00 a.m. – I’m snuggled in my morning chair, wooly blanket warming my knees, steaming espresso cupped in my hands, thinking.
Thinking about this cozy house, its perfect size, location, easterly orientation, amenities. Its quality and craftsmanship, the red sofa with Mediterranean blue and granny-apple green pillows that pick up the colors in the painting hanging above it.
The astounding panorama that holds me speechless.
Thinking about how I wondered what gift I could give myself to commemorate seventy years of life and immediately knew: Italy, the Amalfi Coast, Praiano. How until that moment I hadn’t an inkling what I wanted, and yet it was there without hesitation when summoned.
Thinking about the kindness and generosity of my host who makes this trip even more delightful with his helpfulness and relentless humor.
Nicola Irace, superhost, took this photo on my terrace the day I arrived.
The power of intention…has it no limits? It seems to grow stronger as I age. If I have a desire, almost before I put thought to it the Universe delivers. It’s spooky!
Gratitude floods my heart. What a privilege to have the resources, the health, the intact mind (some would argue that) to manifest this dream.
But there are still some things I have to actually go out and get. Today I crave pizza.
This stairway is my ticket to avoid the tunnel. It feels good to begin to know the lay of the land. About halfway up I unbutton my coat and loosen the scarf around my neck. I’m glad it’s February. I wouldn’t want to be navigating these inclines at 93°F (33.8°C) which is the average temperature in Praiano in July.
There are no cookie-cutter houses. Entrance gates and doorways are as different as the people who pass through them. My photo doesn’t do justice to the picture on the upper right. Bright yellow ceramic tiles march up the steps, and the finials on the wall above the door are sparkly green.
Red carnations drip over this home’s receiving area, and a dry fountain stands sentry by another.
I passed on breakfast and now my stomach’s rumbling. I found the menu for Che Bonta online. Pizza, seafood, panini, tiramisu. I should be getting close…yes, here it is. I stand in front of the door and read the sign: closed for the holidays. What holidays?
My dream of pizza fades. The coffee and croissant cafe from yesterday had a breakfast menu. It’s two minutes up the street. As I approach I see a spill of humanity clustered around outside tables – standing room only. It looks like the entire Tour de France in their team jerseys and bicycle helmets has stopped here to eat. Groan. Is this the only place in town that’s open?
Just then the bells in the tower of San Gennaro – the church with the blue dome – peal the call to worship. I forgot. It’s Sunday. The little cafe may very well be the only place serving the public today.
I’m not in the mood to elbow through all that testosterone. Food can wait. There’s another church high on the cliff that’s been on my radar. San Luca. A quick course correction and I’m on my way.
As I approach I hear more bells, then singing. The service is underway. For a half-second I contemplate entering. The thought passes.
I’ll have to come back when I can go inside.
My journey has taken me high up the mountain. On the map this morning I saw Via Duomo, a road leading from this church back to Tutto per Tutti market. But is it a road – or a path – or a staircase? There are no signs. I wander for a while, uncertain. There’s no one to ask.
Out of nowhere a man appears walking toward me. When he’s close enough to hear I say in my best Italian, Per favore, where is Tutto per Tutti? Half in English, half in Italian, he tells me it’s Sunday. Everything is closed. Tutto per Tutti is closed. But there is a small market…he motions me to follow him to the edge of a parking area. “See the car there?” He points. “Centro Market. It is open. You go there. Everything else is closed.”
I don’t have the heart or the language skills to tell him it’s just the landmark I want. I don’t need a market. But I thank him and start walking. Soon I’m overlooking what is by now a familiar switchback. If I go left at the curve it will take me directly to Tutto per Tutti.
I pass the grocery store, which is closed, and just ahead is Centro Market. As was the case the first time I went there, a man stands in the doorway. I recognize him as the owner. “Buongiorno,” I say.
“Buongiorno,” he replies.
I had no intention of shopping today, but all at once I crave human interaction. I nod and he steps aside to let me enter. A bin of enormous red peppers catches my eye. “Grande,” I say, hoping that’s the right word. He smiles and nods. I choose the largest and set it on the counter then make the rounds of the shop adding a couple of tomatoes, biscotti, two apples, and… there it is! Primitivo di Manduria, a wine from the Puglia region. He adds it to my bill. I pay and we stuff it all in my backpack. “Grazie,” I say. “Caio.”
“Buon pomeriggio,” he says. “Rivederci.”
I look up those words when I get home. Good afternoon. Meet again. How lovely is that? Then I empty my pack. What will I do with a giant red pepper? Nothing right now.
After I’ve thrown together egg and toast and scarfed it down, I grab a book, curl up in a lounge chair on the terrace, and promptly fall asleep. I wish I had an app that counted stairs!
Woman on a mission: Find Cafe Novanto Quattro. Get coffee and a croissant. Eat, drink, and observe the locals.
I couldn’t ask for a finer morning. Orange sky again. Even less wind than yesterday. I put on two layers instead of three and exchanged the cashmere scarf for cotton. You know the drill, down 112 steps to the blue gate and into the street. I turned right.
Praiano is a V-shaped town. My house is practically at the tip of the V and to date my forays have been in the easterly direction. Today I ventured west.
Just around the bend – oh, oh. That tunnel didn’t show on the map. I paused – almost no traffic – it wasn’t a long tunnel – deep breath…
Made it!
I exited and stepped into an alternate universe. This side of Praiano is raw. Untamed. A different world.
I walked with my jaw hanging. Is there no end to the magnificence here? The feeling of being on the edge of the world? That everything is possible and joy multiplies with each breath?
A bit farther on I encountered civilization. Bustle and commerce. People. Scents of bread baking, bacon frying. I was suddenly reminded I hadn’t had breakfast. Where was this elusive Cafe Novanto Quattro?
When I saw the blue dome of San Gennaro I knew I’d gone too far. It should be right across from…ah! And there it was, a welcoming little hole-in-the-wall with tables both inside and out. The patter of conversation played like music. There was a line at the counter but I could see the pastry case and swallowed drool before it leaked from the corners of my mouth.
“Buongiorno.” The tall, heartthrob behind the counter greeted me.
“Buongiorno. I would like coffee please.”
“Americano?”
Did he mean me or the coffee? “Yes, and this.” I pointed to a flaky croissant oozing lemon filling.
“The cream one?”
“Yes.” I opened my purse.
“You eat here or take with you?”
“Here.”
“Then sit. I will bring it.”
I closed my purse.
Three of the six tables inside were occupied. I took an empty one nearest the door. Two women on my right chatted and laughed. Good friends, I thought. The couple across from me, older, probably married, conversed in muted tones. A man, woman, and dark-eyed boy about five finished their coffees and juice, paid, and left. There were no handphones or computers anywhere to be seen. Did these people actually come to drink coffee and speak to each other?
Heartthrob approached with breakfast and placed it in front of me. “Enjoy,” he said.
With the first bite it was confirmed – this would be my morning ritual for the rest of my stay and Americano was my new favorite brew. I ate slowly, savoring, indulging all the senses.
When I approached the counter to pay I had questions. “Per favore, when I arrive I say buongiorno, and when I leave I say ciao, is that right?”
“Yes, ciao,” he said. “Or, see ya later.” He winked and I laughed, paid the 4€ bill, and was on my way.
I didn’t want the tunnel again. Via Guglielmo Marconi veered off to the left at an incline that would take me up the mountain instead of through it – a far superior choice. Soon I was huffing and almost sweating. I loosened my scarf, unbuttoned my jacket and pressed onward.
At a three-way intersection I considered my options. Take Via Constantinopoli and continue climbing or choose Via Umberto for a gentle slope downward.
I remembered the juicy apple I bought at Centro Market on Via Umberto. I’d like another one. Decision made.
It was a picturesque and comfortable stroll. On the way down I passed a lovely lemon tree – isn’t there a song? Peter, Paul, and Mary? Yes! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLhYghzNfII
After the lemons, I came upon this fabulous door with a pot of burgundy cyclamens in a niche and a car that matched the robe of…who is the patron saint of animals? There’s a cow peeking around…St. Francis maybe? I’d just snapped this shot when…
…someone called my name.
It happens all the time in Ubud, but here? I’ve only been here six days and I don’t know any…Nicola! My Airbnb host! What are the chances?
“Buongiorno, Sherry! You would like to meet somebody?”
“Yes! Of course!”
“Follow me.”
Down the steps. Turn. Down more steps to a door. A flurry of Italian, then, “Felicia, Raffaele, meet Sherry.”
What warmth! What welcome! Did I want coffee? Juice? Felicia was cooking, did I want to eat? Nicola translated.
“Please thank them,” I said, a bit overwhelmed. “But I just had breakfast. I don’t want to disturb…”
“Disturbare!” Felicia caught the word and let loose with another volley of Italian.
“She says you do not disturb. She says come again tomorrow. Come any time.”
We took leave and once out of earshot I asked, “Nicola, who are they? Your family? Friends?”
“Family. Yes. Family. She is my mother-in-law. She owns your house.”
Do I fall too hard, too fast? Is this love or just infatuation? Bali, you’ll always have my heart…but…I’m in Italy now.
![Image result for napolitano mocha espresso]](https://writingforselfdiscovery.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/image-2.jpeg?w=290)
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