Tag: Pontelandolfo

Italian Elections 2014 – The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

by midgeguerrera, posted in Politics - Quirky Aside

This super long link will tell you what is now happening politically in Italy.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/italy/10856075/EU-election-2014-Italys-Renzi-triumphs-as-comic-Grillo-loses-ground.html

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 Beppo Grillo's party.
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.

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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.

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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!

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See – I officially voted! Weeeeoooo!

 

 

 

How Many Bags of Fava Beans Are There?

by midgeguerrera, posted in Food - Eating In and Out!

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?
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?

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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.”

What’s that outside my door?  FAVA!

Thank you Rachel for my present!
Thank you Rachel for my present!

First Stop – Bar Mixed Fantasy

by midgeguerrera, posted in Any Day in Pontelandolfo, Food - Eating In and Out!

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.)  

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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.

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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.

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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.

Passionate Card Games

by midgeguerrera, posted in Any Day in Pontelandolfo

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….

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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.

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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.

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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?

Gabrella hold Alessio back from leaping across the table at me because I forgot how much il re was worth.
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.
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…..

 

 

Walking and Talking – Communication Simplified

by midgeguerrera, posted in Any Day in Pontelandolfo

This morning I was reading a book of essays by Donna Leon, author of the addictive novels featuring crime solving Venetian Commissario Guido Brunetti. In My Venice and Other Essays she writes about all things Venetian – all right I will admit I was a little jealous – her little tales of daily life were wonderful and I’ve decided she is my idol.  The first essay, My Venice, reminded me about why I enjoy Pontelandolfo and scowl at the car I am forced to use to do anything in  suburban NJ.  Here read this: (p.3)

Much of the joy that I find in living in Venice results from this fact: there are no cars… Because we are forced to walk, we are forced to meet.  That is every morning the people of Venice are constrained to see, walk past, walk along with their neighbors.  This leads to casual conversation, to the exchange of information about the world or about their personal lives…

Thanks Donna, I totally get that.  Every morning when I walked down the hill from our house in Pontelandolfo to the piazza for that incredible cappuccino, I would pass the same older woman dragging out drying racks and hanging her laundry.  The first day, I smiled at her and she looked at me quizzically.  By the third month she was telling me quick stories about the son she lives with and her grandchildren.  When we go back next week for our six month visit, I hope she is still out there hanging the wash.

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If I walk at the same time, I’ll see the same women hanging laundry every day.

Pontelandolfo has one main piazza – Piazza Roma.  This is the central social and shopping hub of daily life.  People stroll, chat, have a caffè in one bar or another and actually smile at the strange American lady – me.  They communicate – it might be tossing their hands in the air and grunting “bo” but it is the sound of people talking to people. Wednesday when the market comes to town, people swap tales, comment on purchases and catch up on local lore.  They aren’t racing through the big glitzy glassed-in mall from one equally redundant store to the next.  They are walking and talking.

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That slight incline in the upper left corner is the beginning of the steep hill to the church. I’m huffin’ & puffin’ and everyone else is chatting.

They walk down to the bocci court or calcio field.  They walk up the hill to the church.  On Saint days, they walk in processions.  They walk and talk – OK sometimes they repeat the rosary too.  No necks straining under the weight of a bobbing head tilted down at hand held devices.  Walking and talking – direct communication – who knew it was still being done!

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Saint’s Day Procession – You are right – I need to walk more because I can’t remember which saint.

I’ll tell you who else still walks and talks – my Aunt Stella.  Stella, in her 90’s,  lives in Brooklyn and walks to the market, botanical garden, museum, well just about everywhere.  It keeps her mind agile and body strong.  She looks at the city as her home and relishes every moment she can be out and about and talk to folks.  She never had a car and loves the buses and subway system.  Sure, sometimes she calls a car service but not too often. Who can she meet from the backseat of a car?

Then there is my  90 something young Aunt Chris, living on the fahkackata mountain in Hillsborough, NJ. She used to drive everywhere – dancing, senior club, exercise classes, lunch.  She moved from her little house to what seems like miles from civilization and gave up her car.  No sidewalks, no easy way to get to all those senior activities she used to love, no way to just bullshit with people.  Granted, she is in a safe and loving environment with her son – but where is the action.  Where is the drama she used to love when she was able to drive her car all over the place?  She grew up in lower Manhattan and still remembers her sidewalk days.

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Wednesday Market Day Strolling.

I look at those two aunts that I absolutely adore and I look at the elderly women in Pontelandolfo who still walk everywhere. These women are older than I am and I’m getting medicare in May.  Women dressed in black carrying flowers to the cemetery walk along the highway.  Women walk down and up the mountain daily to get chow for lunch and dinner.  Women who are strolling with their friends during passeggiata and still have that evil gleam of girlhood in their eyes.

That’s who I want to be – a woman who walks, talks and listens.  Healthier for the physical activity and happier for the conversation.

Diglio Panificio – Keeps Me Sane

by midgeguerrera, posted in Any Day in Pontelandolfo, Food - Eating In and Out!

Have you ever been surrounded by people and yet still felt so lonely that your heart chakra ached?  That is how I felt this morning. I am in sunny Ecuador, met a super  italo-ecuadoriana, am staying with great friends but feel a gaping hole in my heart.  At first I thought I was home sick – I never get home sick.  Than I thought it was because my zia in Flagtown had a stroke yesterday and I am a continent away.  Shazaam – it hit me -I was feeling lonely because I didn’t have a sense of community here.  No “tribe” to connect with.  All that depressive thinking made me hunger for comfort – comfort food – bread like I can only find at Diglio Panificio in Pontelandolfo!  Diglio’s not only kept us in thick crusty bread but also was one of my connections to the community – it was a place I didn’t feel like a stranger or alone.

Some mornings I would walk down the hill just to buy a round of bread and if the Panificio wasn’t busy, I would talk to the owner, Nicola Diglio.  My Italian isn’t the best but we would talk about the village, economy, USA, whatever.  Nicola never made fun of my attempts to pronounce the pastries or how long it took me to decide which pizza slices to bring home in the morning for our night time snacks.  That bakery was one of the anchors of the community for me.

Some Wednesdays after strolling through the market, my cousin Carmella and I would take a shopping break by going to Diglio’s for a cappuccino, a little nosh and a lot of laughter.  Carmella is a bright star in my universe and of course she introduced me to this pasticceria.

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Cousins/Sisters having a laugh.

According to their brochure, Diglio opened its doors in 1983 with a commitment to use recipes handed down form generation to generation.   When you visit Italy, you can find the shop at 2, Via Eglido Gentile, 82027 Pontelandolfo (BN).  It truly is a pasticceria artigiana – when you watch the video you’ll agree with me.

While selecting pictures for the video I saw one of the Diglio’s little sandwiches on scrumptious rolls and got a little misty.  Zap – flash back to my dad’s first cousin, Giuseppina, insisting we stop at Diglio’s so she could buy the sandwiches before l’avventura.  Jack and I take Giussipina and her sister Paulina on road trip adventures.  They pick the place to go – it’s always a shrine – there are tons in our area. Since we never saw a shrine and loved listening to the two of them chatter and laugh at us, we would go to shrines – with bags of Diglio yummy mini sandwiches.

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Giuseppina, Paulina & Jack 2013 adventure

Then I flashed back to 1995. when I first knocked on Giussipina’s door, pointed at my family tree and said in pidgin Italian “tu sei il cugino di mio padre?”.  That timid knock resulted in finding my extended family and celebrating with what – pastries from Diglio.

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1995 Giuseppina & Paulina – note the pastries.

Whenever I bought pastries I would marvel at the way they are presented – perched on a golden cardboard tray and gingerly wrapped in pretty paper.  The presentation always made any day that you bought a pastry feel like a special day. Some days I just need a special day and a sfogliatella prettily wrapped can be just the medicine it takes to turn the grey sky into blue.

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One bite is better than a happy pill.

This past June was the first time I had Il Rusticacio – a small bread puff made with cheese, egg and salame.  When I bit into one I swear I felt my grandmother hugging me.  People have been eating – what we call artigianale – dough filled things for generations.  The connection I feel in Pontelandolfo to my family is intense and eating food made with ancient recipes makes the connection even tighter. Is that my grandmother pinching my cheeks?

One day I went into the shop and Nicola’s son, Antonio, who is a super creative part of the artistic bakery team was behind the counter. The door opened and his daughter  came in from school – she looked at me, I looked at her and recognition twinkled in both our eyes.  She said “Good Morning – How are You?”  The secret phrase I told the kids in the public school that I worked with to say to me whenever they saw me.  Boom – an even bigger connection to the bakery.

Community – that is what I need in order to feel secure, happy and healthy.  When I am in Pontelandolfo – we go back May 1st – walking into Diglio Panificio yields more than just a loaf of bread.   Enjoy the video!

Un Miracolo Di Natale – a Reader’s Story

by midgeguerrera, posted in Finding My Family - Genealogy

Auguri di Boun Natale!

December 15th the best Christmas present this blogger could ever want came from Kristen Ross.  Kristen posted a comment asking for help finding out more about her friend Nancy’s family.  I e-mailed her, then she e-mailed me and soon we were chatting on the phone like old chums.  The surnames in her pal’s family can also be found in my family! Rinaldi, Fusco, Mancini – wow – my bis-nonna was Mariantonia Rinaldi who had a brother Francesco.  Nancy’s grandmom, Maria Rinaldi, was the daughter of Francesco Rinaldi !  Could this Californian’s family tree intersect with mine?

Those of you who grew up in or live in Pontelandolfo may know the family – if you do please leave a comment on the blog.  Nancy’s dad – Domenic Mancini was born in the Minicariello section of Pontelandolfo.  His dad was Antonio Mancini and mom was Maria Rinaldi.  Antonio’s father is Angelo Mancini and his mother is Catterina Fusco. Maria Rindaldi’s father was Francesco Rinaldi and her mother was Antonia Rinaldi.

This is Kristen’s Story –

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Kristen, Domenic & Nancy Mancini

Un Miracolo Di Natale

By Kristen Ross

Domenic Mancini was born on a small farm in Pontelandolfo, Italy. During World War II, nine year old Domenic was the first one in his family to discover that his father, Antonio, was killed in Bardia, East Africa.  His mother’s inability to read meant that this little boy had to personally deliver the devastating news to the family.  As I began to hear more about Domenic’s early childhood, I was deeply affected by the tragedy of it all…images of Domenic being held back by his Mother as the only father he knew left for lands and battles unknown, the longing of a little boy for an absentee father, and the courage he had to support his grief-stricken mother.

To compound the sadness of war, he never knew where his father was buried.  He was told that Antonio was buried somewhere in Africa, but no one had been able to locate any information, and Domenic (now 82) had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might never be able to pay his respects to the father he lost and have closure.

After hearing him tearfully tell this story, I could not imagine what is was like to not know where his dad was after all these years.  I was determined to do some research of my own.  I felt the sense that nothing is impossible and nothing is ever lost, it just hasn’t been discovered.

Having taken only one Italian class, after traveling to Italy several times, I used my broken Italian to make numerous phone calls, emails, and research Italian websites. Having looked at almost two thousand names, a thousand war memorial sites, and spent countless hours of translating Italian handwriting from the 1940’s I was coming up with nothing.  It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, an Italian haystack for that matter.

I needed un miracolo; a miracle.  Every time I find myself helpless, I turn to something higher. I simply prayed for this right intention to manifest itself.  For a father to be reunited with his son, even 72 years later, is still possible.  Having lost my father too, I knew how much this would mean to Domenic to have some sense of unity, closure, full circle ect… I kept ricerca; searching.

Before I went to sleep that miraculous night, I checked one last Italian website.  I typed in the letters of his last name and there he was.  Antonio Mancini had been found.  I started scrolling down to make sure I was actually seeing straight.

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 Luogo Sepoltura means Place of Burial. He was back home in Italy. From previous research that I had done, I knew the bodies of the Italian Soldiers who died overseas, were sent back to Italy in December of 1967 and placed in a beautiful memorial museum in Bari, off the coast of the Adriadic Sea. Dominick’s father has been honored there.

I called Nancy, and she quickly made the phone call to Domenic! He was in total shock and was filled with so much joy. He told us that this was the best gift he’d received in his entire life. As his voice teared up on the phone, he told us he would travel back to Italy to see his father. This summer, we will be traveling with him on this beautiful journey to witness this father and son reunion.    

 Unconditional Love is the best gift in the world.  

This is the true meaning of Christmas to me.

 **********

  Sample Photo from Location

 

The Sacrario Militare dei Caduti d’Oltremare (Military Memorial to the Fallen Overseas) was opened on 10 December 1967 on the outskirts of Bari, on the way to Brindisi. The structure houses the remains of more than 70,000 Italians who died in foreign lands. These lands include Greece, Albania, Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia, Libya, Somalia, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Germany and the Mediterranean Sea, in the First and Second World Wars.

Oro Giovane – Local Holiday Shopping in Pontelandolfo

by midgeguerrera, posted in Any Day in Pontelandolfo, Stops Along the Journey - Sites Off the Tourist Track

Bah, humbug said the Scrooge Midge as she stared at the masses of cars outside the mall and struggled to drive past it on the super crowded highway.  Bah, Bah, BAH, HUMBUG said super angry Scrooge Midge when she saw all of the Black Friday news shots of herds of people trampling into the  evil BOX STORES that plague the American landscape.  How can Scrooge Midge get back in touch with the Christmas Spirit?  How can Scrooge Midge get in touch with her inner Santa and put down that bottle of  Scotch?  She can go into the gift closet and start reminiscing about where she bought the baubles for her family and be proud that she thought about gift buying for Christmas when she was still in Pontelandolfo.   Even prouder that she was shopping uber-local from people who live and work in a minuscule Italian village.  Whoa – look at this –

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I picked this up for my cousin – oops – if she reads this – Santa blew the surprise!
It was less than $20 and is adorable.

Seeing the necklace made me think of Ornella Romano, the charming and creative owner of Oro Giovane.  The first vision that popped into my head was Ornella sitting on the outdoor couch at Bar Elimar with her daughter Olga Addona under the blue morning sky, drinking cappuccinoS.  I didn’t really know them well but smiled and said “buon giorno.” As I did every – oops Jack caught my lie – most mornings, I went to the bar, ordered a cappuccino, sat outside with my lap top, sipped the best cappuccino in the world, stared and did my writing.  When I went to pay I discovered that my caffè had been paid for by Ornella!  Grazie tante! Welcome to village life.

My talented cousin Carmela Fusco creates dolls dressed in historic traditional garb.  Before I found Carmella and started a relationship that has spanned many years, I visited Pontelandolfo, wandered into a small shop and bought a doll for myself and one for my niece.  Years later, I realized my first connection to Carmela was the doll!

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Carmela’s doll proudly stands in my living room.

She sells them now at Ora Giovane and some years ago brought me there to meet the owners, Ornella and her husband Rossano Addona. During our visits, we often stop in and  have bought some pieces, but never really spent time getting to know Ornella’s family.  This trip was different.  We would run into the family in the piazza listening to music, sipping a prosecco or taking the sun.  Like many of the small business owners, they would sit outside their shop on nice days and talk to other shop owners, gossip with villagers and include outsiders like us in daily life.

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Jewelers Olga Addona and Ornella Romana.

Olga Addona attended the goldsmith  specialty high school available to students from the Province of Benevento.  Can you imagine – a public school where talented art students can  learn goldsmithing!  Unfortunately, because Pontelandolfo is not on a regular bus or train line it is difficult for students to attend the school and there has been a huge drop in enrollment.  Sadly, the school is closing this year.  Hey Arts Folks – WHAT A GREAT OPPORTUNITY!  Why not reopen it for artsy American adults!  Charge a tuition!  Bring some tourist dollars into town.

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Sister Susan and I bought some faux bling and kibbitzed with Ornella & Olga.

I am passionate about shopping local – and yes I do shop locally in New Jersey.  My meat comes from farms not factories, my meds are from a family owned pharmacy, etc. Shopping in Pontelandolfo is really like a walk back in time when Main Streets were thriving and everyone knew your name and if you acted like a wild child any adult would call your parents.

I truly enjoyed popping into Oro Giovane and foraging for fantastic gifts.  The family owns two shops on the piazza – one is just jewelry, art and tchatchkes.

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Cameos carved with the village’s crest.

The second shop has great purses and accessories.  Santa – Babbo Natale –  loves family owned shops, artisan studios and well – anything local in the USA and Italy.  So will you when you visit my other hometown – Pontelandolfo!

Huzzah – I just remembered – NOW SANTA GETS TO WRAP ALL THIS SWAG!  BUON NATALE!

Oro Giovane’s Facebook page is https://www.facebook.com/orogiovane.gioielleria?fref=ts

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