When my nonna told stories about life in Pontelandolfo she often mentioned the fountains. There is a massive one in the main piazza but there are others scattered among the hills. Some of these fountains date back to Roman times. These fountains were a hub for gossip, doing laundry, getting a quick drink on a hot day and gathering water to drink, cook with and wash in. For generations, mountain spring water has run through ancient pipes and spurted out into jugs that were carried home.
The fountains still exist – but there is a new kid in town! This year when we drove into the center of Pontelandolfo we noticed this big stainless steel box – Acquaself – and a bunch of people hanging around with plastic bottles. Holy smokes – they are getting water! It costs only €.05 a liter for spring water – sparkling or plain. Oh no, I thought, yet another rural ritual blown out of the water.
Years ago, Jack joined Mario Mancini and went up into the mountains to one of five or six ancient fountains. Mario, a foodie and mountain gatherer, knew where to take his bottles to get the best tasting water. They drove miles away from the village center and what did they find – other men filing bottles. Jack was flabbergasted when one of the men turned to him and said in English – where are you from – “New Jersey” – “Me too – Livingston”! That is the magic that happens around the fountain.
The Pontelandolfo main fountain has been a meeting place, photo op and life blood of the community. In the summer kids fill water balloons from the constantly flowing spring water. When that happens I run in the other direction – cross fire can be pretty wet. Can Acauself – a stainless steel box – really replace all that? Interesting question. I’ve gone for our water – I mean .05 for a litter of sparkling water – and chatted with folks who were filling their bottles. Maybe the conversation will continue at the box but I can’t see anyone doing their laundry. The talented Annalaura Iacovella will explain how Acquaself works – so those of you who speak Italian can test your skills – those of you who don’t can read the titles. Happy mineral water to you.
What a magical day I had. The day really had nothing to do with me but it really felt like I was on a roller coaster of a journey seeing Pontelandolfo for the first time and sensing the connection to my past, present and future. Only it wasn’t my past. It was the past of the Domenico Mancini family. Like many other Mancinis this family can trace it roots to a section of Pontelandolfo called Minicariello. Whoa – let me start at the very beginning.
Last year I got an e-mail from a woman who had googled Pontelandolfo and hit upon my blog. After pumping up my chest like the winning rooster of a cock fight – I mean someone actually googled and found my blog you’d be all proud and cheeky too – I responded to Kristen Ross’s request for help. It seemed like her good family friend, Domenico Mancini, had left Pontelandolfo when he was 18. When he was a tyke, his dad had died in World War II and the family didn’t know where his body was. Check out this post to get the back story – http://wp.me/p3rc2m-dw. Now, many months later the entire Mancini clan was coming to Italy to visit the grave and see where their dad was born. Their first stop was the Sacrario Militare dei Caduti d’Oltremare (Military Memorial to the Fallen Overseas) near Bari.
Kristen sent me this shot of Domenico reunited with his dad.
Domenico had not been back to Pontelandolfo since he left as a young man – about 64 years ago. Kristen – the point person for organizing the trip – asked if we could meet when they got to the village. What a magical meeting and day we had! After getting the “we’re here” text, Jack and I pulled into the piazza and saw the biggest shiny silver mini-van/mini tour bus I had ever seen here. Pouring out of it was the Famiglia Mancini. Never having seen these folks before or even really knowing their names I was swept into a stream of “I’m Kristen -Nancy – Domenico- Rich – Marylou – Tony”, hugs and kisses. It was as though they were my family too. After a few seconds of where should we go and what should we do, it was decided that we visit the Cemetary so that Domenico could look for his family. Everyone – the men in the family are really tall – leaped back into the van. I, being the shortest person in the crew, had to climb, pull and crawl my way in. The trip to the cemetery couldn’t have been better.
Rito Sala, the caretaker/administrator, warmly greeted the family, pulled out his trusty typed sheets of who was where and led the search. Unfortunately, Domenico didn’t really remember the dates of when his nonna died etc. Without the dates it is hard to truly figure out who is who. Remember, in this small town hundreds of people have the same last names but are not related. Domenico had seen my blog about the boxes of bones in the cemetery chapel and wanted to see if his ancestors were there too. We went on down and he found a number of boxes with names that he remembered. The caretaker took us to visit the older section of the cemetery walls (see blog http://wp.me/p3rc2m-hI ) to see if Dominico could hone in on relatives. It was a very emotional exploration.
Dominico really wanted to see if he could find the house that he was born and lived in until he came to America. This section of Pontelandolfo is really off the grid. I knew of one person who could guide us there – another Mancini! My incredibly kind and generous cousin-in-law, Mario Mancini, was pressed into service. With he and Jack in the lead car we wended our way, up, up and up a mountain over the kind of narrow winding roads that worked really well for donkeys. Soon we made it to Minicariello and started climbing up to medieval ruins looking his his house.
The cutesy sign was not original. The folks who are buying these old stone houses and restoring them for weekend joints made the sign.
Now he hasn’t been here in a really long time. When he left there weren’t any roads and you really used donkeys to get around. Now there are roads and some folks from Naples are buying up the ruins and redoing them as weekend houses. Things look and feel different. The tenacious Mancini clan would not give up.
Two Mancini men from different families discuss the strategy for finding Dominco’s old home.
One of Domenico’s sons found a group of people sitting outside a restored house. Tony tricked his dad into meeting them. Dominico speaks the dialect of Pontelandolfo as though he never left and started sharing his story. This group showed the family another group of attached abandoned ancient homes. It was there that the family gazed upon the first home that Dominico ever had. It was an incredibly emotional moment.
The first time I came to Pontelandolfo in the 1970’s with my Aunt Cat and cousins she had memories of an ugly place full of poverty. We drove in, stared at the fountain and practically fled. Dominco related similar feelings to his children. His memories are of incredible poverty and the feeling that they were lucky to get out.
Through the eyes of the younger Mancinis, the beauty that is the Pontelandolfo was reborn for Dominico. Everyone was overwhelmed with the incredible mountain vistas, the friendliness of the people and the sense of community that one can feel in the piazza. During our descent, Mario surprised everyone and pulled his car over. He made us trek through a short field to see a Roman Fountain – yes ancient Romans actually got their mountain spring water here. Just another of Pontelandolfo’s fabulous secret spots.
We all drank from the Roman Fountain.
After a beers at Bar Mix Fantasy, I led part of the crew up the hill to the Mother Church. Luckily, it was open and they could take a quick peek inside at the alter where their dad was baptized and nonna was married.
They invited Jack and I to join them for dinner along with Mario Mancini and Carmella Fusco. Carmella, Dominico and Mario were real “chiacchierone” laughing and chatting away in the dialect of Dominco’s youth. The night was filled with sharing stories, trying to figure out if we were all somehow related and feeling – well just like family.
Shout out to subscriber Kathy H. who said “I feel a blog about being silenced is in your future.” Now, Kathy knows I love to chat. We Facetime, Viber or Magic Jack call each other a lot. What do we talk about? I haven’t a clue, but for about a week the chatting stopped.
Run Dorothy Run!
On those chatless days we were plagued with thunder, lighting, whooshing rain and turn your umbrella inside out wind. The internet went kaput. No Internet no chatting.
What? No Magic Jack or Viber?
Suddenly I was silenced!
Yeah, yeah I know – I could still e-mail from my smart phone but it ain’t the same as voice to voice chatting. For one whole week I couldn’t verbally reach out to family and friends in the USA. WHAT!
It was a great opportunity to read books, sit in the caffè and gossip and maybe even play at writing something. It also made me realize that my blabbing about our great cheap ways to communicate with folks in other parts of the globe needed a revision. Here in the hills we have one communication tragic flaw – storms knock out the internet.
Our internet is provided through an antennae on our house and a signal sent from an even bigger antennae somewhere in the hills. When the wind is whoooooooooossssshhhhhhhing the signal starts swirling and may be providing internet to Saturn.
How does one overcome this dilemma? First, make sure you have a good cellular telephone provider. We use WIND and pay ten Euro a month for 200 minutes of calls, 200 texts and UNLIMITED data. Second, make sure you have a phone that can become a wi-fi hotspot. I have an iPhone 4s that works well as a hotspot.
I will caution you, there were times when the storms also limited our ability to use our cell phones but not often.
To make quick calls to the USA – really quick because the more you use the unlimited data the slower it becomes – I would turn the cell phone into a hot spot and call through my iPad or Macbook Air. Apple doesn’t send me dime for saying what I’m about to say (though I would gladly accept the latest iPhone.) Apple products all work incredibly well together.
I’ve installed Viber and Skype on my iPad. Facetime comes with the iPad and Macbook. Magic Jack also now has an application for smart phones a well as your computer. Our New Jersey phone number is our Magic Jack number so folks can easily call us and/or leave a message. (Though I wish telemarkerters would stop calling at 6:00 PM Eastern Standard Time which is MIDNIGHT here.)
Bottom line – I may not be able to sip Campari Soda and talk about nothing with pals in America for an hour but thanks to a good cellular provider and the hotspot on my iPhone we can still get our words out.
Now, I’m not sure what a Patron Saint does. I asked Jack who went through 16 years of Catholic Education and he said, ” Nothing now, they’re dead”. After I tossed an apple at him he continued. They used to do miracles, now they are a conduit to God. Folks ask them for help. Ah, I said. Believing there are no coincidences, I began to wonder why in the play I just finished, Mamma Mia – La Befana?! one of the characters asked San Antonio for his help. I thought I had used the name San Antonio because I was finishing the play, here in Ponteladolfo and the festa for him was plastered on posters everywhere. When I looked him up on Wikipedia it said:
St Anthony is venerated all over the world as the Patron Saint for lost articles, and is credited with many miracles involving lost people, lost things and even lost spiritual goods.
Woowoo time. In Mamma Mia – La Befana everyone is looking for the little lost girl, Mary. (This is a secret commercial for my new play, Mamma Mia – La Befana?!, which is perfect for Italian American Clubs, schools, children’s theaters. It is a modern spin on the traditional Italian tale.)
Friday night, June 13 a large percentage of our local community went to the piazza to honor San Antonio. The night started with a mass –
Mass was in Chiesa Madre the “Mother Church”
moved on to procession –
A band led the procession.
and culminated with fireworks.
It was fun to see the whole community participate.
In the middle, was a performance by the youth dance company, I Bebiani di Circello and our favorite – Ri Ualanegli Juonior, the junior company of Pontelandolfo’s folklorico troupe. The company tours internationally!
Before I share a video of the local favorite, I need to tell you that the woowoo gets better. I asked a few people why the children’s company seems to always dance for San Antonio. The answer – he is also the dude who watches over children. Boy did I score a home run picking him to be part of my play about a lost child!
Enjoy the video clip of our young dancers on June 13!
I’ll tell you what I observed from my table in the piazza.
Sipping caffè one day and attempting to read Il Sannio, the local newspaper, I nearly choked on a headline. Gli sconti per chi vuole spostarsi in treno in auto o in aereo(discounts for those who want to travel by train by car or by plane). For folks to get back to their home towns to vote there are heavy discounts on travel! There was a 60% discount on regional trains, 70% on national trains, 60% for travel by sea and the one that really kicked me in the ass – a 40 euro reimbursement for air travel. Now my ticket on May first was a hell of a lot more than 40 euros but my niece in London could have flown over for the weekend for practically nothing. Maybe they don’t do absentee ballots or they just like to have folks come home once a year. This is definitely a good thing!
Another good thing is the short campaign season. I can’t find any on line resources to validate what folks have told me but it seems that candidates and parties can only campaign for one month. Yeah! No political BS for years in advance of an election. Here, it is simply signs on the approved village sign boards and visiting folks in their homes.
This is the actor/comic Beppe Grillo’s party. He lost but had cute signs.
My landlord did get mail from parties but only one from each – not a thousand from each and no robo calls! How civilized.
Notice the palm card – well 4 palm cards – with the X through the icon – in case you forget how.
What’s bad? A hefty percentage of the people I surveyed in Pontelandolfo were not going to bother to vote. “Why – what does the EU do for me?” “Politics – it doesn’t matter they are all the same.” It was interesting for me to hear this laconic attitude. Last year when the election was totally local it seemed like everyone in the commune came out to vote – and they practically did. When I went to the polls this year I was the only one in my district’s room. Good news is I didn’t have to wait. According to AGI.it – there was a nationwide drop in voters for this particular election:
(AGI) Rome, May 26 – Turnout in Italy for the European election on Sunday fell to 57.22 of percent of eligible voters from 65.87 percent in 2009, when polls also remained open on Monday morning.
Here is some of the ugly. One afternoon, I thought I was in Hudson County, NJ. Men at the next table were listening to a recording on a cell phone and getting angrier and angrier. They played it a couple of times – it was hard to eavesdrop with all that cursing but… In a local race at a village whose name I didn’t catch, a candidate was calling people and literally threatening their jobs. Being a middle aged white woman and obviously harmless, I asked what the men were upset about and they told me. Some creep was calling older voters and telling them he would insure they lost their government jobs and never get another job unless they voted for his party. My question was how the hell would anyone know who you voted for? Paper ballots – you hand write a person’s name on paper ballots. The villages are so small and there are so few folks that vote in a district that you can figure out who voted for you especially if they use the mark. The mark? You are told how to write the person’s name – I’m not kidding here this is what they told me. Like, I’ll steal your cow unless you write me in as MiDge. They tell the next old dude to write it midGe. Since challengers get to review all ballots too…… This is pretty ugly. Uglier than anything I’ve heard of in NJ which can get pretty ugly. How is that bridgegate scandal doing?
Yes, I voted. My dad ingrained that in my brain. In Pontelandolfo we were only voting for the party who would send representatives to the EU. We vote in the provincial high school – it is a specialty school for jewelry design. Talk about good artsy vibes on election day.
This picture was from last year’s election. Yesterday there wasn’t a line nor a policeman.
I went into district two, showed them my voting card, carta identita and like last year started to give them my passport when the election worker said “we know you.” H’mm is that good or bad? They handed me a pencil and a piece of paper. Horrifying the pool workers, I started to put my mark right there and stuff the box. I mean all you have to do is put an X across the icon of the party. They pointed me to my secure screened space, I made my X and then stuffed the paper ballot in the box. There are no hanging chads you literally make an X over an icon. I am a good cittadini. I vote early and often. Look – I had my voter ID card stamped to prove it!
Fava beans are sprouting in everyone’s gardens! Yea, these protein filled little fellows make a yummy dinner. Last year, when the fava beans kept gracing my doorway, it was the first time that I had ever seen a fresh one. Well, maybe I did when nonna was alive and had the garden the size of a campo di calcio (soccer field) – but I don’t remember.
Pods are really green giants!
Seriously, this is a question that merits exploration. How many bags of fava beans are there in Pontelandolfo? When people pop in after pranza for caffè they usually bring something to share – like what ever is growing in the garden or was baked that morning. Now me, I like the “what was baked” this morning – no fuss, no muss, just yummy delight. My neighbor, Zia Vittoria, has an incredible garden. It is chock full of every vegetable you could possibly imagine – including fava beans.
Bursting with protein the pods just wait to be picked, gifted and gifted again.
Yet, as other women pop in to visit Zia Vittoria, so do giant bags of fava beans. H’mm when women visited these women they too brought fava beans. One day it hit me. What if there was really only a finite number of bags of fava beans and in any given span of two days the same 15 bags got re-gifted from house to house.
The bags stop here! Well, when a bag appears on my door step I don’t re-gift it. I say “guess whose coming to dinner.” Last year Mr. Fava came often. The top picture is of my first bag of this season. I pulled out the colander, a knife and a bag for the compost pile. The sky was blue and I cheerily began popping beans out of the pod.
Eat local and touch your food first.
So there I am shelling beans and wondering how I was going to cook them when my nipote (Italian for any kid in your family that you are related to and older than) popped by, reached into the bag, ripped open the pod and tossed the beans in his mouth. RAW! Who knew! I was forced to try it – I mean I’ll taste just about anything. The bean was sweetly good and obviously picked this morning. I discovered that the day they are picked they are deleeeeesh as a salad – tossed with tuna or just a few slices of onion or whatever you can imagine. That is also an abundantly easy lunch or dinner.
If you can find the “zipper” these are pretty easy to open. Or stick the tip of the knife in the top and give it a slice. Then pop the beans into a bucket – just like a carnival.
I kept at the de-podding for a while. My brain taking journeys back to the early seventies when with my long hair braided, I shelled beans, baked bread, grew sprouts and didn’t inhale. It seems to me that it used to be fun. This ain’t fun but it is worthwhile.
How many more are there? And why do so many giant beans yield one little bean dish?
One of the things I remembered while I was mindlessly popping beans, was an article in the New York Times that I read last year. A snotty assed food writer had gone to Rome. ordered fava beans in a restaurant and was appalled that they weren’t peeled! I had no idea what the hell Miss little anal retentive was talking about. In all the homes I’ve visited for pranza, all the fava bean stew, soup, frittata I’ve eaten, no one peeled off the outer shell. I was taught to par- boil the beans before creating the dish. Apparently, after this par-boiling part you can take off the outer shell. Hell lady, I just spent an hour popping pods and now you want me to spend two hours popping par-boiled beans?
It looks like a nursery of wee ones nestled on a flannel bed.
I caved and decided to try it. After boiling the beans and dumping them in the ever faithful colander, I burnt my fingers trying to pop them out of their little shells. What? Wait till they cool? What a thought! Ten minutes is the maximum of waiting time I give anything. I popped a few and tasted them. Damn, it did make a taste difference. They tasted sweeter and less meaty than they do with the shells on. I looked at the bowl of about a pazillion beans and I looked at Jack. He gave me the “are you crazy” look – no one here takes the shells off. When in Rome……
Without skinning the par-boiled beans, I made a simple recipe. First I sautéd a couple of large onions in local olive oil, toss in cubes of pancetta and let that all get caramelized and crispy. I always buy un etto of cubed pancetta – 100 grams – so that is probably what I used. H’mm, from all the veggie tops and pieces I had languishing around, I made vegetable broth yesterday. I tossed some broth in the pan, added the beans, a dollop of red wine – this is Italy – and let it simmer. That and crusty bread made a perfect “cena.”
The title grab your dirty little minds? Sorry Charlies this is a story about – well not what you think.
Traveling is always a tiresome adventure. Though I am never sure why sitting in a plane for 7 hours; then racing through terminals for a connecting flight; then sitting on the tarmac longer than the next 45 minute leg of the journey; then waiting because the baggage didn’t show up; then cramming in a small car with luggage piled on top of me should be tiring. But hey it is.
So what is the first thing I do to decompress? Here’s a hint, I learned this from my father. Those who know me, know that the first place to go to decompress and get rejuvenated is the local watering hole. Even better is to go to the local watering hole with a local.
Our ace translator, information maven and all around great pal, Annarita Mancini, accompanied us to Bar Mixed Fantasy. Giuseppe, “Peppe”, Natale and his wife Antonella Lombardi are the owners of this local hot spot. Open from morning till – well morning, Bar Mixed Fantasy is one of the bars that locals use as a home away from home. Pontelandolfo has three bars and it seems like folks rotate between them but also have their favorite. Annarita tells us that young adults meet at Bar Mixed Fantasy before going out to dinner and discos. They often say they are just meeting for one drink but end up staying for a couple of hours. Why? Peppe and Antonella have great personalities and the thirty-somethings feel like they are hanging out with a neighbor – oh, they are. Another youngun told me, ” Peppe acts like one our friends and treats us like family.”
We ordered our beverages of choice – no caffè for this crew – and sat in the bar’s back room. (When I was but a wee thing, I remember sitting in the back room of Farley’s Tavern in Flagtown. Now back rooms are as extinct as dinosaurs.)
Back Rooms are where deals are made and secrets are shared.
Bar Mixed Fantasy has a large covered outdoor space, a tiny two table bar area and good sized back room. Customers sidle up to the bar and order. You can stand and slug back your coffee or take it to a table. Peppe and his crew will also carry your stuff to a table for you. Remember, there is no tipping here. We’ve left 50 centesimi on the bar only to have someone race it back to our table. I gotta say that is a hard lesson to learn. We often start to tip and have a relative slap our hands and toss our money back at us.
H’mmm an Italian beverage in an Italian bar. Heaven! Peppe logged his wi-fi magic code into my iPad, we kicked back, checked e-mail and forgot about nasty TSA dudes, lost luggage and well just about everything. Papà was right – head to Farley’s Tavern – I mean the local watering hole.
The back room even helps us village newbies learn more about our heritage.
This local joint is not just the requisite caffè/bar. Karaoke nights bring in crowds to the comfortable back room – which also serves as a rosticceria/spaghetteria. Antonella takes reservations for lunches “fatto in casa.” Spaghetteria e cucina con piatti tipici locali. Think having lunch at your sister’s – if your sister was a great cook. Alina Natale, Antonella’s daughter, when she is not dancing helps out. Alina dances with the local folklorico company and studies classical dance. This trip a visit Antonella’s spaghetteria is on my hot to do list.
Become their friend on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/giuseppepaparazzo/
Suddenly shouts fill the air. Shit why are folks screaming? Oh yeah, a bunch of guys are sitting around outside playing cards. Playing cards is a very vocal sport.
After kicking around a ball – calcio is in their blood- little kids showed up for gelato. Francesco Natale, the mini Peppe, was one of them. This cute fellow has a huge smile and incredible larger than life personality. He can often be found playing calcio with the other village kids or sitting at a table playing scopa. Bar Mixed Fantasy appeals to patrons of all ages.
Last summer my extended family spent more than a few afternoons on the Bar Mixed Fantasy patio – only chatting of course.
What did I have? Campari Soda! Senza ghiaccio – neat. Ah, I feel my blood flowing already.
Men to the right of me. Men to the left of me. Men in sports jackets. Men in open collar shirts. Men in jeans and work shoes. Men!
In my decadent youth being the only woman in a bar full of men would have been an incredible challenge. Who would I key in on and get to buy me a Dewar’s on the rocks? Who would be smart enough to captivate me with conversation? Who would….
Yoo, hoo – I’m looking at you! Damn, in the day the old magic eyes could reel them in.
Ah, youth – wasted on the young. One Sunday, I was the only woman in the Bar Elimar. I’m guessing other women were at the mass I had gotten up too late to head to. The bar was packed with men – inside and out. There was one lone table – in the sun – left so I plopped myself down and ordered the breakfast of champions.
What a way to start a Sunday!
As I sipped my cappucino, my mind flashed back to the 70’s – whoa – hold on lady you are now very close to 70. Take a breath. I whipped out my iPad, did that pretend reading thing while I scoped out the scene. H’mmm what would I have to do to get one of these guys to come over to my table? H’mmm would the killer stare work or would it be the smile & nod routine?
Then it hit me. Even if my foxy friend Mary were here to act as wing man – we tag-teamed in bars in our rakish youth – no one would look at me. I could be a size 2 and naked and no one would look at me. They are all staring at their cards! Card games and other games of chance are an intense fact of life in my little village. Cards are a passion.
Yoo hoo – My boob just popped out of my shirt!!!
Men sit for hours in the bars playing cards – Scopa, Briscola and other games that I didn’t recognize but there was lots of tossing of cards and shouting. Last summer, Alessio, one of my favorite young men and his cute older brother Gabriele, decided to teach me to play Scopa. After all they and their buddies, mimicking the older guys, sit sipping soda and playing Scopa in the piazza. Surely, this old American cousin could learn.
According to the Dante Alighieri Society of Washington –
Scopa is the most popular card game in Italy . It requires the ability to count and add up to the number 40.
Boom, that took me right of the running. I can’t add up to 40 in English and now I have to do it in Italian?
Gabriele holds Alessio back from leaping across the table at me because I forgot how much il re was worth.
After numerous lessons and lots of laughing – all pointed at me – Alessio and Gabrielle finally taught me enough to actually play with me. But our games paled compared to the men in the bars. There wasn’t any tossing of hands in the air, slapping the cards with the force of death, loud groans and arguments. No one got up and left abruptly at our table. (Unless it was to get a snack.)
Art is everywhere – even in a Napoletane deck of cards.
During the focused card games in the bars, I never saw money change hands – gambling is illegal I think – but in my heart of hearts I knew that passionate play had to lead to some prize. Maybe it’s simply beer or if you’re lucky…..
Nonna's Mulberry Tree 