Circles

Circles

Apparently, it's an insult to the older generation Italian male if you try to put your seat belt on since it reflects on their driving skills, even though most of them hardly ever drive on their side of the road especially around blind curves. Rosa's husband, Matteo has determined that the roundtrip hike from Santo Stefano to Castelvecchio is too long for a woman to take and has graciously offered to drive me there. The idea of hiking for the fun of it may not register for hard working local people. Moving sheep is not considered hiking for fun. With my walking stick and backpack for the return hike, Matteo drives me to the small village about 4 miles down the road but when we arrive he decides that the town is not as pretty as others and it would be better if he just drove me around the valley, which is sort of a large, multi-mile wide circular loop that winds up to every town on top of a mountain. He seems to know everyone in every little town and honks the horn at all of them.

Through beautiful countryside and villages, occasionally stopping so I can get a photo, we stop at his buddy's farm in one town and then his daughter's cafe in another where he tells me to leave my leather cap in the car... I think only men wear them here – but then he hands me a comb. I haven't been able to get a comb through my hair since 1965 and besides, my hair was pulled back in a braid. So I can only assume that rural Italy may not understand my wild platinum-ness. So I'm not Donnatella...

The tour took over 4 hours, all the while there is non stop conversation... maybe conversation isn't exactly what it was since I understood every 5th word and not in context. After an hour of intensely focusing on trying to understand Matteo's dialect, he assumed I would comprehend and speak Italian fluently so sped up his speech accordingly. I was in a frenzy thumbing through my dictionary, futile in my efforts to keep up and Matteo getting frustrated and so spoke louder thinking that would somehow help. I've never been able to read in a moving vehicle and a car winding around Italian mountain roads, on which I preferred to be walking through instead of in a car on a perfect bluebird day, was making me quite motion sick.

We stop at his garden farm ( in yet another area) where he has watering and chores to do. Rosa and Matteo grow all the produce for their restaurant – and without pesticides. I sit under a tree at a table he has set up in his little paradise and breathe in the tranquility of the surroundings. Beans, pepperocini, lentils, potatoes, a deep golden corn for polenta, tomatoes and peppers, chard, cabbage and broccoli rabe, there are grains that I don't recognize, berries, fruit trees and several miles away he has an olive grove (we visit this too...) I appreciate his sincere and genuine interest and I have learned so much and seen at least 7 towns as we breeze through the landscape. It is now late afternoon and I'm exhausted without even hiking.

When we return to their pensione (a sort of B&B), I sit on the balcony and collect my breath and brain cells before heading into the dining room for solace in a plate of Rosa's pasta. Tomorrow, Wednesday, at 4 a.m., I head to Pulia by bus with Rosa on a whirlwind tour of 4 attractions in 30 hours – 10 of those traveling on the bus. This is something Italian grandmothers might do... visit the famous grottos, a castle and see the trulli (uniquely cone shaped houses in southern Italy) with a night at a hotel and returning the following night (Thursday) at 11 p.m. There are 40 villagers going, probably none of whom speak English. I'm sure it will be an experience, which is why I committed to go. It will help with my language studies and maybe I'll actually get to see some interesting sites... if I can get my nose out of the dictionary long enough.

The photo below is of the farm, and the bottom one is Matteo raking the beans while Rosa sifts them through a sieve.