Sant’Andrea Trip

Round and Round We Go

December 9, 2007 By Carl Leave a Comment

One thing about Italian drivers — they’re nuts. And if you abide by the rules, they think you’re nuts.

We quickly learned in our 10-hour trip from Rome to Sant’Andrea to move out of the left lane if anyone was behind us, because no matter how fast we were going, they wanted to go faster.

We were routinely high-beamed, honked at and nearly pushed off the road by teeny weeny cars whose drivers felt they had to go as fast as their cars would take them. For us, that meant 130 kilomoters per hour, or 80 mph. Our Fiat Panda simply refused to go any faster, even downhill.

The trip down to Sant’Andrea was an experience, but nothing prepared us for driving with Nino.

Nino kindly volunteered to take us to the supermarket to get groceries for Aunt Nuzza and company. It was the least we could do considering how they had graciously opened their home to us.

Before we got on our way, Nino quietly went upstairs. I didn’t notice he was gone until, no more than five minutes later, he came out looking like Dapper Dan. For our trip to the store Nino had quick-changed from his gardening outfit into a pinstriped suit.

It was a a mind-boggling contrast from just minutes earlier that took me some adjusting to.

With Nino all spiffied up, we proceeded.

A minute from Nino’s house toward the Davoli supermarket — the only one open between 1 p.m. and 4 p.m., when everything closes for an extended lunch — you come to a roundabout.

Here’s how it’s supposed to go: You go to the right and the guy coming from the other direction goes to his right, allowing for a continuously flow of traffic.

Easy, right?

Silly American.

Nino’s the type of guy who has to turn his head every time he talks, which usually means he slows down at best or veers off course and slows down, supremely ticking off decidedly impatient Italian drivers.

As we approached the nicely manicured roundabout, Nino was doing his driving-while-talking routine and slowed down near the entrance. He proceeded around the right side, but the guy behind him, apparently peeved by Nino’s dawdling, zoomed around the left side and lunged to cut us off.

Nino would have none of it. He and downshifted from third to first gear and bursted into an assembly of curses that would have been difficult for anyone to follow. With the car’s engine screaming, we jettisoned around the roundabout.

Now, all I was thinking in this blink of a moment was “Please God, I want to see my girls again.”

Surprisingly, we didn’t die. In fact, Nino won. We squeaked ahead of the wrong-way driver.

Even after his victory, Nino continued his litany of curses, calling the other guy crazy and who knows what else. (All I heard was “Buh buh buh buh buh.”)

Uncle Bruno, being the smart guy he is, repeatedly agreed with Nino about the other guy and entirely overlooked the actions of Mario Andretti to his left.

The good news is that we survived. Nino helped us get the best bargains in the store and even treated us to Italian McDonald’s.

We got back to Nino’s each with our respective pieces in places.

After swigging down some of Nino’s homemade coffee liquor (gasoline) and chatting with some of Poppy’s old friends (help me here, Uncle Bruno), we agreed to come back the next day for lunch with Nino and his wife. Then we would be allowed to get the cheese. He told us he would take us to the guy who sold the cheese at the Soverato open market on Friday. We’d go just before we left for Rome.

I should have known that there would be a lot more to the story before that happened.

Filed Under: Sant'Andrea Trip, The Cheese Saga

Nino fakes us out

December 4, 2007 By Carl Leave a Comment

I remember meeting Nino once or twice as a kid when he visited by grandparents’ house. They called him “Travolta” because he often boasted about his dancing skills. His hair was also usually combed in “Saturday Night Fever” style.

That was a long time ago, and Uncle Bruno reminded me to nix any thought of calling him Travolta for fear of death. I agreed, but I couldn’t get the picture of a disco ball out of my head.

Arriving at Nino’s house on the border of Isca, the first thing you notice is an imposing black electronic gate. On the right of his property is a field of olive trees owned by an engineer who lives in Rome. Nino’s own olive and mandarin trees block the house to the left, but I’m sure it’s considerably smaller. The Leaning Tower of Pisa is smaller.

“Ciao, Nino, e’ Bruno!” Uncle Bru called through the telecom, his face nearly hitting the receiver.

No answer.

“Ciao, Nino, e’ Bruno!”

Niente.

On the third try, the gate slowly slid open. No one appeared immediately, so Uncle Bruno and I walked down the long cement driveway, passed Nino’s olive trees to our left, until we came to an opening. Olives were strewn on the cement, and some were placed on a towel, apparently to dry.

Nino’s house is three stories tall, all orange brick, with terraces on every level. We went onto the first terrace — which overlooks the olive and mandarin trees, as well as pomegranate and fig trees — to look for an opening. There was a door, but it was not the main opening, so we turned to go back down to the driveway.

That’s when Frine appeared from the rear of the house up the long driveway. Frine, named for a character in a 1950′s Italian movie about Cleopatra, is Nino’s old German Shepard who follows Nino wherever he goes. The poor thing limps from arthritis pain, yet still has the ability to open and close doors. Frine takes small leaps that no doubt kill him, but Nino prods him in his loud basso: “Chiudi la porta, Frine!”

Nino emerged in his gardening outfit, his hands, shirt and pants stained with dirt and his mostly white hair mussed up. He had been picking olives that would later be pressed for oil.

Uncle Bruno and Nino chatted it up, I’m assuming about old times, but God only knows. As someone unfamiliar with Nino’s thick Andreolesi accent, though competent in understanding proper Italian, all I heard was “Buh buh buh buh buh.”

And it seems I’m not the only one. There’s a reason Poppy’s voice is the one greeting callers on Nino’s answering machine.

Nino proceeded to show us around. I was at first reluctant to eat a fig from Nino’s tree, but then the old guy handed me one. “Buh buh buh buh buh. Try it.” He spoke two words of English! In that case, as a show of respect, I had to try it. And it was good.

Inside, the house is made of brick, slate and marble. It has six bedrooms, four bathrooms, three living rooms and terraces everywhere — far more than needed for only Nino and his wife.

In fact, Nino remarked that before he took us there that day, he hadn’t been to the third-floor terrace in a year and a half.

Nonetheless, what a view! From every angle was a tremendous panorama of untamed land. (In the photo above is Isca, where weather alerts come in the form of clouds rolling over the mountain.)

Again inside, another thing that stood house was a photo of young Nino in every room. Yes, every room. Sure, there were family photos here and there, including one of his father and grandparents, but they were 90 percent Nino, who makes sure to point to his young self stationed on some shelf … in every room.

We asked to take a picture of Nino for posterity’s sake, and he immediately positioned himself next to the upstairs fireplace that he hadn’t used in years. Of course, as in on cue, he called to his dog: “Buh buh buh buh buh buh, Frine! Vieni qua!”

Frine immediately sat with Nino for the picture.

OK, now that we got the grand tour, I was hoping to get the cheese and leave. We had so much to see and so little time.

That’s when Nino dropped the bomb: “Buh buh buh buh buh.” Uncle Bruno translated that into “I don’t have it.”

What?! But Poppy said he had it. We were supposed to go to Nino’s for the cheese. We did out duty, saw the fortress, the trees, the view and the dog, and now it was time to go.

But no. We were behind the iron gate and we would only leave when Nino wanted us to leave.

To be continued …

The land by the beach

November 30, 2007 By Carl Leave a Comment

I think it was last year that Nanny and Poppy sold their share of this tract of land by the Marina — it can’t be more than 500 feet from the beach — to Uncle Angelo and his family.

For many years before the sale, the land went untouched. Now it has two buildings — a two-family house in the front and a four family-house in the back.

The developer, Mario Pirelli, who was looking to build Uncle Bruno an apartment on the main road to the town, says all of the apartments have been sold.

It was the land piece of property we owned in Sant’Andrea, though Uncle Bruno says he might try to buy something soon, perhaps even Nino’s summer place down the Marina that he hasn’t used in more than a year.

While the property Poppy sold is in a great location by the beach, that’s also the bad thing about it. Since it lies under sea level, if a big storm came, it’s easy to see how it could get flooded.

And wouldn’t that be horrible…

Filed Under: Sant'Andrea Trip Tagged With: Marina, Nanny, Poppy

The cheese saga begins

November 29, 2007 By Carl Leave a Comment

This pecorino has a past.

In the late ’60s, Uncle Al, hoping that he could tame the odor, wrapped and rewrapped several round slabs Poppy had requested and stuffed them in a bag. The cheese went through Customs safely. His clothes that shared the bag, however, had to be thrown out. No matter how many times they were washed, the smell wouldn’t go away.

But to some, the pain is worth the gain. In 2000, Uncle Bruno and JoAnn devoured the portion of the thick cheese pie Poppy gave them as a gift from his last visit to Sant’Andrea. The cheese, which is made by a goat herder, or pecoraro, near Sant’Andrea, was shared equally between Uncle Bru, Aunt Vera and Dad.

“The cheese was gone in two days,” recalled Uncle Bruno, who tried to hide his infatuation with the formaggio by sneaking some upstairs to munch on. But the smell of the cheese, of uncleaned feet, gave him away, and JoAnn caught him in the act.

We had no choice but to bring at least one pie back to Poppy from this trip. And by the second day, he called three times to remind us.

So we Uncle Bru set up a visit for the next day with Nino, Nanny’s second cousin from her mother’s side. Nino was supposed to have the cheese ready.

We thought it would be easy. It turned out to be an adventure.

Filed Under: Sant'Andrea Trip, The Cheese Saga Tagged With: Chee, Nino, Other stuff, Uncle Bruno

The Codispoti shoe store is still there, kind of

November 28, 2007 By Carl 2 Comments

The Codispoti clan got by pretty well during World War II thanks to this little shoe store, in which the family sold imports from Torino. All the children helped out at the store, located not two minutes from Aunt Nuzza’s house.

This is notably where, in 1937, Poppy and his mother went to bid Nanny’s mother farewell on their way to Brooklyn to reunite with Poppy’s father, Bruno, for the first time in six years.

Something I wrote a while back:

A young romantic

Before leaving Sant’Andrea, Elvira Corry, and her son made the rounds to say good-bye to friends and family. One particular visit had Carlo nervous with anticipation.

On most days, Concetta Codispoti’s children could be found assisting her at her shoe store. She was alone, however, when Elvira and 11-year-old Carlo came to pay their respects.

Concetta and Elvira grew up together in Sant’Andrea, so it was easy for Elvira to share her excitement about the prospect of reuniting with her husband for the first time in six years. Concetta’s own husband had been in America for years, regularly sending back money to the family.

As the two women went on to talk about other issues in the store, which was lined with shoes imported from the northern town of Torino and other leather goods, Carlo’s anxiety bubbled to the surface. He tugged at the back of his mother’s shirt.

“Tell her, mom, tell her,” he pleaded, his head poking up just around her hip. Elvira patted him on the head reassuringly, smiled, and then turned to Concetta.

“Signora,” Elvira said skittishly, pausing for a moment. “I don’t know how to start. My son says that when he grows up, he wants your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Concetta chuckled at the notion and looked down at the boy sympathetically. “That’s sweet,” she said.

“He’s a kid, she’s a kid. Who knows?” Concetta said, shrugging her shoulders.

But this was serious business to Carlo, who promised his heart to Concetta’s daughter Vittoria.

This was all a big surprise to Vittoria, who was at school during Carlo’s admission to her mother. If nothing else, she thought Carlo was a nuisance.

Though he was born in Canton and spent his first four years there, Carlo remembered nothing of the experience. As far as he knew, he spent his whole life in Sant’Andrea. And six years apart from his father, he held only few memories of the man whose name would later bring tears to his eyes as the kindest, most generous person he ever knew.