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| Following the advice of friends, we decided to go to Matera. Matera is in Basilicata, which is between Puglia and Calabria. We got to the city and my husband spotted some ruins, at the foot of the town. He and my sons (22 and 24 years) all needed to get out of the car by then so they jumped out and I started wandering in this field, where I found lots of "rucola" and old thistles (cardoon?) before I knew it, my sons, both experienced climbers had scaled the ruins, and my husband, 52, not as experienced, but way more stubborn followed them up. I stayed below, because I figured they were going to see stones and rocks, but that was not the case. they found wall carvings which were very very old, pre-Christian in fact. I hope to find out more info on this place. We drove into the town, where I stopped and asked someone where the caves were. Duh, I'd forgotten the word "SASSI" which is what the cave dwellings are called. The guy just shrugged, and we continued to drive when a nice young man on a motorcycle drove up and asked us if we wanted to see the Sassi. |   this was on the ceiling of the ruins |
| How nice, we thought, and we followed him. Later he told me he saw our out of town plates. He was a tour guide, it was his job to hunt us down like that. But we wanted a tour, and needed it in English, so we had to pay more. we got this very businesslike young woman whose mistakes in English were cute, but she was stern, so we didn't mention them. Most of the tourists (finally we were with Americans but had little to say to them) were very very slow, so we spent a lot of time with the guide, (who did walk fast) waiting for the others to catch up. she did know her material, and she showed us a lot of ancient tiny churches which were still being attended not too long ago. We did see some abandoned Sassi homes, but not any still in use except for a store. The town was also very picturesque and if we had more time, it would have been fun to stay there. |  this is a mural from a Sassi church |
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 The Spanish Steps in Rome | Italians love their steps. My husband, who has two bad knees noticed these steps. They are everywhere. He decided there must be a law or something requiring hotels to have steps. Entryway steps, steps, steps and steps. In fact, Bathrooms must have steps too. He was getting kind of ridiculous about it when we got into Serrastretta. we went to a bar to have a stop, and THAT bathroom had one step to get to it, then you close the door and go down another step. We stayed in a 4 star hotel in Lamezia, the same one we stayed in 2 years ago. 2 years ago the elevator was out of order. They had a lovely spiral marble staircase on which to lug your heavy bags two flights up and then 2 flights down. Yes, the elevator was still out of order! |
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My favorite grandmother, Lucia Melino was born in 1910 in a small town in Foggia, called Sant'Agata di Puglia. She left there in 1919 with her family, and left behind many relatives who couldn't or wouldn't go. Most of her early memories were of leaving, of the boat trip, and of Ellis Island, but she told me enough about her home town to leave me very curious. I had known for years that she had a cousin named Saverio who she corresponded with, she sent him aspirin and a little money from time to time. About 15 years ago they had a falling out because of a bible.
Here’s the bible story: My grandmother’s mother, Antonia had joined an evangelical church shortly after arriving in America. She then bought each of her three children; Lily, Lucy and Willie their very own bible. Willie was single and footloose at the time, so the older sister Lily kept it for him for years. Many years later, Saverio, the cousin in Italy wrote to Lily complaining that he had nothing to remind him of his dearest Aunt, their mother Antonia. Lily felt sorry for him and sent Saverio the second bible, which actually belonged to their brother Willie. Only a few years later, Willie was dying, and he wanted that bible, the only thing he had that his mother had given him. And it was gone..
My grandmother quickly wrote to Saverio and asked for the bible back, hoping to right a wrong. Saverio was furious. He sent the bible back, but never wrote to my grandmother again. Whenever we’d ask her about her home town, she would say “no one’s there that cares about me anymore” with a sad and resigned look on her face.
I had been traveling in Italy a few times already, and based on what she said, I had always avoided that part of the country. But she was still alive, and time was short.
Saverio was the only link we had in this town, and when my grandmother moved out to Seattle about two years ago, I checked again, and there he was, in the pagine bianche (Italian white pages). So I told her I was going to try and get in touch. This seemed to please her, so I tried to call him and got his widow. At first she hung up on me, since my Italian wasn't too good then, but I called back again and she became very excited. Her husband had died 10 years before, she explained, but I did reach the right number. So my grandmother and I both sat down and wrote to her. I mailed the letters, this was over a year ago now, almost 2 years. And we heard nothing. Meanwhile, my grandmother was dying from a terrible form of Lou Gehrig's disease. I forgot all about the letter, but the lack of response did not surprise me because my other Italian relatives weren't writers either.
My grandmother was dying when a letter showed up in the mail. It was from this widow's daughter, Genoveffa. It seems that she and her mother saw each other for Christmas, and since the widow (Giuseppina) is illiterate, she simply saved the letter until she saw her daughter, who actually wrote back right away. We received the letter, and in it she had inserted two photos of my grandmother and grandfather when they had returned for a visit in 1962, surrounded by cousins and kids, sitting on a donkey. She told us that both she and her mother had fond memories of my grandmother, no resentments at all. It was sort of miraculous. I ran to my grandmother's side, hoping that through the morphine, she would be able to see the photos (which my mother enlarged) and hear me read the letter. She seemed happy to get the letter, and the photos. She died a few days later. She died knowing there were still people in Italy who still cared about her.
Meanwhile, we were already planning a trip to Italy. We decided that we HAD to visit these cousins, who had such fond memories of my grandmother. And so we went. Our first stop was Saronno where Genoveffa lives. Saronno is a very pleasant little town, full of bicyclists. On the outskirts of Milan, it still maintains a pleasant small town feeling. It is also the home of the famous cookies Amaretti di Saronno, but alas, they no longer bake cookies there, so there was no delicious smell. | |||
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| Then we went south, and to Puglia. Puglia was a lot like Calabria. From horizon to horizon one could see scattered hill towns, narrow roads, and not a lot of traffic. Carmelo, our cousin’s husband told us Sant' Agata di Puglia was "just 45 minutes " from the Foggia train station several times. Well, not the way we went. We found ourselves on a long winding road, which got narrower and rougher. Finally it was covered with small stones and mud as if it had been recently washed out by overflowing water. However, the signs kept reassuring us that we were going the right way, so we continued. Almost 2 hours later, we arrived in Sant’Agata di Puglia. The air was beautiful and clean, as was every square foot of the town. Following the instructions that my cousin gave me, I showed the first woman I saw a photo of Giuseppina, the widow of my grandmother's cousin. Upon seeing the photo the lady lit up with a big smile and said, "I'll take you to her" and she did. |  View of Sant'Agata di Puglia from Hotel | ||
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Our cousin, who is not much more than 4 feet tall lives in a gorgeous little house. The floors are intricately designed marble. She had nice furniture and furnishings. She had a strong accent, but also following the instructions from her daughter, she spoke slowly and repeated herself so that I could understand her. She brought out photos and decided that I indeed looked like my grandmother and my grandmother's aunt, her husband's mother. I studied the photos and decided that my grandmother's aunt was very homely, but yes, I did resemble her. We had a great visit, she showed us her church-bedroom, since her husband died, she explained, she'd made the bedroom into a sort of church, holy pictures everywhere, crucifixes, as you can imagine. She gave us lots of presents, including biscotti, taralle, cacciocavallo cheese, and some things that she had crocheted (two shawls) When I attempted to eat a taralle, she had a fit and said, no we have to get you some that were made right here in this town, so she marched me down to the store and bought me another kilo of taralle. She had already warned us that she was sick with congestive heart failure and could not cook for us. However, for a little old lady with congestive heart failure, it was hard to slow her down. To get from one place to another in this town, you usually had to walk. A lot of the streets were actually steps. And yes, she dragged me back and forth and up and down proving to me that she was in better shape than a lot of us, and always insisted on walking. She did not have room in her little home for 4 people (she showed me the bed my grandmother slept in during her visit in 1963) , but that we could stay at the hotel, owned by her friend Carmela and take our meals there too.
Carmela's inn is called La Cisterna was in this gorgeous old building which had originally been the presidio, some sort of mansion with offices in it built in the 19th century. The rooms were large and light, and the place was huge and empty. We went there for dinner, expecting Giuseppina to at least sit with us. She did not. She left us and walked home by herself. She would not accept a ride nor would even permit one of us to walk with her. There was no changing her mind. So we feasted in this big empty restaurant. The owner was a former dairy farmer, and had a worst accent than my cousin. She could hardly understand a thing I said nor could we understand her. (such fun) But she started the meal with the best bread I have ever had, and some vegetables in oil and a touch of vinegar. The vegetables were hot peppers, cippolini onions, olives and lampascioni. |   goodies inside Giuseppina's taverna  Lampascioni | ||
| These Lampascioni things looked like tulip bulbs. They were a little bitter. As I ate them I remembered all the times my grandmother went to specialty stores or markets, looking for the "little onions" she'd eaten as a kid. I had finally found them. I know it sounds trite when I say the bread was the best I'd ever had, but I really love Italian bread, and it was incomparable. And the cheese was fresh, not dry, a lovely tangy cheese. And at how many restaurants have you been where they make their pasta by hand? For our lunch they made cavatelli, by hand, just like my grandmother made. Fortunately, a few years ago, she sat the whole family down and taught all of us how to make them. And here I was, eating them in her home town. |  Giuseppina, Carmela, Mimi | ||
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After we ate our dinner we decided to visit the Castello, which sat on the very top of the hill that Sant’Agata was built on. We left the piazza and proceeded up the hill and met a dog, a black lab looking creature. He greeted us, and led us all the way to the top of the hill, to the Castello itself. He was a good guide, waiting when we stopped to look at something. Halfway down the hill, he gave us a quick glance and went off, chasing the scent of a good meal. We were charmed that a dog would do this for us. In the morning, at 7:20 every church bell in town started ringing. In Italy church bells are very much in use, but sheesh, I wanted to sleep a little more. After 5 minutes of clamor, I gave up. I was awake. We left Sant Agata di Puglia happy, charmed and content in the knowledge that we had finally followed my grandmother's footsteps to her old home town. |  a view inside the castello | ||
