Da Nord a Sud

Italy: my second home.

With many thanks to CIS, after almost 5 long months of separation (and 6 months away from Italy), I was on my way back to Bormio to visit my beloved Anna. To say the least I was ecstatic.

Back to Italy.

Nord

At Linate, I breezed through immigration, snatched up my bag, and bolted out of the exit into Anna's waiting arms. Her hug squeezed the breath out of me; I had forgotten how nice she smelled and how soft her hair was.

We got to Milan and took the long train ride up into the mountains along Lago di Como to Tirano. Thankfully, Sissi picked us up in Tirano and we didn't have to take the bus, which would have been another hour. 

I've said this before and I'll say it again: even though it is a pain to get to, I love Bormio. It really is like home to me---it's cozy, I know it well, and it is absolutely beautiful. Although it would be a nightmare for Anna, I would happily live out my days and die peacefully there. But alas!, with the things they way they are in Italy, well....that dream will have to be put on the back burner. 

Anyway, it was nice to be back in my Italian home again and see everyone. Anna and her family recently moved into a new house a bit outside of town, and although I missed their old house in the centre of Bormio, I enjoyed staying in the new house with its fabulous views and štufa which heated the house and was a lot of fun to cook on. 

Home sweet home.

In Bormio, Anna and I didn't do much. Because lunch is the main meal of the day in Italy (and hence most stores are closed from 12.30 to 3.30), much of our time revolved around preparing meals and eating. But I didn't care; I loved it. It was so nice to do all the quotidian things with Anna that we always used to do but haven't been able to over the past four months. So we went shopping together, went swimming at the terme together, made coffee and lit the stove together in the morning and went out for an aperitivo at night. I made pancakes for everyone, they cooked me fabulous dinners; I happily fell into the warm rhythm of Magri family life.

But of course, that's not to say that we sat at home the whole time in Bormio. Of course, we ran our daily errands, but we did get out to do other things. Mamma insisted that we take Teo's car every time we went out, and although everything in Bormio is within 10 minutes' walking distance, it was nice to have a car to take whenever we wanted. One day, when the weather was nice, we took the car up to Bormio 2000 to enjoy the view, and spent the rest of the morning chugging up the mountainsides around Bormio looking for a place to have our reception ceremony. We did find the perfect place, but I won't say anything about it except that it's fabulous---you'll just have to come to the wedding to find out!!

Bormio 2000.

One lucky thing that occurred while I was in Bormio was the opening of the Braulio cellars for public tours. Because Bormio and Braulio are inextricably linked, it is wholly appropriate that I share some information about Braulio that we learned on a very fascinating tour of the distillery's cellars. 

First, for those who are unfamiliar with Italy, it should be noted that amari or bitter liqueurs are popular as after-dinner digestives in Italy, and most regions distill an amaro ("bitter" in Italian) using local ingredients. In Bormio, the local amaro is Braulio, and it is the most produced bitter in Northern Lombardia and quite popular in the region. In my personal opinion, it's absolutely delicious. Because it is produced from a secret recipe of a variety of alpine herbs, its flavour is quite hard to describe, but it is a delicious combination of sweet bitterness and heady, flowery herbs. I'd say that the flavour that is closest to it is a certain type of cough syrup, but this would be a poor comparison and is quite unfair to the true flavour of Braulio, which is a sweetly full and delicious nectar. You just have to try it. In fact, it is something of an acquired taste, a drink which, bitter at first, becomes lovingly appreciated by the palate over time. 

Indeed.

That being said, Braulio has its origins as a true digestive. In 1875, it was created as a digestive aid  by a local pharmacist from local alpine herbs, and the name Braulio itself derives from a mountain in the Passo di Stelvio near Bormio where the 13 herbs which comprise the drink were collected. Today, Braulio is produced on a commercial scale in cellars deep below via Roma in the heart of Bormio. On some days, you can smell the heady scent of Braulio being distilled on a walk down via Roma.

Distilling Braulio is a moderately lengthy process. First, herbs are mixed with alcohol, water, and sugar in large vats, where the mixture steeps for several days. Because the recipe is such a secret, employees are only permitted to add four herbs---the remaining herbs must be added by the owners without the employees present. Indeed, our tour guide, who worked in the cellars for 30 years, said he only knew four of the herbs of which Braulio is comprised. 

The mixture is then pumped into a centrifuge, which separates the herbs from the mixture and squeezes the remaining alcohol out of the herbs (this is for tax purposes, apparently). The brew then is pumped into tanks, where it is cooled to 10 degrees Fahrenheit. The mixture is then forced through a filtering system to cleanse it of remaining impurities, and then pumped into a large holding tank, where any colour, alcohol level, or sweetness affected by the process is adjusted. This part was particularly impressive: this tank holds 56,000 litres of Braulio, a veritable swimming pool. 

Following the adjustment, the Braulio is placed in enormous oak barrels for ageing, where it sits for two to three years before being bottled. Over the years, ageing experiments were done to determine whether Braulio would taste better if it were aged longer, but the distillers discovered that the longer it aged the sweeter it became, so after 20 years it became too sweet, like a sort of Braulio marsala wine. Thus, it's best to enjoy after two years of ageing. Braulio also manufactures a variety of grappe but, disappointingly, this process was not described in the tour. Che pecora. 

Braulio cellars.

The entirety of my time in Italy wasn't spent in Bormio, however. Months ago, Anna had said that she had planned a special trip to a "secret location" somewhere in Italy. I had told her I didn't want to know until we went to the airport. She agreed, but over lunch one day Mamma named the secret location and Anna got mad. I pretended not to understand and managed to calm Anna, but the day before leaving the cat was really let out of the bag by Zia Enrica who loudly said as we were leaving her house, "Ciao! Have fun in Palermo!"

"Zia! It was a secret!!" Anna said. 

"Oh! Scusami!" Zia replied. Well, I knew anyway, so it didn't matter. The next day, we were on our way to Bergamo to catch a flight to Palermo. 

Sud

When we arrived at Palermo at around 8 pm, it was windy as a fuck, and a bit chilly. We caught a bus to our B&B, dumped our stuff, and went out to eat, because that's what you do in Sicily!! We found an osteria on a somewhat touristy thoroughfare not far form where we were staying, but the food was delicious, and the wine was sweetly smooth, and we retired happy and full to our room for the night.

The next day, we were up early (or on time, for Sicily) to get out to see some of the city, and headed to the train station to try to find a tourist information office. However, there was none in the train station. There was a large chapel, but no tourist information. Buying a map from a newsagent, we were told that there was a tourist office right outside of the train station. We found it in a small corner of the circle in front of the station---it resembled something more of a public restroom or a pillbox, but surprisingly it was open, and the woman hunkered down inside provided us with a map that marked the location of all the major tourist locations. 

Welcome to Palermo.

Anna had heard that Palermo had some interesting catacombs and, being a fan of caves, thought it would be an interesting place to visit. The catacombs were a bit of a hike away from the center, but there was plenty to see along the way, and since the weather was nice, we set towards the catacombs via the backstreets of old Palermo. 

Now I must make an aside here about Palermo. Since we only visited Palermo (Siciliy's largest city and capitol), I'm not so sure how representative it is of Sicily itself. For one thing, it sure was different from the north of Italy which I was used to. Off the beaten path, it was dirty, sinister, and visibly poor. In many ways, it reminded me of Istanbul: the crooked, dirty, uneven streets, the shady characters, the noise. But it was more cosmopolitan than Turkey---there were dark Africans and Arabs, Tamils and Bengalis, Chinese and dark Sicilians. And yet on top of it all, there was something unmistakeably Italian about it, the plethora of churches and women zipping by on scooters and outdoor cafés and ancient labyrinthine streets of marble cobblestone worn smooth by hundreds of years of traffic. In a certain way, it was the stereotype that comes to mind when one imagines Italy itself. But of course, Siciliy, like Italy itself, has never been purely Italian. It was ruled by the Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Normans, Byzantines, themselves, and Italians. Walking through the old streets of Palermo, you can still get a feel of the influence left by Sicily's multicultural history. 

You can also get the feeling of adrenalin through your veins as you walk the streets of Palermo or, even more thrilling, attempt to cross them. Now Sicilian drivers aren't nearly as dangerous as Georgian drivers, but they're not a far cry, and the threat they pose to the unaware is real. Crossing the street in Sicily is nothing short of a gamble with your life. This is because red stoplights on the island are more of a suggestion than an obligation. Thus, visiting Sicily will either give you at the very least a minor injury or a huge set of nuts, which is acquired after manning up and learning how to cross the street. So my advice is, for the meek tourist, wait until a Sicilian crosses the road and then walk quickly behind them; for the bold, step out and hope for the best. "And they called this place a 'safe harbor'," Anna sardonically noted, as Palermo derives from the Greek for 'safe harbour'.

So it was in this manner that we made our way to the outskirts of the city to visit the Capuchin Catacombs. Now normally catacombs are labyrinths of caves in which people used to hide or dead people were stored. What makes these catacombs unique is that the dead people are still in them. Not only are the dead people still there, but they are all well preserved, dressed in their original clothes, and hung up on the walls for all to see. And there are hundreds of them from all walks of life: priests and generals and women and children and babies and professors and ordinary men and, well....there's a whole lot of dead people. Anna had expected the catacombs to be like those in Rome, which are apparently a system of tunnels and caves, so she was a bit mortified and disturbed to see all these dead people propped up along the walls. I, on the other hand, found it fascinating. Look at all those people in their original clothes! Incredible! And so well preserved! I read from the guide we had bought at the entrance for two euros:

"Look at this! It says here that the corpses here are only a fraction of the Palermitans who have perished crossing the road in the past three hundred years," I told Anna. 

"Silly," she replied. "Let's get out of here."

Capuchin Catacombs.

All of those dried out dead people had somehow made me hungry, so we looked for a place with traditional Sicilian food to eat lunch. We had seen a cute little place along the way to the catacombs, so we decided to stop in and have a look on the way back. 

"Michele and Yolanda's Family Restaurant" was a tiny place with about 5 plastic tables and a bunch of kitschy country stuff on the walls and a TV in the corner. Hearing the bell above the door, Michele and Yolanda rushed out to greet their customers.

"Yes, we're open, please come in!" They greeted us, shook our hands politely, and shuffled us into seats at a table. "We only cook real, traditional Sicilian food here," Michele explained in a thick Sicilian accent (which neither Anna nor I could hardly understand). "For you, I will cook a plate of cold and warm antipasti," he explained. Apparently, we weren't going to have any choice in the matter of what to have for lunch. 

"Va bene," we agreed, and Michele set about cooking for us while his wife brought us a pitcher of wine. 

"He's a bit pushy," Anna said.

"Well, we came here to eat, didn't we? Let's eat what he recommends." I said. 

Boy was I glad we did. The plates of antipasti were loaded to the top with mushrooms, caponata, cheese, tomatoes, eggplant, hard-boiled eggs with roasted peppers, two kinds of arancini, and various other fried bits. It was very impressive. 

Antipasti.

"Wow." Anna stared agape. Good thing she didn't order a first course. We devoured the antipasti, which were absolutely delicious. I have to say that it was among some of the best food I have ever eaten. After the antipasti came the prawns, which were the size of my hand and absolutely scrumptious. This all was topped off by a cannolo, a typical Sicilian dessert. 

For those reading who think you have had cannoli, you haven't. I'm sorry to have to tell you this. You'll have to go to Sicily to get a real one, and even then it still won't be as good as the one Michele served us for dessert. Now I'm not a big fan of dessert and sweets, but I was paralyzed with ecstasy after biting into this cannolo. It was magnificent. 

"There is a secret to cannoli," Michele explained. "First, the shell must be made on the spot, never pre-made." This explained all of the signs in Palermo advertizing cannolo espresso. "And the filling is made with one kilo of sheep's cheese and one kilo of sugar, e basta."---that's it. Incredible. I'll never eat cannoli  anywhere else ever again. 

What really made this place incredible was not only the food, but the place itself. It was a veritable one room hole in the wall: there were 5 tables, and a curtain separated the dining area from the kitchen and the bathroom. Having to wash my hands after stuffing my face with shrimp, I saw that the kitchen itself was simple: there was a sink, a two-burner cooker, and a small oven---not much different from my own kitchen in Istanbul. Amazing, I thought---such great food with so little! So it only goes to show the best cooks cook from the heart and don't need all sorts of junk to make incredible meals---just good, simple ingredients and love, the foundation of all true Italian cooking. We paid our bill (40 euros!!) and left, stuffed and happy. 

Compliments to the chef.

It wasn't long before all that heavy eating caught up with us, however. Along with the excessive walking and sightseeing, we were quite tired by four o'clock, and returned to the room to take a nap. 

Cathedral.

Room with a view.

Two hours later, we went out for an aperitive and, strangely, found ourselves to be hungry again. Walking down via Chiaverettieri near the B&B, we saw a tiny pizzeria, "Voglia di Pizza" (Hmm this one's easy in German but not English....."Lust for pizza"?). Why not? we figured. I was trying to eat as much pizza as I could while in Italy because finding a decent pizza in the States is impossible. So we sat down at one of the greasy plastic tables and ordered a pizza with anchovies and two beers. 

The beers were huge, like almost a litre. And the pizza? Well, let's just say that it was one of the best pizzas I've ever eaten, and even Anna confessed the same thing. Pizza heaven. And the best part about our pizza dinner? 2 giant beers and a pizza = $10. Fuck buying a pizza in New York. 

Planning our day.

The next day, being our last day in Palermo, we planned a bit better. We wanted to go to the ethnographic museum, which described the history of Sicily, as well as the Chiesa di Santa Caterina, apparently one of the most beautiful churches in Palermo. Well, the church wanted money to get in, and after a long search in the dirty backstreets of Palermo, we managed to find the ethnographic museum, which was closed, much to our chagrin. We did, however, find Papà Geppetto's workshop, but Pinocchio wasn't in. 

Papà Gepetto drives a Fiat.

Since our morning itinerary was spoiled, we had to come up with a plan B. There was a wine museum, so we went to see that. Luckily it was free, but it wasn't so much of a museum as much as it was a vast collection of oenophilia and winemaking instruments from around Sicily. 

By this time it was lunchtime and all the walking had made us hungry, so we sought out a place to eat. Anna doesn't agree with me, but to me it seemed that for a city as big as Palermo, there weren't too many restaurants. Sure, there were a lot of bars and cafés, but in retrospect it seemed like we spent a lot of time finding a decent place to eat. Well, anyway, we walked around for a bit trying to find a place to eat lunch. We finally found a place that looked promising, but when we went in we were informed that we couldn't dine because there was no waiter (Seriously, what the fuck? Only in Sicily.). However, the cook recommended a restaurant around the corner which was quite nice. I liked that about Sicily. If you went into a place and it wasn't what you wanted, or they were full, or there was some problem, the staff always told you about a nice place to go nearby.  So we made our way over to "Supra I Mura". 

Thanks to Supra I Mura, I can boast about two things. First, the food was delicious (like everywhere we went in Palermo). I had bucatini with mussels and clams, and an appetizer of octopus drizzled in olive oil (thank god---I had to eat something with tentacles while in Sicily, and I wasn't disappointed). Second, I can now say I've dined with the Mafia. Well, not with them, but next to them. After ordering our lunch, a group of about 20 Sicilian men walked in. And only men. As soon as they walked in, the waiters were quick to accommodate them, scrambling to bring more chairs and tables. Their appetizers came much quicker than ours, and the waiters catered to every complaint---more wine, more octopus, bring me an ashtray! At one point, the head man of the group told the waiter, "Here's 15 euros, go to the store and buy phone credit for the kid," ("la rigariga per i' piciott'") and the waiter was out like a flash and back in five minutes with the phone card. 

"Hey amore. Do you think those guys are....well, you know, mob?" I asked Anna in a low voice. 

"No, I don't think so," she said. But in retrospect, they probably were, considering how much the waiters kissed their ass and the disdainful look we got from them when we left. 

After lunch, we decided to go to the archeological museum, which was situated in an old restored palace not far from the theatre. It was mostly empty, and the collection seemed to be mostly bits of pottery collected over the years, but the cashier kindly informed us that if we waited fifteen minutes a guide would take us on a tour of the collection and palace. We agreed, and paid the extra seven-something euros. 

After a short wait, a tiny, bespectacled woman came to give us the tour. Her English wasn't terrific, but she tried hard, and it was obvious that she was passionate about the collection and the palace itself. Apparently, the palace that housed the museum used to be a storehouse for merchants, she explained we took the elevator up to the second floor with a serious-looking security guard. Exiting the elevator, we found ourselves in a vast wooden Escheresque labyrinth of shelves, staircases, and walkways. These were where merchants stored their goods, the guide explained, and usually young, nimble boys were employed to climb quickly up the towering shelves to fetch goods. The storehouses were also used by the museum to display its collection of puppets, a form of entertainment that is apparently unique to Sicily and has a long tradition. Indeed, you can still see shows today, although when we were there the main theatrical company was out of town. 

In addition to an interesting collection of puppets, the museum also boasts an impressive library, stamp collection, and a coin collection containing every coin in Sicilian history. Impressive, to say the least. I must say that the museum's collection itself is small, but the palace itself and its restoration is impressive, the displays well arranged and interesting. 

This also applies to the Palermitan Art Museum, which we visited after the archeological museum; the collections themselves were minimal, but the displays were well designed and interesting, and the collections themselves were housed in beautiful palaces which were enjoyable to be in. Should one go to Palermo, I would recommend a visit not just to view the exhibitions, but also to experience the splendor of the buildings. The art museum even had marble bathrooms:

"Marble bathrooms!" I exclaimed. "Now there's a good use of your tax euros," I said to Anna. 

"Don't remind me," she grumbled, and we set off in search of dinner. 

Palazzo Abatellis.

The last evening, we found a tiny local hole in the wall to eat dinner. The menu was simple, handwritten on sheets of paper, and it was cheap---2 euros for half a liter of wine, and six for a main. We had amazing involtini, finishing up as the place became packed with locals (you know it's a good call then), and one last bottle of Sicilian wine in a wine bar before retiring for the night. 

One final thing I should say about Sicily is how religious it is. Of course, most of Italy is religious, and it is common to find chapels in all the airports. But this is much augmented in Sicily, were most of the walls on the streets have some kind of shrine and even the train station has a church:

Station church.

"The Lord communicates with you in many ways, but for sure he'll never call you on the phone, so keep it off."

This is in stark comparison to the north of Italy:  

Even advertisements for the circus were religious. This one reads: 

"Darix: finally something new. In Rome, before an audience of clowns, jugglers, and acrobats, the Pope proclaims, 'I bless the circus with animals'.

The Pope praises the circus: 'It's almost a paradise. The circus is a school of virtue, a terrestrial paradise, an example of the harmony between men and animals under a tent.' An unmissable event."

While it was warm when we left Sicily that morning, it was horribly cold in Bormio that evening, and more than half a foot of snow was waiting to be shovelled at Zia Enrica's house. 

"Don't you people have snowblowers?" I asked Anna as we were almost finished shovelling. 

"Yes, there is one in the shed, we just don't know how to use it." Ugh. Why didn't you just say that?

Welcome back to the North.

Because there was so much snow in Bormio, and I had to leave early in the morning, Anna decided that we should stay in Lecco for the night so we could get to the airport quickly in the morning. That night in Lecco, we went to Grom (best gelato in the world) and had pizza before sharing one last cuddle for hopefully what will be a short time. It was a teary goodbye at Linate the next morning. 

Mmmmm

Although we didn't get to do all the things we wanted during my time in Bormio---snowshoeing, driving lessons for Anna, skiing---it was so nice to be with Anna again, and spend time with her family doing everyday stuff. I already miss them, and Bormio, and most importantly Anna. 

"Quando torni?" everyone asked when I bid them goodbye---when are you coming back?

Not soon enough. 

Christmas in America

Ah yes, Christmas in America once again. Well, it's not rare for me, but not common either.....at least in my mind. I've only actually spent Christmas abroad a few times---a couple times in Poland, Italy last year, but for some reason it seems like I'm never home for Christmas. I'm sure that mental notion stems from the fact that I don't like Christmas....and in turn I'm sure this stems from my loathing of orgiastic holiday materialism coupled with the nervous decision of where to spend Christmas, so I put the memory out of my mind. I just don't like it, no matter the reason. Perhaps I just don't understand it---the super-kitsch decorations, the sumptuous gifting, the "cheer".......ugh. Am I subhuman? Probably. Growing up my Dad had a work broom with his initials and "The Subhuman" proudly written in bold ink on the head, and I can never get this out of my own head. See how much the holidays make me nervous?
While I had very much wanted to spend Christmas in Italy once again this year, I was unable and nonetheless thought it best to stay put and spend it with my father, with whom I last spent Christmas in....2008? 2009? Yes, it's time to go be with Dad for Christmas. Three days prior, my sister drove down from Beacon, and we were off to Delaware in my new car.

Being in Delaware again was a flurry of activity. Well, it was flurry of vicarious activity through my sister. Being back in Delaware, she had lots of people to catch up with, and she was out the door not long after getting home. Dad, Jeanne and I built a fire in the fireplace (thank you, God), and cooked a lovely dinner to catch up.
But that's not to say that I didn't have my fair share of people to catch up with. For once, my childhood friend Aaron abandoned whatever he was doing and drove up from Salisbury to catch up with me for the first time in two years. He looked older, but, then again, aren't we all getting older now? Nonetheless, we stayed up drinking beer in front of the fire and catching up.

Catching up.

Kind of looks like Mr. Smith from The Matrix, doesn't he?

The following day, Christmas Eve Day, a hungover Margaret and I went out in the yard shooting my old BB gun, and then went back to Assawoman State Park, one of our favorite places to go to hang out growing up; it's a secret, quiet place on the back bays of Delaware, and in addition to the lack of people, it has a lovely observation tower.

Don't f**k with her.

Assawoman.

 That night, at Margaret's behest, we watched Home Alone. I know it may be cheesy, but it felt good to sit in between the fireplace and the lit plastic Christmas tree watching this childhood classic. Dad and Margaret didn't make it through the film and went to bed, and as I sat alone between the plastic and wooden warmth watching Daniel Stern and Joe Pesce become irate, I thought, "Yeah, this is Christmas." I went to bed feeling nostalgically warm and comfortable---and at home. I was at home again.

And being at home, the next morning I was unmistakably at home for Christmas. Waking up, the warm scent of pancakes and coffee wafted through the house, and the familiar dialogue of "A Christmas Story" drifted upstairs from the television (it's played on a 24 hour loop on TBS on Christmas Day, for those who don't live in the US). Dad, Margaret and I opened our stockings and gifts together before eating breakfast, and after lounging about for a good part of the day, we drove to Lewes to Cape Henlopen.

Ah yes, the Star-bellied Sneetches!

I love Cape Henlopen. It was always one of my favorite places to go when I was in Delaware, and it holds a special place in my heart: I went to day camp there for summers when I was a  boy to learn about Delaware seashore nature, and during college I worked half a mile away in the summer and would often go there to eat lunch in my car, looking out over the sea.
What is Cape Henlopen State Park today was once a second World War military base called Fort Miles. At that time, the US was very much concerned about German U-Boats and warships foraying into its territorial waters. As a result, the army created a base on the Delaware side of the entrance to Delaware Bay, the waterway by which goods are shipped in and out of Philadelphia. To keep an eye out for enemy ships, the army built a series of tall concrete watchtowers in the dunes on the Delaware coast. These were not so much used to spot enemy ships as they were used for purposes of triangulation: knowing the distance between the towers allowed soldiers at Fort Miles to accurately aim their guns at a naval target. Unfortunately however, no German subs were ever spotted, so Fort Miles' guns remained silent and the towers were abandoned. Lucky for us though, one remains open and free to climb to the public; on a clear day, you can see all the way to New Jersey. Because these towers have been sitting around for the past 60 or so years, they have become a sort of symbol of the Delaware seashore. So naturally, in addition to a stroll around the Fort Miles and its bunkers overlooking the sea, we made a chilly ascent up the tower for a Christmas day panorama (being afraid of heights, climbing the tower was something that took me years to do and is still difficult for me).

Man with a gun.

 

Symbol of the shore.

Fort Miles.

Don't look down!

That evening, we had a roast for dinner, one last fire in the fireplace, and a commotion in the house as many old friends stopped by one last time to have a chat (and drink our beer!).

I would have liked to have stayed longer, but we had to be back in New York the following day because Margaret had to catch a flight to California for work (it was so hard to leave that fireplace). Nonetheless, it was nice to have a Christmas at home again, something I haven't done for a long time.