Explaining Pignano

The place I've been at for nearly 4 weeks is called Villa Pignano. And it is really strange. Set on the top of a Tuscan hill, an old castle hosts guests in a fancy hotel of sorts. Some 30 or 40 people work at the villa and more or less dine together for lunch and dinner. Although not always the case, a week ago there were 8 wwoofers here (people like me who work for our meals and quarters). We all sleeping in the woods in a teepee and tents (see pic below). The workers, some of whom live in cottages near to but separate from the main castle, include a baker (Zak), a farmer (Ranieri), a horse person (Joanna), an herb specialist (Mara), a barman (Gregorio), the gardener (Lupo), not to mention countless others for laundry/kitchen, general upkeep. The community is incredibly international (Australia, Ireland, Romania, US, Argentina, El Salvador, etc). Some people are temporary. The boss (although not the owner of the villa) is a sort of matriarch figure, her name is Pushpa (her spiritual name), who leads and organizes virtually everything. There is so many other things I could explain, like names, and what the wwoofers do, and what kind of amenities we enjoy, but I think I will save those for personal conversation between you and I, if you care to hear.

Here are some pictures...

Ventotene-then and now, coming to America...(a blog for my family)

I've not forgotten the places I've been, especially L'Isola di Ventotene, from which my grandparents emigrated in the 1950s when they left for the "land of opportunity."

Ventotene is small, according to wikipedia, having only 1.3 square kilometers of land area. Evidence of its volcanic origins can be seen in the steep cliffs, the black beach sand, and the endless hillyness in general. Being so small, I can hardly imagine growing up there or living an entire life there as many have.

Before

But the Ventotene I have experienced is worlds apart from the Ventotene experienced by my grandparents. Theirs was a close-knit community. Everyone knew everyone. Families were large. Families had plots of land outside the city center for cultivating.

Now

What I experienced was a tourist depot for Italians. Indeed most of the tourists were Italian, I suspect because it is still in its infancy of its age of tourism. Today, expensive restaurants occupy the peripheries of the main piazza. Hotels line the main beach with chairs and umbrellas for their guests. Souvenir shops attempt to sell ceramics with classic scenes of the landscape. And teenagers on vacation wander the streets at night and dance at the outdoor kiosk/discoteca.

Ventotene will never ever again be what is was before tourism. Tourism will continue to encroach in the coming years until any sense of the lifestyle that existed before is lost.

In reality, I haven't a clue as to how my grandparents lived there for 40 years before moving to NY. Did people wake up early and tend their gardens? Were the women in the kitchen and doing laundry? Was there a siesta after lunch until the heat gave way? Did the kids play in the caves? Were their heated arguments in the bars? Did the entire town gather in the piazza every night for a social hour?

Many times I asked myself, "Why would my grandparents want to leave such a place?" Especially, after having lived there for 40 years. Zia Serafina explained to me that after the war, although there was economic development in some parts of Italy, the island was not one of them. Being off the mainland and having no significant export item, the net movement of wealth was always away from the island. Nonno inherited a bar, and I would suspect he was pretty content with that job. But like I said, there was no money to be spent on beer, so profits were probably low.

Top: Former residence of nonno & nonna

Bottom: Location of nonno's bar

At a certain point, Nonno and Nonna acquired both permission to immigrate to the US and a loan from a family friend in order to take a ship to America. Before leaving, they left their house (a building occupying a side of the main piazza) to nonno's brother, and other belongings such as the bar and probably a garden to other people. My grandfather, I am positive, thought he would get rich in America. He knew there were opportunities. He also knew he had determination. (In his mind, I think, he was sure of success.)

I figure he was probably a lot like a bus driver that Lisa and I met in Torino. It was a day in late July and all the buses were on strike until 9 pm. After it was over, Lisa and I took a bus to a place where we were meeting a CouchSurfer. But when the bus let us off, the driver got off too to take a break. Upon asking if the strike had been successful, we entered into an interesting conversation. (I understood about 50% b/c he spoke fast-ish Italian.) He was content with his actual labors (he worked 7 hours a day on a bus), didn't mind it. And also would have been content w/ his pay if the government did not take 50% for taxes. He said it was not enough to support his family with education and all the other expenses. When we told him we were from the states, his eyes opened wide and he said we were so lucky. Turns out, he had applied for a green card and was waiting for his acceptance. He was trying to move his family of 4 (or5) to the states. We proceeded to tell him that many Americans would consider the Italian lifestyle very desirable as well. And that Americans work too much. And there are all sorts of other problems. And we have taxes too. But he wouldn't hear it. America, to him, was the answer to all his problems. I understand his position, I think, but I daresay he had blinded himself a bit.

I figure my nonno was a bit like that guy. America was an luring advertisement in his mind, a solution to all his problems...

Little did he know he would become a barber for the rest of his working life and would be paying of debts to the "family friend" for years to come. At the same time, I doubt that he ever viewed this as a failure. For the one thing, I've noticed that Italians take pride in their work (this contributes to why they never rush things), even what we Americans would consider the "bad" jobs. Here in Italy, the baker, the butcher, the bus driver, the grocer, and the garbage man all do their jobs (usually) quite well. And more so than quality of work, they acquire a contentedness regarding their labors. It is a certain attitude that I believe is a quintessential part of the Italian lifestyle: That is, their work does not govern their lives (as in America). Work is never a priority within someone's life. It is a necessary essential. It is important but never urgent.

Finally, I have one more story of an encounter with an Italian that reminded me of nonno...

Lisa and I were on a quiet street in Verona (possibly my favorite town of those visited) when we stopped into a Salumeria (cole cut/cheese shop) to buy sufficient food for a supper. As soon as the salumeriere discovered we were American, he was so happy (to meet any foreigners) and was really interested in us. He was also very proud of his products, and gave us free samples (generously) of prosciutto crudo (the aged ham) and parmesiano. He showed us pictures of his grandchildren and wanted to know what we thought of him. Of course we bought some ham and parmesian. But he also insisted on giving us free bread. And on our way out, free kit kat bars. He was incredibly jovial and we left the shop feeling meraviglioso (wonderful). He had no reason to be nice to us. He knew he would never see us again.

Since then, Lisa has told me that the man was a lot like nonno. Very generous. Not really worried about money. More interested in joviality, good times, family, meeting people. And I picture him now in his bar on Ventotene pouring wine for a friend having marriage issues, and saying, "no, don't worry. It's on me."

Now, I'll leave you with pictures from Ventotene....

Federica, Maria, and Felice fter an awesome dinner made by Maria. And good discussion, aided by the dictionary sitting between Lisa and I. I think Maria and Felice look a bit similar to what my grandparents probably looked like when they were young.

This trip was made possible by Zia Serafina. Thanks for cooking delicious lunches and introducing me to everyone on the island. James North, thank you for your brotherly attitude and your frequent analysis of Italian culture ("ehh, I'll do it later"). Cale, don't worry; you will get many Italian girls kisses on the cheek next time.

Ranieri's Wisdom: organic farming

During the first week at Borgo Pignano (the "gn" in Pignano is pronounced like an n with a "~" over it in spanish; Think "gnocchi"), I worked under the very knowledgeable, very Italian Ranieri, whose wisdom I will now reveal. One of my favorite people I've met in Italy, Ranieri speaks no English, but is always willing to work through a conversation with me until I understand the hard words. He says agriculture/food has been taken away from the people by governments and big companies. He's anti-Monsanto.

Ranieri keeps quite a farm. Not huge but very productive. He's innovative with techniques. In his second year operating the farm, he had a big insect infestation, especially with the squashes. So, the next year, prior to planting, he let loose what I think he called a bunch of "Egyptian chickens" (Zak says these were actually pheasants.) For a month, they were allowed to roam and take care of all the insects and grubs around the enclosed farm.

Many pleasant things grow like weeds, naturally, in Italy. Among them, blackberries, mint (peppermint and a lemony kind), fennel, and edible leafy plants.

Male zucchini flowers are the ones not connected to a zucchini fruit. These can be harvested and cooked. I'd collect dozens every morning to be fried up for lunch.

Female zucchini flowers are connected to the fruit. If you pick them, the fruit will stop growing. Zucchinis are tender when picked small (about 6-10"). This one needs one more day.

Staking tomatoes without purchased materials. The stake is bamboo. And the ties we used are a plant that grows wild which works well as twine.

Staking tomatoes with local supplies. I think the tomatoes were San Marzano.

Squash plants are set in holes 6 to 10 inches deep. Then drip hose feeds the holes.

The main line for the drip irrigation with valve leading to a line.

At least one squash of every variety is left to grow indefinitely and never picked until end of the season. Then it is harvested solely to acquire next year's seeds.

For row crops, slight trenches dug with hoe. Then seeded. Then covered with mulch containing straw and compost/manure.

La Panetteria: making bread

First of all, I apologize for the lack of organization on this blog. While the former posts were written awhile back, I've only just uploaded them today. And instead of filling you in on what has occurred before and since those posts, I would rather like to tell you about my latest endeavor.

I am now in my third week at Villa Pignano, near Volterra in Tuscany. Week 1 saw me in the organic farm, harvesting, staking tomatoes, weeding. Week 2 saw me (or rather us, as I was working with the awesome Zsolt from Hungary) picking blacberries at the crack of dawn (6 am -that's right!) and then making jam after the siesta which follows lunch. Week 3: I'm in the kitchen for half the day and an apprentice to Zak Stern (formerly of Miami, FL), the resident baker.

Interestingly, most of Zak's bread is not Tuscan, which is known to be rock-hard and is not famous despite the "Tuscan wheat" produced here. Instead, most of his bread is sourdough.

Today I learned about the basic process of sourdough bread making:

To make bread:

1. Make the dough. Ingredients are simple. You need: mother, flour, water, and salt. Basta! That's it.

2. Let it ferment.

3. Shape it.

4. Bake it.

You say: What is mother?

I say: Mother is old dough, dough from last time.

You say: But how did you make the mother?

I say: You make with mother with mother, flour, and water.

You say: Well where do you get the mother from if that's what you're trying to make!?

I say: Let us first examine the case of the chicken and the egg.

Basically, when you make sourdough, you never use all the dough for the bread, as you must always save some to inoculate the next batch of dough with the bacteria and yeast from the original dough. Therefore, Zak's mother doughs contains descendants of yeast and bacterial organisms which he brought over from Israel when he moved to Italy.

Sourdough is unique for three reasons. First of all it is a dry dough, 65% water compared to 75% for the baguettes or other breads. (This 10% makes a big difference actually when working with it.) Second, sourdough gets its yeast from the mother instead of from a package you buy in a store. Thus, it contains many strains of yeasts. (not only a single strain like you would find in the wet or dry-dormant yeast - packages you get from the grocery store) . Finally, sourdough bread is SOUR. Why? The mother is infested not only with yeast but also with various bacteria. This is inevitable and not at all bad. These bacteria, though, make it sour. For example, Lactobacillus (a bacterium) produces lactic acid when it is fed sugars (found in the flour). Acids are sour to our taste.

Talking for the sake of talking

Italians talk not because there is something important to say. They talk b/c they like to hear themselves. It is enjoyable to them. This of course makes them more inclined to talk to strangers than say, an American. And wholly cow, they love answering questions. Feel free to ask for directions. Now don’t expect to understand what they mean. Where were they pointing? Likely, they were just waving their hand in no particular direction. Remember, they talk for the sake of talking. I AM CONVINCED that they will give you directions (albeit the wrong ones) even if they have no idea – solely so they may have the pleasure of vocalizing themselves.

I need to start talking about some of the places I’ve been along with some highlights, mostly conversations. But it is nearing the time for this bus to Volterra (I’m on the way to my first farm). I’ve enjoyed this time to write, as well as the gentlemen in this café who enjoy harassing the neighborhood children when they walk by with cigarettes in their mouths (“Fumare e’ male. Non fumare!” – Smoking is bad. Don’t smoke.) Half surprised they haven’t lit up themselves b/c everybody smokes in this country.

Quattro semestre d'Italiano (4 semesters of Italian)

A very frustrating thing for Lisa and I, both aspiring Italian speakers, has been Italians’ insistence on speaking English. Most Italians speak English somewhat, and everybody speaks English in the touristy places, which is where we’ve been. Lisa and I usually start our conversations with Italians by speaking in their language. We want to practice and learn the language, but we are not permitted to do so. As soon as they notice a mispronunciation or that you’re talking slow or whatever that convinces them you’re a foreigner, they start speaking English. I’m thankful for the relatively few who bear with me. Just listen to me. Sure, I may have left out an indefinite article, but that does not warrant switching to my language.

How to transport yourself in Italy

First off, let’s get something straight. Travelling is hard work. I’ve had to put in extra hours of sleep (in hostels, in trains, in tents) in order to stay in the game. That’s why, after 3 weeks of moving about, I’m quite satisfied to say my days of intense travel are over. I’ve seen a lot and have enjoyed many interesting (and sometimes expensive) places, but moving from city to city every day or two is not the way I like to do it. Our routine has been brutal – typically it has involved getting to a place by train in the afternoon, dropping our packs at the hostel/campground, walking the main part of the city, dinner, sleep, get up in the morning, and catch the train to the next place. In the last week it has been better, as Lisa and I agreed to spend at least two nights per city.

Lisa, my cousin, went home (Albuquerque, NM) just this morning. And I am in transit. Let me tell you about Italian transportation. Buses and trains here require tickets. Before stepping on a train or after hopping on a bus, you are supposed to validated your ticket (put your ticket in this box that puts a time stamp on it). However, there is limited accountability as to whether you bought a ticket or not. For example, I’ve ridden on tons of buses, but never have they checked my ticket; I bet you half the people on the buses here didn’t buy tickets. With trains, it’s a bit more of a gamble. Especially on long train rides, you’re likely to get audited by a train worker who makes sure you have your ticket (or else he fines you). But for short rides you’re golden. And if you’re a good looking girl, I guess you can get out of paying anything even if you get audited, as I witnessed this morning. Lisa and I have been honestly every time except once, however, and we got caught. So, our train was late, and we had to change trains in less than four minutes in order to make the next train. Since we’ve only been buying single passes, we had to decide whether to go buy a pass for a later train or go without paying. Well, we ended up just hopping on as there was no way to know how long before the next train came. And of course, we get audited. I think it was a 15 euro fine.

Leaving Ventotene

Leaving Ventotene at 6 am in the morning on lo scafo - hydrofoil. Had dinner with Maria, Felice, and Federica. 1st- pasta con ricotta, e poi, meatballs and sauteed peppers and olives, et poi, fruit -peach/melone (cantaloupe), et poi Perugina ice cream.

Also went to la Chiesa di Santa Candida. Went to mass at 7pm. Indian preacher. Santa Candida portrait in front. Evidently she was from Northern Africa, and her dad didn't approve of something (her lover maybe) so he put her in a boat. She ended up landing on Ventotene. Ended up a virgin, martyr, and saint.

Yesterday saw Villa Giulia, the ruins of a small villa on the tip of the island (where it's windy) where the Romans built a sort of resort for philosophers and writers and dignitaries, as I understood. Later it was used as the place of exile for Augustus' daughter, Giulia. Later used as a place of exile for people. Other daughters/wives were sent here too.

James B-M, Cale, Lisa and I have met many of Elisa's friends. Elisa is Alba's granddaughter and she gets to spend every summer here on Ventotene (not working). Sucks for her. Nice friends too - Benedetta, Adriana, Angela, Angelo, Salvatore.

There are many gelato places on the island. I have only eaten at Il Giardino - the place owned by the Impagliazzo's. Best flavors: Noccioli (almond) e cafe (coffee).

Everyone's related to us. When Serafina goes anywhere, she is constantly stopping to talk. The lady at the pizzeria on the left side of the port, someone at the bakery I think, there's a Gargiulo at the "Conad" grocery store - her daughter Filamena Gargiulo wrote a book that I found in the bookstore. To top it all off,

This morning Lisa was asked out by some guy on the beach. Turned out to be her third cousin (on the Impagliazzo side).

Nonno's old bar is now next to a very vibrant bar si chiama "Vento di mare" (wind of the sea). Sandro Pertini (a political exile during the war and the president of Italy for 2 terms after the war) frequented this bar where he would ask nonno for a "slow coffee" to give him time to chat with another activist who had been exiled by looking at a mirror opposite the bar. Pertini who had 2 bodyguards (actually overseers to ensure he didn't talk to others) who stood outside the bar b/c there wasn't room for them inside, eventually cosigned a document that gave way to the founding of the EU - having done all his collaboration in that bar.

Evidently some of our ancestors (I forget either Gargiulo or Romano or Impagliazzo) came from Ischia, it's an island you can just barely see across the ocean past Nave di Fuori (one of the rocks several hundred meters off from the beach). Federica says it has a bigger city than Ventotene.