SAMBUCCA, SUN, and SEX!

 SAMBUCCA, SUN, and SEX!

NUMERO UNO writing technique - An attention-getting title!

Italian men!  Dio Mio!  Two times in 7 days, men have approached me, asked me where I was from and what I am doing here, and then nonchalantly, as if they were asking me if they could sit down on my bench, they ask if I want to have sex.  True story.  I am neither dressed like a hooker, nor putting out “please proposition me” vibes.  I am sitting on a bench next to the Church, typing, without makeup.  I am usually wearing over-the-knee cotton, tent-like hippie dresses, as they are coolest for this weather.  I am trying to take this behavior with a grain of salt, but I’m beginning to think a shot of pepper spray might be in the cards.

Salt, pepper, flour, water, mashed potatoes - the stuff of gnocchi, one of my favorite Italian staples.  Yesterday, Carolina and I walked (for twenty five minutes) the six blocks to Collevecchio to purchase fresh, homemade pasta.  It is on the narrow Avenue Manzoni.  A tiny storefront, with a steady clientele.

Among a book full of historical tales, Giovanni has told me the Collevecchio family story of how the 12-year-old young Italian decided to become a bread maker.  Children here were schooled for five years from the age of 6.  At 12, they were to decide their life’s work.

After a few years of apprenticing at a local bakery, the owners, deciding to move to America, let young Collevecchio take over.  Raw bricks were used to construct his arched wood-fire oven.  Using a metal stick, scraping the floor of the oven, the baker would know the fire was ready - 800-900 degrees - when the scraping stick created sparks.

This luxury was a coveted tool, and shortly, as local women brought their risen dough to bake in young Collevecchio’s oven, he began an empire.  For every three loaves baked, a fourth was to be given as payment for usage of the oven.  

These “fourth loaves” were then sold by the entrepreneur, and eventually earned him enough to start baking his own! The year - somewhere around 1927.  Years later, in 1961, another family member would take advantage of the established family name, and open a pasta business down the street. 

Collevecchio died five years ago at about 93.  His legacy still thriving, the three-generation business’s two locations are considered the finest source for all things flour (and egg).

Carolina had to say “Boungiorno” twice before the pasta personnel paid her any attention, and we were the only ones at the counter!  I am finding that the locals aren’t as friendly here as I had anticipated, or as the French are.  It’s all uphill, vino, pasta, and full-blown hand gestures, once they know who you are.

I’ve won over a handful of business owners and waiters, of whose internet I avail myself, and whom I tip well, to make up for the fact that I sit in their establishments for up to three hours on a single “piccola” (diminutive) cup of cappuccino.  

Vittorio and Me Meet Daily at 4PM

Aurora Caffe Father Son Hospitality

Gratefully, 90-year-old Vittorio greets me with a smile and a string of Italian compliments each day at Caffe Aurora on the square.  Owners, handsome Alexis and his equally attractive father, are warm and accommodating.

Several times, in broad daylight, Alexis has graciously turned on the patio twinkling lights, unplugging a string to let me charge my computer.  He speaks a smattering of English, and has translated a few of Vittorio’s more tasteful comments to me.  

Besides Alexis and Loredana, most seem to be “down to business,” not so ready to entertain my feeble attempts at their infectious inflections, and generally in a hurry to get on with their day.  

Even with sweet, elderly Carolina, whose Italian is more than ample, they seem impatient.  Nonetheless, the Collevecchio gnocchi, Carolina’s homemade arrabiata, along with a glass of hearty red from a sulfite-free gallon jug of local wine, made for a delightful lunch on the porch.

I spend most hours outdoors - in the sun, walking the town, or the beach, or sitting on the porch of this enormous 4-apartment villa.  Despite my past melanomas, most mornings I manage to slather on sunblock and head for the beach first thing.  

Each LIDO owns its beachfront
Chairs and Umbrellas are for rent

Today, Giovanni insisted on beginning a morning ritual of wading through the ankle-high Adriatic, as many locals do every morning around 7.  We made it to the sand by 8:30, walked for an hour, and painstakingly hobbled home.  Along the way, I kept a lookout for Alfonzo on his silver-blue Vespa.  

I had met him at Firzetta, an over one-hundred-year-old café on Via Nazionale, where apparently the “who’s who” of Roseto frequent.  I liken it to Jeanine’s in Montecito.  Alfonzo bought my cappuccino for me, as we attempted to chat it up.  

A couple of years my junior, he is not unattractive, but I am honestly not on the make, and prefer to live a solo life, enjoying friends, tending to others, and writing.  Nonetheless, I acquiesced, only to have to disappoint him for our date to drive to Montepagano the following day at 3.  I was to have met him at the corner of the road to Montepagano.

At 2:30, the plan changed.  With no electricity after six days, a friend agreed to drive Carolina and me to Terramo, the Province center, where we could pay a re-connect fee at the main electric company.  

I checked the map Alfonzo had given me, with his hotel circled in red pen.  I hopped on my bike, found the hotel, ran in, and left a note for my suitor.  

“No libre oggi.  A domani a 3,” it read.  I think it said that I am not free today - tomorrow at 3.  I left it with the front desk clerk, as Alfonzo wasn’t on site, and cycled frantically back to the villa to accompany Carolina to Terramo - an hour drive each way.  

That was two days ago.  Still no power.  Though candlelight is lovely, cold showers and not being able to charge my MAC is getting old.

Which brings me to Sambucca.  In France, I discovered “Pastis,” a licorice-flavored liqueur which, when added to water, becomes cloudy yellow.  It is known as the fishermen of Marseilles’ drink. 

In Paris, this drink can be enjoyed in over 150 flavors, including my favorite, Violet, at Chez Janou, a wonderful restaurant near Bastille. The closest thing to Pastis in Italy is Sambucca. It is not for the faint of heart.  It can easily be likened to Nyquil, and probably would do the same job.  I love it.  

So I do some writing here at the corner Marcafe, enjoying Loredana’s (after I embarrassingly mistake her for her twin, Cynzia) free pieces of cake. Tonight she also gave me a shot of her favorite, Caffe Sambucca.  I like it!

I listen to the absolutely animated and boisterous chatter of Italian families grabbing a square of eggplant-laden pizza, a plate of prosciutto and bread, and Lori’s free cakes.  

One vibrant little girl, no more than nine, commands the patio, capturing the attention of everyone with her flailing hands, bopping ponytail, and engaging vocal display.  I can already tell, that girl will be throwing benches at condescending men one day.    

     

The men drink espresso and beers, the women, a salmon-colored drink with a slice of orange in it. Cocktail Pelligrino - a Campari-tasting, non-alcoholic refresher. The children drink cappuccinos, some with chocolate, some with cinnamon, all with that irresistible frothy foam that makes a sticky mustache and tastes like sweet clouds.

The nights are cloudless - clear and comfortable, as the apricot and fuscia sun settles behind Montepagano, the battle hill that watches over this seaside settlement.  Giovanni’s stories of the battles of World War II, the ones he predicted, as he worked at his train station job with the telegraph machine, tempt me to take Alfonzo up on his offer to drive me around the countryside.  

Seeing WWII remains in several countries last summer, awakened my curiosity in the world-changing events that most Americans have long forgotten.  Not so, here.  Even the young speak of the War.  Somehow, their lives and their family histories are still affected by those dark days.  

They walk in shadows of bullet-ridden buildings, grass-hidden bunkers, and memorial plaques displaying the names of their brothers, cousins, uncles, fathers, grandfathers, and great grandfathers.  They tell stories of brave women from their lineage who served on the front and behind the lines.  If I only I could be so brave.

I will soak up the sun, sip down the Sambucca, and boldly stave off the sexual aggressors of this curious and charming place.  Next stop, Church! (chieza)

Maria Ss. Asunta on Via Nazionale

Cousin Theresa lives on this square
where we purchase our produse

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A charming walking street

Roseto is nestled between the lush hills
of Montepagano, and the Adriatic Sea