Monday was a normal day in Pontelandolfo. The school lobby was open so we could vote in the Regional Election. With “what party” and “who” I was to vote for jotted on a note in my pocket, I raced around the rain drops. It was teeming and in 15 minutes the polls would close.
(For those of you who wondered why I had the “what” and “who” jotted on a note, there were six candidates representing six parties. All wanted to be Regional President. I can barely remember my own long Italian name. You had to know the name of the candidate so you could print it nicely on the paper ballot.)
Cursing the rain and hobbling up slick steps without a guardrail leading into the school, I looked up and raised a fist at my dad.
JFG started us getting out the vote before we could drive.
He had ingrained in me the absolute need to vote in any and all elections. Deluge be dammed. I stopped in the foyer, shook the water out of my hat and opened my tessera votare to see where I had to go. District 3.
District 3. How is it possible that the district I lived in so many years ago. The district filled with ardent supporters that made sure my dad would be successful in Flagtown, Hillsborough and the County was the same district I’d vote in here?
Ciao Midgeee! Salve Midgeee! And as it had happened years ago in a different District 3, the home town chattering began.
I voted and dashed out.
Barely making it to the car, I was convulsing with sobs. Tears ran down my face. Jack, who didn’t go inside to vote kept touching me and asking what was wrong.
Angie Dorsa. Mc Cray, Mc Hugh, Doyle, Johnny G – my dad. My bigger than life dad who was an iconic election figure. That’s what was wrong. After hearing the first poll worker bellow “Midgeee,” all those old Democrats came to life for me. I could see them, feel them, hear them in the District 3 of yore.
Click and feel the moment. Midge “raw”coming to you from her Fiat.
Wild Boar – Cinghiale. They dig up crops, scare the bejeeezus out of tourists, and imagine this – one year ago the Italian army was sent in and told to shoot to kill. The ugly critters, found even in the streets of Rome, were or may have been carrying African Swine Fever which threatened the pazzilion dollar prosciutto industry. Some of the wild bad boys may have been getting a little too close to the gentile domestic sow. Sigh – isn’t that always the way.
Here in Pontelandolfo, we may not like their big ugly tusks charging at us but we do love the rich sauce you can make with the meat. The amazing steak and well, the general incredible taste that only free ranging, wild things can give us. 🎶 “Wild thing, you make my taste buds sing!” 🎶
Growing up in rural agrarian Somerset County, New Jersey, venison, wild turkey, peasant and other wild critters often graced the table. My dad told me that in the dark days of the depression, ground hog – which tastes remarkably like pig when made in tomato sauce – was often part of Sunday pasta day. My nonna told me the horror stories of picking buckshot out of teeny tiny sparrows or maybe they were black birds. When a flock flew over my nonno would hauled out the shotgun and BAM. Wee birds for dinner. I remember cleaning buckshot out of peasants and that wasn’t fun. But a family has to do what a family has to do.
Here in Pontelandolfo, we still have subsistence farmers who grow and process vegetables, raise animals for milk and meat and, gulp, remind me of my grandmother. They are kind, hardworking and loving people. We’ve integrated into the village’s rural lifestyle. Nope, I haven’t planted a thing except words on a page and a good will smile. Since, everyone thinks that because I spend my time at a desk, poor Jack will die of starvation, we are often recipients of parts of harvests and hunting. NOW YOU SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING…
Thanks to a wonderful hunter, a giant chunk of cinghiale found its way to my freezer. Jack and our summer guests would not starve. Unless I was hosting a party for our contrada (neighborhood), there was too much to use for one meal. I put on my 4-H Cooking Club farm girl brain and thought – I know me thinking seems like an anomaly – but Shazam an idea. Yes! I would divide the meat and create three freezable dishes. Stew, pasta sauce and meatballs – all freeze well and will make Jack a happy cena.
First step, get out a big knife and divide the hunk. Based on no knowledge of boar anatomy, I think it was a thigh or butt. I grabbed one of my nonna’s giant stainless steel bowls – yes, I brought a few to Italy – tossed in leftover red wine, wine vinegar, apple cider vinegar and herbs. Why, you are wondering did I use a mix of vinegar. Simple, there was a little bit left in a few bottles. I also added diced garlic, fresh rosemary on the stem, thyme, pepper and salt. Plopped in the meat, covered it and left it in the refrigerator for two days. I think twice I remembered to flip it around.
Truth be told, I then had to succumb to google. Did I wash the meat after the marinade? I did. Did I mention, I throughly washed the meat before I dropped in the melange of acids. I’m glad I washed it. An important lesson was learned. Leaving boar in vinegar for 48 hours means it is tender and tastes like a hint of vinegar. Next time it will just be red wine.
I looked at the three big pieces of meat which were now no longer red. WHAT DID I DO? I was planning on taking one third to our friendly butcher and asking him to grind it. When I got there the first words were – in very marginal Italian – did my marinade wreck the meat?! He laughed. The meat absorbs the acids and changes color. I promised him some meatballs. He smiled at that too.
Cinghiale Balls!
There is something meditative about squishing a mixture of meat, grated cheeses, breadcrumbs, raisins, oregano, salt, pepper, basil and eggs through your sanitized hands. Because the meat wasn’t very fatty, I used more cheese and eggs than one might usually. Actually, I scooped in extra bread crumbs too. I ended up rolling about 30 balls this size.
Meanwhile on the stove, my giant stainless steel pot was hosting slow cooking freshly diced tomatoes, onions, garlic and green/red pepper. I wanted the fresh stuff to break down before I added jars of passata ( homemade tomato puree graciously left on my veranda.) In went the passata plus a couple of store bought cans of diced tomatoes. I was trying to fill the giant pot and freeze enough sauce for decades.
To make the sauce really rich, I have learned to add a mirepoix. Carrots, celery and onion were diced to almost a paste in my blender. That went into the pot then I stirred and waited. When it started to bubble, I very carefully placed each of those boar balls in the pot. Lid went on and I let the ragù slow cook for a few hours. The meat balls gave it not a gamey taste but a savory taste that one wanted to go on forever.
I could eat this sauce everyday!
I made enough sauce and meat balls for three of us to have a substantial meal. Nestled in my freezer are now three containers of sauce and balls for the future. Yummy. I thank the hunter who share with poor starving Jack.
We will talk about the stew another day. I am hungry and need to forage for local cheese,wine and bread.
Since we got back to our happy creative place, my inbox has been a flutter with invitations to book launches, book club and writer meet and greets. Remember, my happy creative place is not an urban center but Pontelandolfo – a tiny village with a population under 3,000 – that includes sheep and cows.
One of the newest organizations that is making a literary impact is Sannio Che Legge. Spear headed by folks with an interest in art, literature, intellectual discourse and highlighting the cultural connections of Pontelandolfo, Morcone and the entire Sannio area, they are constantly providing me with a place to go and a book to read.
An aside: I just turned to Jack and bellowed, “I just love this!” We are sitting outside Bar Elimar, my writers room, Latin music is playing, I’m sipping a limoncello spritz, tapping my foot and writing. Two tables of men are playing cards. Three tables of thirty something’s, with babies in tow, are gossiping and laughing. How could someone not create art here???
Jack and I went to the Sannio Che Legge event at Morcone’s newest restaurant, Cantina Ristorante Biancamela. (Morcone’s progressive mayor and council are working hard to bring life back to their historic center. That is another blog. ) I was impressed. About 30 people were there listening to author Rita Martignetti talk about the genesis of his work. He actually gave all of us a copy of one of his books. Grazie Mille. His numerous works deal in an entertaining manner with the history of the Sannio Hills.
I should note that Sannio Che Legge grew out of the Pontelandolfo Biblioclub and signed a Reading Pact with the Municipality of Pontelandolfo. The organization is now entrusted with the Pontelandolfo Library.
I will be there with my cosmopolitan literati hat on.
One of my besties, Adele Gentile had a recent book launch and of course I went. Once her publisher gets that e-book link and on line bookstore link up there, you will get a full story on her tome.
Book launches here are set up a bit differently. Adele, the author, didn’t read any parts of her book. She has a wild and wonderful personality and I was looking forward to her reading. Instead, others – think critics – talked about the book. There was also dialogue with the author. It was actually incredibly interesting. A great way to learn about an author’s catalyst for creation.
Blue is Adele’s favorite colors and blue took over the auditorium. From the flowers on the stage to the cover of her emotional and yet entertaining memoir. I chuckled as I watched Adele hand out programs and check every detail of the launch. Is she a Jersey Girl too?
The place was packed. That means about 200 people came to a book launch. A book launch in a teeny tiny village! (Damn, time to start getting my stuff translated.)
Adele, wrote her memoir while undergoing treatment for breast cancer. Ooops, I vowed I wouldn’t say a word until we had the links so that you could buy the book. It is – a freakin‘ amazing work.
Rescheduled to September.
I am excited to hear this presentation and buy a copy of the book – written in English and Italian. Written originally as a screenplay, the novel tells the tale of the 1861 pillage of Pontelalndolfo in the name of Risorgimento in a different way. An American woman with Pontelandolfo roots visits the village, sees a mural and …. I can’t wait to read the story.
I could overburden your inboxes with more examples or you could visit our little place of creative energy and see for yourself. Interested in gathering up some writer pals and spending a week here? Just let me know and we can organize something magical. Then, I will grab my laptop and join your writer’s room on Piazza Roma.
Maria Rosaria Solla do not pack that heavy dark wool skirt. Do you want people to think you are a contadina?
I am a contadina and the skirt is warm.
Thank you for the skirt. I am taking it right now and you are packing the colorful dress. Now, on the ship you will look like a proper lady.
BAD ADVICE!
Nonna brought this photo with her. I wonder if that is the “friend” who took her warm and functional clothes?
As we read Cunard’s Queen Mary 2 dress code, I panicked. “What to Wear: Smart Attire.” I’ve got two advanced degrees but my clothes ain’t necessarily smart. Reading more, I knew I wasn’t going to look like a proper lady going to the ball. They have black tie fancy dress dinners and parties on board! All my fancy duds and summer clothes are in Pontelandolfo. In New Jersey, Bluefish style winter artsy fartsy is my fashion statement. I ran out and bought a $26 black dress at Marshalls, packed my silky scarves, bijoux and bling jewelry and hoped for the best.
Maria Rosaria hoped for the best too. Sadly, as I was told by her and Aunt Cat, hope was not enough. Crossing the Atlantic Ocean in steerage was freaking cold. According to Aunt Cat:
On the ship it was so cold mamma couldn’t stop shaking. She didn’t have anything heavy to wear. I hate that lady who took her warm clothes.
Mamma was shivering and had a fever. She just stayed in the bed – we were all way down in the bottom of the ship – hundreds of us. My brother Nick, Sal and me – mamma was so sick – we were kids. We didn’t know what to do. An old man felt sorry for mamma and took care of her. He got coats from the other men and piled them on her. Somehow she lived.
Warm cape was the first thing she made in New Jersey.
My lack of stylish summer clothing was not a problem. The Atlantic Ocean breezes are cold. My linen long sleeved ensembles and scarves were just right. And, frankly, we only went outside on deck for brief walks. The interior of the Queen Mary 2 is not only well appointed but temperature controlled.
The fancy dress parties were not even on the radar for my grandmother. Steerage tickets didn’t entitle voyagers to much.
Saturday night was Cunard’s Red and Gold black tie event. I felt perfectly fine in black palazzos, black silk top and huge hand painted silk wrap. Bejeweled handmade creations from Lambertville put the icing on my dress cake. As we sat in one of the upscale bars listening to a harpist, Jack said, “ Why didn’t you tell me it would be black tie. I didn’t even pack a tie.” Sigh…
FaceBook sometimes feels like just another chore and then some photo or post will smack me in the face and send my memory cells careening around my brain. On April 15, 2025, my testa dura got smacked hard. Into my otherwise boring feed popped a picture of a handsome young man at his thirtieth birthday celebration. I started to sob. Not because, I wanted to be thirty and at that party – though that thought did enter my mind – but because I first met the now thirty year old Valerio Mancini in 1995. The year that changed our lives.
The adorable Valerio Mancini held by his beautiful mom, Carmela Fusco. 1995
1995 – Jack and I accompanied my Aunt Catherine back the village she was born in, Pontelandolfo, Italy. That year, I had started a family tree and the three of us were on a quest to find more information.
Just to put 1995 in perspective, this is before we had a cell phone with a magic app that did instant translation. We had to get by on Jersey Girl balls and a big smile. Aunt Cat had had polio In Italy and at 80 something smiled like a wee elf sporting a big brace. Jack wheeled her to the municipal building and stopped. There were two flights of stairs to the anagrafe office. No worry, Aunt Cat beamed that magical smile at two local policemen who carried her up two flights of stairs in the chair. (This is what the Italian heart is all about.)
The woman responsible for vital records spent about three hours with us going through all these old books dating back to the 1860s. Aunt Cat started speaking in an arcane Italian dialect and everybody understood her. Her face lit up. It was like she had just found heaven. This was a language that was entrenched in her soul. A language that she never spoke at home and suddenly here she is and it’s possible again. We find all kinds of information. Like my Great Grandfather, Salvatore Guerrera, was married to Caterina Guerrera. Italian women keep their own names so my imagination went wild. Did he marry his cousin/sister – euuuch? Is that why I am just a little pazzo? Guerrera, we discovered, is a super common name. I licked my pencil point and kept on writing. We thanked everyone and found our way down the stairs and back to our car.
Now, we have about 6 handwritten pages of family tree and I haven’t the foggiest idea what we’re going to do with it. While staring at each other and standing in the almost empty Piazza Roma another vigile comes up to us. Having lived in Waterbury, Connecticut, He speaks English. Side Note – After World War Two, the lack of jobs and demolished towns were a catalyst for a mass exodus. There are more Pontelandolfese in Connecticut today than there are in Pontelandolfo.
Pietro Perugini, sporting his vigile uniform, walked right up to us. Asking if he could see the family tree, he pulled the notes from my hand, stared at them, got into the town police car and left. He left with all my notes. He just freaking left. Three hours’ worth of notes and he gets in his car and he leaves. What the f*&$? I threw the biggest hissy fit imaginable. All that work. All that time going through the dusty books. Had I unearthed a horrible town secret?
The tantrum chock full of English curses started drawing a crowd. Aunt Cat smacks me with her cane. I’m thinking, OK OK, maybe like we’re related to really bad people and they don’t want us to know that we’re part of the baddest of bad evil people. Or maybe we’re royalty. That must be it – and and and and and they don’t want us to know because we really own this freaking Piazza.
I swear we waited for 3 ½ or 4 hours. but Jack said it was probably maybe 15 minutes. I don’t know. All that pacing was making me insane. Officer Perugini finally came back and said, “I think I found your relatives follow me.”
We get Anne Catherine back in the car and we followed to row houses on a side hilly street. I found out later that after a devastating earthquake that eradicated homes dating back to the 1600s, this public housing was built. Since the houses were crammed next to each other, it was tongue in cheek branded as Shanghai. The vigile and I knocked on a door. A little old lady tentatively opens the door and with a fierce look stares at us. I’m holding the family tree and pointing I say here I am and there you are. The policeman says it in Italian. Actually, I have no idea what he’s saying but I’m guessing it’s ‘here she is and there you are.’ Bamm, the door was slammed in our faces.
Jack had parked and Aunt Catherine is, with great difficulty, dragging her leg, holding on to Jack and walking toward this house. I knock on the door again. Again, I’m greeted by a scowling woman, but also a smiling younger woman holding a baby saying “come on in for coffee.” Obviously mother and daughter don’t agree about what to do with these strange Americans. The old woman is essentially saying we know no one in America and we don’t want to. The young woman with an adventuresome gleam in her eye is curious. They see and hear Catherine say in her little voice from the road “are you my cousin?”
The three of us were in the doorway. Aunt Cat asked again, “tu e mia cugina?”
The old woman replied, Jesu e Maria.Ora e sempre, Caterina Guerrera had recalled the ancient greeting. Both women started to cry and hugged.
Giuseppina Guerrera and Caterina Guerrera meet.
Suddenly, Giuseppina Guerrera, who we discovered was indeed Aunt Cat’s first cousin, starts to ask her 20 questions. It was better than any of those quiz shows. The million dollar question was – Libero Capporosso. Conosci libero caparoso? I’m thinking who the hell is Libero Capparoso? A light went off, the audience cheered as Anne Catherine said – “bookie.” Libero means book in Italian. He had left the village and come to New Jersey and stayed with our family. Bookie was the magic answer that opened the door to our hearts and love for Pontelandolfo.
That day, we also found another family and first cousin, Carmine Manna. Both families have embraced us. Because of them we became part of the greater Pontelandolfo family.
Thank you Valerio for posting your birthday bash on Facebook. Thank you for being part of our extended family. Thank you for reminding me how blessed we are to have found our roots in Pontelandolfo. That you for being that wee baby boy who smiled and welcomed us home.
In the spring, summer and fall of 2024 our house in the hills was rocking with out of towners. For ten years, we asked, cajoled, begged and pleaded family and friends to please come and visit us in Pontelandolfo. Hardly anyone did. As years passed, no one did. This past year everyone did. We were so booked that we had a paper calendar on the kitchen wall with days blocked off and names scribbled in, scribbled out and new ones scribbled in. I felt like our door was not just revolving but always open.
Shut the door you’re letting the flies in. Shut the door you’re letting the cold in.
That said, we were happy to have a full house. We saw people we hadn’t seen in years. Catching up is always fun. I hope this summer we get just as many guests.
What an enormous bugia! Most days I was happy to have a full house. Other days, I took my computer and hid in a bar.
Come on Midge, every experience no matter how frustrating is an opportunity to learn. I learned that there is a lot to learn. Having all these folks passing through and me shaking my head like an insane Auntie M, I realized that there were things that guests, retreat participants, culinary tourists and everyone who visits us needed to know.
One of Jack’s cousins suggested I was doing my readers a disservice by not sharing my incredible knowledge of random and useless facts about traveling. She encouraged me to come up with a list of Ten Things Tourists and Guests coming to Pontelandolfo need to know. This suggestion was given after I looked at her with a raised eyebrow and said, you don’t have a debit card? How could you come to Europe and not have a debit card? Gulp, I need to work on may people skills.
Deciding to take the task seriously, and with her input, I riffed on things I noticed people having a problem with. Ta, da – Here is my arbitrary and lightly sarcastic list of Ten Things Tourists Need to Know:
No one here wants your American dollars. Even the local banks don’t want to exchange your dollars for euros. Unless you are washing your cash, why would you bring a sack of dollars? Bring a sack of euros. Stuff them in your bra. That’s what I do. When in Italy use euros. The 1950s ugly American idea that the entire world craves “American Money” is over. About 25 years ago, my father joined us on an excursion to Pontelandolfo. He knew that the kids in our extended family were in college so he brought a stack of $50 bills to give as gifts. Every single kid said thank you, looked at the bill, looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Unless you were in a big city there was no way to change the dollars.
2. Make sure you have a working debit card. With a debit card you can go to any automatic teller machine and get the best exchange rates on the currency of the country you are visiting. I take that back. Only go to bank automatic teller machines not the ones named after someone’s pet cat. When you get a debit card or if you have one but haven’t used it out of the country, call your bank and make sure it works abroad. I had a panicked cousin who had just gotten a debit card and discovered it would’t work anywhere but at her bank. An irate call to the bank unearthed that the card didn’t work because it wasn’t a debit/credit card. She ended up borrowing euros.
3. Beware of the seemingly friendly offer to charge you for your purchase on line, in a store and/or at an automatic teller machine in US dollars. You will be screwed on the exchange rate. Make sure you click euros. Your bank will do the exchange at a better rate.
4. Use your credit card not your debit card to buy stuff. Credit cards in a store or restaurant provide a more secure way to shop. Credit card companies will usually refund, cancel and harness the creeps who steal your info. This advice does not come from me. I can barely add. It comes from my banker and numerous articles I’ve read from credible sources. And, some cretin did steal my credit card number and used the card/number to buy breakfast everyday at the same bar in Campobasso. Yes, they were caught and yes, my bank handled everything.
5. Please don’t be a creepy traveler (especially in Pontelandolfo where I know everyone) and use a credit card in a small local caffe or shop for a cup of coffee and a biscotti. My personal guideline is if it is less than €25 I pay in cash.
6. Double check all the adapters for your electronic devices. Not every country abroad has the same plug configuration. “What, I used this in Germany, why the @$#% doesn’t it work in Italy.” Because you are in Italy not Germany. Depending on where you are, it might be difficult to get the correct adapter.
7. Make sure your bags make it directly to your final destination. Airline and airport blues make the beginning of your trip a nightmare. Guests have told me that they missed flights to Naples because they had to get their checked bags in another European country and go through control again before boarding their flight to Naples. I then ask the same question. Were you flying on two different airlines? Don’t. For example, we would fly Lufthansa from Newark, New Jersey to Naples, Italy. We changed planes in Frankfurt. Our bags came all the way through to Naples. If we had flown airline A from the USA to the EU and then a different airline to our final destination, the odds are we would have had to get our bags and schlepp them to the second airline. Double check when booking your flight. I always ask, ”the bags go all the way through, correct.” Yes, I book flights on line but being anal, I also call the airlines.
8. Pack less not more. Jack just asked, how do you know what you need until you get there. Jack also said, if you forget something you can buy it. Sigh. I tend to overpack or rather over pile stuff on the bed and then toss out half. Packing cubes are incredible. I’ve got both compression and regular cubes. Sorting your clothes can be particularly useful if you are moving from city to city. I sort, because my type A personality likes clothes organized by type. Ladies, gulp, maybe it is because I am in my third act, but I discovered that sanitary napkins are a life saver on many counts. I am able to wear a pair of trousers more days using sanitary napkins. (Shhhh, that is a secret.)
9. Make sure you have a working phone. Don’t cheap out and think you can just keep your phone in airplane mode and/or just use wi-fi. We have had folks stranded at the train station with no way to contact us. When you are in a Wi-Fi zone it is easy to use free services – like Apple to Apple texting and FaceTime. Many Italians, us included, use WhatsApp. WhatsApp is even used by doctors and businesses here. For clarity of sound, I’ve discovered that Facebook messenger is incredible for calling pals in the USA. Again, don’t only rely on Wi-Fi as your only means of communication. Pay the fee to have international access or buy a SIM card wherever you are. A digital warrior who lives here has another hack. She bought a rechargeable portable hotspot. Hence, WiFi everywhere she goes.
10. This is a biggy. Make sure your passport is up to date and doesn’t expire within a three month window of your trip. I have no idea why that rule exists. Could someone explain it to all of us? It seems to me, something expires when it expires but who am I to have an opinion. A young relative of mine slated to visit us last year, discovered his passport would be in the unusable two month window. He had to fly to another state to go to an in-person passport center and get his new passport in one day. Yikes! Though, thinking about it, not being able to get home might start a new adventure.
NOW LET’S TALK ABOUT COMING TO PONTELANDOLFO THIS YEAR!
Cooking in the Kitchens of Pontelandolfo is a magical experience that started in 2016. Last year we even won an award. We have a session in May and another in September.
2025 Writers’ Refuge in the Sannio Hillsis our second writer’s retreat. Last year Pontelandolfo hosted playwrights who raved about the experience. This June, creative writers are encouraged to spend time with us.
Oh no, has it really been more than a month since I shared my adventures with you? Were you thinking “she must be off doing something magical.” “Maybe she is checking out the new murals in Pompeii.”
Sigh, I am staring blankly out the window clutching my wallet to my chest. We flew back to New Jersey at the end of January and ran smack into the big bad brick wall of culture shock.
cul·ture shock (Definition from Oxford Languages)
the feeling of disorientation experienced by someone who is suddenly subjected to an unfamiliar culture, way of life, or set of attitudes.
WHAT! WHAT! NOOOOO!
How much???? NO! NOT THAT MUCH! HEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLP!
HOW LONG? Where am I?????
“Jack,” I queried, “Did I become mean looking or just old and nasty? Unless I say good morning first, everyone passing us is ignoring us.” The ever logical Jack replied, ” No one in Ewing knows your name. Most people are just getting on with their lives. Not everything is about you. We aren’t in Pontelandolfo anymore.”
I really miss the cultural and personal connection that comes from a bunch of people knowing my name and hearing “ciao Midge.” Even if everyone in the pharmacy is a stranger they’ll say Buon giorno to each other. Simple welcoming phrases can put on smile on a lonely person’s face and pull me out of my doldrums.
We love to eat out and don’t need an occasion. Just the joy of – what BS – OK, at this point in my life I’d rather be creating and writing than cooking. So we do eat out a lot. Lunch every day In Pontelandolfo, home cooked with love at Bar Elimar or Ponte Simone cost me about $20 for the two of us. Often less. Out to lunch in NJ my hand trembled when I signed the credit card for a cheap two roll lunch with miso soup at a substandard sushi restaurant that cost $50 for two people. Don’t get me started about the cost of bad coffee in a cookie cutter coffee place.
I miss starting my day with a trip to Cafè Style, chatting with the owner and having him make a perfect super hot, low on foam cappuccino.
“Un euro per favore.” Yup, one euro for a perfect coffee. Since the euro and dollar are almost par you can see why I shudder at the $3.50 to $5.00 almost OK tasting cappuccinos to be found near our condo. Stop, asking If I want whipped cream! Ugggg.
And what is this “there is a 3.5% surcharge if you use a credit card?” Talk about declassè. Dear restaurant and store owner, It is the cost of doing business, raise your prices to cover the cost. Or, as the evil kid in my brain thought, are they just doing the surcharge thing to grow their profit margin and the prices already cover the surcharge. Seriously, is this just a New Jersey thing or is it happening everywhere?
I will admit if the amount I’m spending in Pontelandolfo is less than 40 or 50 euro, I pay in cash. They don’t do the up-charge but I am guessing that a fee must be there.
Don’t get me started on medical issues. Knowing the early bird gets the appointment, I started calling the doctors we wanted to see in early December. My thought was we would be able to see the doctors we have loved for years the first week we were back. Not! Calling in early December meant seeing specialists at the end of February. And all of these frustrating gate-keepers! I had a million questions about Jack’s new Italian pacemaker that obviously wouldn’t get answered until we were in the office. Using WhatsApp, I am able to communicate directly with our Italian specialists. Doctors who actually respond themselves within a day. Sigh… We are only here for a few months so I will suck it up.
“Your co-pay maam for the anticoagulant that your exceptional cardiologists in two countries feel is important to keep you from stroking out is only $500 a month.” You laugh! That is true. Being an inquisitive patient advocate, before we left Italy, I had called my New Jersey pharmacy and my medicare part D insurance provider asking what the anticoagulant pills would cost me a month. After laughing out loud and then cursing out loud, I went to my Italian pharmacy and bought retail the three months worth of pills I needed for my stay in NJ for – drum roll please – 96 euros a month or about 100 dollars a month. Other brands that our USA chums were prescribed would still cost me over $200 a month. In Italy, my universal healthcare system knows not taking the drug could kill me, therefore, like Jack’s diabetes medicine, it has no co-pay.
YES I WILL STOP WHINING! There I feel so much better just getting that last whine out of my system. You all, my delightful readers, are like extended family. And as you know, only our family ever sees us whine. (Ha ha ha.) Thank you. Grazie.
All that bitching out of my system, it is important that you know that we reallydo like being back in New Jersey. I get to see people I adore, eat food from lots of different cultures, ramble through our lovely condo building for instantaneous cocktail hours and easily enjoy lots of urban culture.
Speaking of culture – who is ready to visit Pontelandolfo in 2025?
Duh! How could I forget. Bam! I did forget. Yesterday, January 6th I was in Piazza Roma trying to get to the doctor’s office first thing. He was closed. WHAT – the farmacia was closed. What is going on?
I walked into our house at about 9:30 AM and there on an end table near the “Jack chair” sat a bright read sack filled with candy. Turning, nestled in the chair I always curl up in, I spied a second red sack. More candy! Then it hit me – La Befana was here. We must have both been very good. Besides candy, both our bags included a bottle of an adult beverage.
Grazie La Befana (or bestie pal Nicola who tiptoed in with the stash). Growing up in rural agrarian Somerset County, New Jersey, LaBefana was not part of the landscape. The first time I heard about this sprightly old woman who brings candy to those who are good and carbone to the wicked was about 20 years ago. I saw, in an Italian book store, what I thought were kitchen witches. Or simply strega, like the witches of Benevento. Picking one up and glancing through the accompanying book I realized that La Befana was as important a part of the Christmas story as the three kings. She never did find the baby Jesus but every Epiphany she searches for and finds Italian children all over the world.
Her determination, working against the odds of her life, great choice of tattered togs and fearless nature has endeared her to me. It has been an interesting journey following the Epiphany celebrations. In Venice a cotillion of gondolas float by, each piloted by La Befana. In Alghero, Sardegna we saw La Befana effigies hung on very light post. In Rome’s Piazza Navona, one can find La Befana making appearances. Urbania, in the region of Marche, purports to be the official home of La Befana. (I think the woods behind our house in Flagtown, NJ were really her home. Just kidding.) Every year folks come to Urbania and watch La Befana fly down from the town’s bell tower.
Morcone, my other favorite paese in the Sannio Hills, had an incredible calendar this January. La Befana, on stilts, paraded down the street followed by musicians sporting traditional instruments. There was a marvelous mercatino.
Did I mention the elves?
The most astounding thing that happens in Morcone is a living nativity – Presepe Vivente. It is the best community involved theater I have ever seen. After wandering through the historic center redone as Bethlehem, one walked down to a huge field to see Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus find shelter. The three kings are there but La Befana never made it. I made the following video in 2018. Every year the spectacular gets better and better.
I was so taken with the fable that one year I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and – if I do say so myself- a charming contemporary play featuring this feisty character leaped into the page.
Mamma Mia – La Befana?! weaves the ancient Italian Epiphany tale, La Befana, into a contemporary American setting. Could the fun loving sixty-something Nonna from Florida really be the thousands of years old scruffy old woman who on January 5th delivers gifts to the good children and coal to the bad? The answer becomes evident as Nonna/Befana uses her holiday magic to find her lost and injured granddaughter, Mary.
Shazam- the magic continues- Mamma Mia La Befana?! Was published by Next Stage Press. It is a perfect piece for a theater’s or school’s holiday season. Just as La Befana zaps around the world, I would be thrilled to see this play zoom to a theater near you.
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Auguri! May 2025 be a happy, healthy and creative year. I know La Befana will never leave you coal.
Nonna's Mulberry Tree 