There are 20 regions in Italy. I'm happy to report that in two days we breezed through 7 of them, and stopped in a foreign country along the way. I'm not quite as happy to report that there was a whole 'lotta time spent in the car.
Our Italian road tripping was all in the name of the mighty cece; or as it's less elegantly referred to in english...the chickpea. Last weekend in the small Abruzzan hilltown of Navelli there was the Sagra dei Ceci, a multi-day celebration of the chickpea with an additional spotlight on saffron. Think children dressed in chickpea outfits, donkeys racing in dusty circles, and a menu focused on all things chickpea and saffron.
Getting there was a long haul taking nearly 12 hours. For a healthy chunk of that time we sat in beach traffic that crawled to a complete stop. But during moments of great excitement our car would begin to move, creeping alongside cars filled with beach balls and beach towels, and bored children antagonizing small dogs.
When we couldn't take another minute in the car we had a late lunch in another country. Really. We went to San Marino. It's a small republic in the mid/northwest of Italy that seems to exist solely for tourism and motorcycle racing. I'm not sure where they do the motorcycle racing that dominates their banners and billboards, but I sure didn't have a problem finding the tourists.
Before long we were driving through mountain tunnels cutting through the Abruzzan hills. One tunnel was over 10 kilometers long and it was a few kilometers into this tunnel that our driver felt the need to tell us about the time his car exploded into a wall of fire midway through New York's Holland Tunnel. A wall of fire you say? In a tunnel? Thanks a lot.
A childhood friend of our friend lives in Navelli so we had a very warm welcome from the start. And despite it being a very small town (population 625) we spent healthy amounts of time meeting the locals and eating chick peas with them. (After they'd spent all day cooking and preparing the food.)
We ate in a large piazza filled with plastic chairs and tables that slowly filled to capacity as nightfall came. Eventually, each table was heaped with plates of food and plastic tumblers of wine. All foods featured either chick peas or saffron or were some version of a local favorite. Chick pea soup. Chick pea pasta. Chick peas toasted in sugar. Saffron risotto. Pasta with saffron cream. Porchetta. And grilled lamb. And salsiccia after 6pm.
Children ran around and the band played late into the night. It was a street party at its best. And it's also the first place we've seen a scorpion in Italy. Come to think of it, it's the first time I've ever seen a scorpion outside of a cage. And you'd better believe we checked under the pillows that night before going to bed.
Part of Navelli is built into the hills and when you follow the rising and curving maze of pathways, you find homes damaged and deserted during World War II. Bombed out and never re-inhabited, their interiors are overgrown with grass and weeds. Crumbled staircases are carpeted by brush and rise to second floors defined by walls with gaping holes. And some floors have just tumbled away, leaving behind their skeletal supporting beams to bleach in the sun.
You find chickens pecking at the dirt and tall white geese stretching their necks in the dark shadows. But turn in another direction and you wander towards residences where life goes on, where there's the smell of roasted peppers on the breeze. And the locals and artists who keep this place alive peek out of their beaded curtains to check on the strangers.
All the while, staring back from the the crest of hills facing town are the remains of a burned forest. Like a donkey's ragged mane they stood black and scratchy against the blue sky. Only weeks ago the hills had gone up in flames. And the flames had poured down the hills and rushed the town. They were stopped, but not before damaging the forests where the festival was traditionally held. This year's Ceci Festival became not only a way for the town to come together but also an opportunity to raise money to restore what was lost.
Our Sunday lunch was too good to be true. We ate at the home of our hosts. There were eight of us around a long table, with a checked cloth laid between us. There was lasagna al forno made by Nonna (Grandma). And grilled eggplant in olive oil made by Nonna. And a soft chocolate cake made by Nonna. And I was sitting next to Nonna and she kept saying to me, with true desire in her voice, "Mangia! Mangia!" Eat! Eat!
And Nonno (Grandpa) was hard of hearing so people had to shout, "Nonno! Do you want mortadella?!" And of course he did. And when the fruit came, after the mortadella, it was the sweetest softest fruit I've ever had. It was laid out in colorful piles, with water still clinging to the skins. The peaches were bright apricot inside and the figs were so soft that they nearly poured out of their skins. And the watermelon was a delicious round of heavy wet fuschia.
Oh my, si mangia bene a Navelli.
After lunch we sat on kitchen chairs alongside the house as the wind rushed by. We were told that the wind comes up like that every afternoon. There was a tiny kitten tripping through the flower beds; its mother a sleek Siamese that couldn't care less. And when we tried to feed the chickens, they didn't want our watermelon rinds.
Nonno showed us his storeroom and the sacks of almonds collected from his daily walks. There were laundry lines hung with drying onions next to buckets of chicken feed. And pointing at the gnarled piles of firewood, we found out that Nonno cuts all of that timber himself.
Sunday afternoon's celebrations started with the town children dressing in traditional red and white garb, their costumes edged with dried chickpeas that had been delicately sewn into place. They carried baskets of chickpeas and waited with the rest of the town until a group of donkeys and their riders arrived in the piazza. We then followed the donkeys down through the town until we all arrived in a dusty field.
The Palio was held in a field where any remaining shrubs had been trampled by the crowds. Modeled after the world-famous horse race run in Sienna's main piazza, this was on a smaller and more humble scale. Several donkeys, coached by a rider and a guide both dressed in satiny renaissance ensembles, would run a three lap race. However, to say "run" implies an urgency not shared by the donkeys. For the most part they rambled their way along and ignored the imploring shoves and shouts of their riders. Use this link to view footage of the race: http://ilcentro.repubblica.it/multimedia/home/1079994
As shown in the video above, a winner was eventually found and the crowd was pleased. We then all made our way back to the main piazza to celebrate the winning donkey, the ceci beans, and the fact that summer in Italy is a fine thing.
The way back to Milan took 7 hours (7pm-2am) and featured not only a perfect view of the Big Dipper from the backseat, but a rest stop with a steely Doberman Pincher in addition to the usual overpriced gas. (Note: a tank of gas these days goes for about 60 euro = $89.)
But that 60 euro does get you a breeze-by tour of the big names of Italy: Rome, Florence, Bologna, Milano. We just kept following the highway signs from one big city to the next in the hopes that their lack of beaches would also mean a lack of returning-from-the-beach traffic. Unlike on the way there, we didn't even need a map.
All we needed was more of Nonna's grilled eggplant in olive oil. And guess what... she'd packed us some before we left and insisted we take it along. I guess the motto of Italian grandmas (Mangia! Mangia!) applies even in moving vehicles.
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