The chill of the previous evening and the late night rain shower have given way to bright, piercing sunshine that streams through the pointed arch windows of our suite, the “Special Suite” at the Hotel Luna Convento in Amalfi. When planning the trip we had attempted to book a lavish room at off season rates at one of the great hotels along the Amalfi Coast – the Sireneuse in Positano, the Santa Caterina in Amalfi, the Palazzo Sasso in Ravello. Unfortunately the off season rates were not yet in effect. None of the flagships is open for the season. Our research identifies the Luna Convento, an ex convent established in the 1200s by St. Francis of Assisi, as the best of the bunch.

We pull out all the stops and book the “Special Suite,” hoping to hit the jackpot, but are mildly disappointed when we check in, not so much with the room, but with the ordinariness of the welcome. Parking, typical for the tiny towns along the Amalfi coast, is non existent and we essentially have to stop our car on the coastal highway, a ribbon of asphalt bounded on one side by a low stone wall beyond which lies certain death in the form of a plunge into the ocean. The other side is flanked by a rocky, craggy mountainside, into which the road has been hewn, jutting and protruding out in order to disfigure the vehicles of tourists who have the audacity to shift their gaze for a single instant from the perils of the road (which come in form of oncoming Italian drivers, impossibly large busses, pesky motorscooters and, I am not making this up, pedestrians deep in discussion with one another) to the allure of the ocean. Perhaps the coast road is the devilish construct of the sirens for whom the Sireneuse was named and whose name graces hotels and restaurants along the coast.

In any event, parking had been been an adventure the day as we checked in, and there was some intramural grumbling as we were forced to return to the car, crossing the highway of death at a completely blind hairpin turn, in order to fetch our bags and roll, drag and curse them back to the hotel lobby. We then were shown to our room with the promise that our bags would arrive later.

The “Special Suite” is indeed special. A smallish sitting room with couch, easy chair and television (did we mention yet that we have seen no English language television, including the ubiquitous CNN) lead to a staircase to the bedroom, a tower loft completely covered in windows on two sides, revealing views of the monastery and, beyond, the town of Amalfi and the ocean. It is a beautiful view that is only surpassed by the view from the two enormous terraces, a smaller one reached through sliding doors from the main floor, overlooking the cloister of the convent, a larger one, completely covered in blue tile that is reached from a door in the bedroom, that faces Amalfi. The larger terrace, with a dining table in the middle is large enough to host a gathering of 30-40 people, and our minds begin to race where we might find such number of new friends. It seems a waste to let such a fine space go unused.

Anyway, we are awakened in the morning by bright sunshine that not so much jolts us awake as it caresses us awake. Warmed and energized by its rays, we get off to a productive start, managing to sit at the table on the blue terrace and spend several hours eating breakfast (the fare provided by the hotel supplemented by an enormous ball of mozzarella di buffalo we had purchased the day before) and staring at the ocean.

We have an 11:00 meeting scheduled in nearby Ravello with Pasquale Sorrentino, owner of Ceramiche d”Arte and one of our favorite suppliers. Acclimating ourselves to the rhythms of Italy, we climb into our car at 11:05 for the 15 minute drive up (and up and up and up) to Ravello, abandoning earlier plans to walk up the special walking paths or take the public bus.
We drive around Ravello, or rather back up and down the mountain, as the road does not actually go in a loop, finally coming to rest in a parking space the maximum distance from the main square, only slightly closer to the square than our original parking spot at the hotel. We get out and walk to the square, relying on finely honed instinct to find it, as, surprisingly, there are no signs marking the way to centro.

We find the main square and make our way a few meters down one of the pedestrian streets to Ceramiche d’Arte where Pasquale is waiting for us. We have met him once before, two years earlier, and since then our only contact has been by phone and fax, mostly with his extremely efficient manager Rosanna. As we approach on foot, there are glances back and forth with cocked heads as each of us sizes up the other to before taking the plunge and pretending to be excited to see the other after so long. We give in first and reintroduce ourselves, hoping that the man whose hand we are shaking is indeed Pasquale Sorrentino.

It is and for the next several hours we slip back into the easy familiarity and bask in the warmth of his hospitality that had mesmerized us two years earlier. The man is the genuine article, a gifted manager of a ceramics studio (he does not paint himself), an astute judge of quality, a shrewd, hard bargaining businessman, a talented student of the market and a genuinely interesting, engaging and warm personality. He shows us some new patterns, talks about and listens to our assessment of the success of other patterns, sells us some patterns and warns us off others. His shop is exceptional. While many ceramic shops are the retail store for a single studio, or feature a selection from a small number of artists, Pasquale’s shop is packed with an incredible variety of patterns, shapes and sizes, not just from his studio and other local Amalfitano artists, but from across Italy, as Pasquale spends many days each month driving to ceramic hot spots such as Deruta, Gubbio and Sicily.

As we finish our business with Pasquale, he summons Rosanna to meet us. A young, attractive Italian woman who has worked for Pasquale for years, she brings order to the chaos that is his constant whirl of energy and activity. He then leads the four of us outside and up a staircase into his house where his wife, Lara is busily preparing lunch for all of us. Their beautiful house is filled with ceramic tiles and pieces, some of them nicked or chipped here or there, which makes us a tad homesick, as our own home is similarly filled with the unsellable and the expired.

We sit down to a delicious plate of spaghetti alla vongole which is followed by simply grilled fish, the secret ingredient being its incredible freshness. Salad and tomatoes from Pasquale’s garden are swimming in olive oil that is not only local, it is homemade. We finish off with a plate full of almond cookies and other little pastries that Pasquale has scrambled down the street to purchase while we are finishing our fish. And Pasquale insists that we cap the whole affair with a small glass of grappa, reputedly from Romania, Pasquale telling us that there is irrefutable scientific evidence that only grappa provides the therapeutic benefits of reducing cholesterol and fats from the blood while cleansing the digestive system. Amazingly useful information from a ceramicist who does not even play a doctor on TV.

After we say our thank yous and good byes to Lara, we head back to our car with Pasquale and Rosanna to view a couple of apartments that Pasquale owns and rents to visitors. He shows us to connected apartments, perched on the high hills of Ravello in the shadow of the Palazzo Sasso and looking over the Amalfi gulf, a panorama that stretches for miles and miles (or kilometers and kilometers, depending upon your nationality). The modern, comfortable apartments seem like they would be a great place to relax and take in life on the Amalfi coast.

We then drive to nearby Scala, just across a craggy valley from Ravello and also overlooking the sea. While development and wealth have been attracted to Ravello, it is odd that Scala, a mere two minutes away and literally in the shadow of Ravello, seems to have escaped modernity. A billboard in the town square displays a photograph of the entire population of Scala, perhaps 30-40 souls with the caption “Scala. Little town. Big Family.” Pasquale shows us his latest project, an immense abandoned shell of a building which he plans to renovate into a small hotel, perhaps one that will cater to American weddings. Each of us agrees to get married there the next time around.

As we return to our car Pasquale asks us if we are interested in walking back to Amalfi along the pedestrian walkways that make their way up these steep hills. As we had been considering the walk that morning we take him up on his generous offer to drive our car back to the hotel and so we say our goodbyes to he and Rosanna and set off down the mountain for what he promises to be a ½ hour walk.

An hour and a half later, calves mooing, dogs barking and knees aching we arrive at sea level, having made a couple of disastrous wrong turns that take us off the 10 foot wide, gently sloped walkway on to private paths a foot wide, with treacherous drop offs and slopes that nearly require climbing gear. In fact one turn takes us past the Amalfi Rock Climbing Association. We persevere, however, as the only thing worse than going down these steep narrow paths is the prospect of having to turn around and climb up them, but as we return to civilization we begin to think that perhaps the missed turns were not really so disastrous, as they afforded us the opportunity to wander among orange and lemon groves, walk alongside waterfalls and generally escape the cobblestone and dog poop covered streets of the city.

In any event, we finally end up in an unfamiliar square and plop down on two chairs, ordering the largest available bottle of water and the coldest white wine, where we remain for a half hour, wondering where we are. Bill finally sets forth through an archway to the beach to determine in which part of small town of Amalfi we have landed. He returns a few moments later to report that we are not in Amalfi at all, but the village of Atrani. Fortunately, this settlement, which exists nearly completely underneath the Amalfi highway, is the next town over from Amalfi and our hotel is visible, and reachable from there.

We pay up and head back past the hotel to Amalfi proper for some last minute shopping. Returning to the hotel the manager asks us if we are interested in making arrangements for dinner and suggests a “special” place in, you guessed it, Atrani. He is amazed that we know exactly where the restaurant is, as apparently not many Americans venture to walk to Amalfi from Scala and fewer still get totally lost and emerge in Atrani.

Dinner is at a small restaurant called A Paranza a few meters from the square where we were nursed back to life. Seafood is the order of the day again today, as it is every day on the Amalfi Coast. After closely reviewing the menu we ask the waiter to decide for us and he recommends a mixed seafood antipasti and a local fish served with potatoes. The seafood antipasti is a neverending flotilla of small plates, the first with marinated tuna, swordfish, anchovy and a delicious firm white fish called flag fish. Next comes a flag fish filet rolled around scamorza cheese, which is followed by anchovy parmigiano, a fried anchovy filet stuffed with cheese, followed by a mixed seafood gratin served in a scallop shell, tiny prawns in a fava bean puree and finally a deliciously tender grilled squid stuffed with potatoes. America may be a meat and potatoes kind of place. Amalfi is definitely a fish and potatoes kind of place and they have hit on a winning combination.

Our waiter then brings us the main course, a grilled local white fish whose name we are told at least a dozen times only to forget immediately. It is served with soft cubes of potato and dressed with an oil and butter sauce, which necessitates us ordering a grappa afterwards in order to cleanse our blood of this offending fat. Whether the grappa achieves its desired effect, it unquestionably signals the end of a glorious meal and another glorious day and we bid our waiter adieu (or ciao) and head back to the Luna Convento to prepare for tomorrow’s departure from Campagnia and our drive to the south and the mysterious region of Puglia.

As we arise on day two, yesterday’s grey dampness is replaced by blue crispness, and the masses walking past our windows are noticeably less bundled than the previous day. It’s February in Rome and our desire for a mild Roman winter seem to have been fulfilled.
We eat the obligatory cheese, prosciutto and bread washed down by exceptional coffee (in Italy, it seems, everyone is a barista, capable of making the best coffee), check out and, with a sense of dread of impending disaster if not financial ruin, board a taxi for the Stazione Termini. The stazione is Rome’s main train station and from the map it looks like a close call whether we can wheel the luggage armada there on foot or throw financial caution to the winds and go by taxi. Taxi wins out and 15 minutes and what seems like a dozen kilometers later we arrive at the shiny, modern station. Note to self: take taxi to station.

We have reserved tickets and seats on a Eurostar train, something we highly recommend. Tickets are available on www.trenitalia.it, which, if you are able to navigate rudimentary Italian, displays timetables on the dates between the locations you select. Ticket delivery options include ticket by mail (which is not available for those living outside the country), pickup from a ticket dispensing machine or e-ticket. If you choose the latter, you print out your confirmation, written entirely in Italian, of course, and bring it on board with you. Fearing that we may not have fully understood all of the legal disclaimers, we have chosen to print out our ticket from the automatic ticket machine. We select the prepaid internet ticket option (instructions in English), type in our confirmation number and a single ticket, with the number of passengers and seat number printed on it is dispensed. We head to track 9 with several hundred cubic meters of luggage in tow.

The Italian national train system is designed to punish those who refuse to travel light. We board the train, groaning, grunting and straining to lift bag after bag, seemingly hewn out of granite up stairs that, like the cable cars in San Francisco, seem to go halfway to the stars. A small but growing mass of scowling Italians, not appreciating American excess, waits “patiently” behind us as we complete our rock climbing adventure. We have completely screwed up our seat reservations as well, selecting seats that are cattycornered from on another in separate rows that don’t as we believed, face each other, but rather face the same way. Taking the only possible option, we simply sit in the seats that we want, figuring we may be mistaken for Italians. Unfortunately our loud English and boorish manners betray us and an Italian gentleman informs us that one of us is in his seat. He generously offers to change with us when he realizes that we are not only foreigners, but incredibly stupid.

The Eurostar train hurtles through the countryside toward Naples, except at random stations where there must be a pretty woman standing on the platform, because here and there we slow to a crawl, only to speed up again. The effect makes Suzy change colors like a chameleon, her obvious favorites being green and white.

We alight in Salerno two and a half hours after we departed Rome. Or did we alight in Sorrento? There seems to be some confusion here. Our tickets say Roma a Salerno. A quick check of the rental car confirmation says EuropeCar Salerno city office. But all of Bill’s crack research regarding what to see and where to eat centers on the lovely coastal town of Sorrento a hundred miles and, by windy coastal roads, several hours away. Salerno, too, is a coastal town, but from our vantage point that is where the similarity ends. We ease out into traffic and reacquaint ourselves with the adventure that is driving in Italy, starting off on our hourlong journey from Salerno to Amalfi, via the tiny village of Vietri sul Mare and along the famed Amalfi coast road.

We settle in for a short drive from Salerno to Vietri sul Mare but we were not expecting the drive to be under two minutes. Perhaps it will take some getting used to the scale of the map, but we expected at least five to ten minutes of twisty coastal road, the glimmering sea on the left beyond a sheer dropoff, towering mountains on the right. Instead, we leave Salerno (or is it Sorrento?), make one or two twists, enough to bring back memories of the Eurostar, and nearly shoot past the town of Vietri sul Mare. Having visited it a couple of years back we recognize a horribly ugly ceramics factory/showroom apparently designed by a disciple of Gaudi who either has no architectural ability or so hates the profession and mankind that he left us this monument. Fortunately it is not missable and we avoid completely passing by Vietri sul Mare.

To many Americans, the name Vietri is recognizable, for it is a well known brand name for ceramics imported from the town of Vietri sul Mare. The distinctive patterns include vibrant primary colors with primitive designs of fish, rabbits, pigs and the like painted around the rims of plates, bowls and mugs. A group of women in North Carolina so liked the designs that they began importing them and selling them across the country. This is a success story we certainly are all in favor of.

We park in the town’s main square. Vietri sul Mare consists of about 3 streets carved into the cliffs facing the ocean. One street reaches down to the sea, one tilts up toward the “highway” and the third meanders around in a loop, a few tributaries splitting off of it and petering out into dead ends. Incredibly we get lost on the main street, unable to find any signs of civilization or commerce, drawing stares from a few locals as we head toward what we think is centro, the town center, only to dead end at the local duomo, from which the only exit is to retrace our steps.
We finally reconnect with the main street and find a couple of restaurants. February along the Amalfi coast is definitely off season, however. The hordes of tourists that pack the streets, shops and restaurants of Vietri sul Mare, Amalfi, Positano and Capri are simply not here in February and, consequently, the hotels, restaurants and nightclubs that cater to these tourists are for the most part closed during the winter months. Fortunately even the locals need to eat out occasionally, so we find an small restaurant, la Locanda, open for lunch.

La Locanda seems to be run by a husband and wife team and the only other patrons are an American mother-daughter-grandmother (this is not a word game, there are three people there), which, surprisingly, we don’t find the least bit annoying. Being on the coast we opt for the mixed grilled seafood entrée, enjoying another grilled artichoke and a huge ball of delicate mozzarella di buffalo, a specialty of this region of Campagnia. The grilled plate is so simple yet so sublime, an indifferent grilled shrimp that is flanked by a light white fish filet that is made for the olive oil and lemon dressing that is spread over it and in which it bathes. The crown jewel is a smoky grilled squid, which is flattened and lightly grilled, which renders this often tough frutto di mare a tender sensation. Wash all of this down with a bottle of local falanghina white wine and life seems to be pretty good.

After lunch we wander from store to store (to store to store to store . . .), each displaying a small twist on the famed Vietri designs. We stop in our tracks, however, when we pass an alleyway with a few ceramics pieces displayed on the corners of the recessed building. It is the home of Ceramiche di Klaus, whose real name is Claudio. Inside his studio there is a collection of some of the most original and beautiful designs that we have ever seen. Combining modern designs evoking Picasso on unusual shapes, we immediately fall in love and express that love through commerce, buying piece after piece. (We’ve include this to see if you are reading, Wendy.) According to the delightful old man minding the store (who turns out to be Claudio’s brother), Klaus is in Paris at a trade show. The old man and his young son are basically acting as caretakers while the maestro is away and, with few tourists in town, no one can be expecting a big day at the till. We hope and think that we made their day the same way that Klaus made ours.

We leave Vietri sul Mare bound for Amalfi, the principle town in a once powerful maritime republic. The road to Amalfi is the stuff of legends (I will find a link to our previous writing on the subject) and we narrowly avoid several incidente along the way, some peace of mind deriving from the mandatory collision insurance that is included in all Italian car rentals. A half hour later, we pull up in front of the Hotel Luna, an ex convent founded of St. Francis of Assisi and converted into a hotel hundreds of years ago. We are shown to the “special suite” with two private terraces, one that overlooks the convent, the higher one off of our bedroom that overlooks Amalfi and the ocean. More on the hotel tomorrow.

We unpack and head into town which is deader than a vampire with two wooden stakes through his heart, taking an hour to find a decent place to sit and enjoy a glass of wine. We try a promising spot, a beach bar with a couple of dozen locals standing partially inside and partially on the beach. When we arrive we discover the commotion is the result of the fact that the beach bar is also the off track betting parlor and lottery ticket distribution center. The crowd definitely looks like the horsey set – gamblers, not breeders.

We walk the town, eying potential dining spots and settle on Risto, named after the owner/chef. The menu talks about Risto’s facility in making and adorning sciacatielli, a local hand made pasta and that is enough to seal the deal for us. We enter, are seated and begin a several hour adventure as the only diners in the restaurant that evening. Signore Risto brings out two beautiful fat red fish with enormous clear eyes, explaining to us that he wishes to prepare a special fish dish using these beauties, which are called occhio bello or pretty eyes. We agree and a little while later he brings us a pasta dish with a local sauce called acqua pazza (crazy water) that is a light, tomato based sauce, with potatoes, capers and shellfish. It is the perfect food for this place and we follow it with the occhio bello in a similar acqua pazza sauce, which Risto claims to have invented. A local white Fiano di Avellino completes the meal, which comes to a close when Signore Risto brings us a plate of local monaco cheese and pears, drizzled with raspberry sauce and two grappas. We celebrate 36 hours in Italy with full stomachs and sweet memories as we return to the Hotel Luna and fall asleep in the same spot that St. Francis did centuries ago after he, too, dined on seafood acqua pazza and drank the local grappa.

Sweet dreams, St. Francis.

It has been nearly a year since our last visit to Italy, that one in March 2005 with our four children in tow (and that one a different story to be told later) and our plane lands in a cold, damp fog at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport early in the morning, with our thoughts full of anticipation. The flight over has been uneventful, just the way we like it, and we are able to sleep a fair amount, the last sleep we will get for another 18 hours.

We fight through a phalanx of car service, bus service and independent taxi drivers, all begging us to engage them for the half hour ride to Rome. We opt, instead, for an official taxi in the queue just outside the terminal. The journey takes us past Eur, a monumental and monumentally ugly city built by Mussolini during his reign and through the city gates where we effortlessly ease back into the cacophony that is Roman traffic, a fitting representation of the rhythm of Roman life.

The taxi pulls in front of our hotel, the Locanda Cairoli, a smallish, comfortable hotel for locals and tourists alike located in the Piazza Benedetto Cairoli. The piazza, a small, run down square that is difficult for Americans to pronounce is virtually invisible to Roman taxi drivers – none, at least that we have met, has ever heard of it. We roll our small armada of luggage into the entryway of the building, down a long corridor, snagging every doormat and rug under our wheels, dragging them the length of the hallway to the entrance of the elevator, a turn of the century device obviously developed when humans were smaller and thinner than they are now and long before luggage was invented. We cram the fleet into these close quarters and Bill rides up with the bags, Suzy wisely deciding to take the stairs.

Amazingly, our room is ready even though it is before 10 in the morning. We are invited by the reception to help ourselves to breakfast and coffee, which we do. We plan our excursion for the day, thinking that we will see some sights and do a little shopping until lunchtime, then possibly retire for a nap sometime in the afternoon.

We leave the hotel and head directly for the Campo dei Fiori, one of Rome’s most inviting spots and a definite favorite of ours. An outdoor market of fresh fruits and vegetables, with some butchers, fishmongers, confectioners and a few misplaced vendors of low end clothing more suited for a fleamarket, the Campo dei Fiori never disappoints, even in the day’s cold gray mist. We are entranced by the incredible bounty of it all, the overflowing bins stuffed with endless varieties of lettuces and herbs, shiny red tomatoes that set off pavlovian gushes of saliva, zucchini, eggplants and colorful peppers and today is even made even more memorable by scattered fires in barrels, lit by stall owners to warm them and their customers on this damp, chilly day. Perched up on a crate is a large round melon of some sort, as big as a basketball and brown, the color of a football. It is only when we view it from the other side, with its innards exposed, do we discover that it is a pumpkin (“zucca”), its orange flesh and seeds looking every bit as tempting as our orange cased jack ‘o lantern variety.

We pry ourselves from this display and head toward the Tiber, our destination the Palazzo Farnesina which, according to an American Express Departures magazine featuring Italy that we squirreled away several years ago, contains an example of tromp l’oeil that is not to be missed. Sensing this, our city map plays its own tricks on our eyes, leading us in an enormous spiral that eventually leads to the palazzo.

The exhibit is interesting but rather unremarkable, the most engaging aspect being an adorable group of 5 year old Italian school children, sitting on the floor of one of the rooms, listening attentively to their teacher speak of Rafaello while the assistant teacher snaps flash photo after flash photo in the shadows of a sign prohibiting visitors from sitting on the floor or taking photographs of any sort. Italians reputedly don’t pay their taxes, either.

The Salone della Prospettive with the renowned tromp l’oeil fails to wow. The large salon is painted with columns that frame a distant landscape, which is supposed to make the viewer believe that the room has no wall, just columns that frame a distant landscape. And the painter succeeds, but only if you stand in one particular spot on the floor and even then only if you squint and imagine that you are on a terrace, with a distant landscape framed by columns. Our advice: if you have to walk 15 and ½ miles in an ever tightening spiral to visit the Palazzo Farnesina, you might consider skipping it. If you have a good car service that can drop you right in front, it’s worth a visit.

Lunch beckons, and after all, food is perhaps the principle reason we have come to Italy. We wander past the Trevi Fountain to the Piazza San Silvestro and duck into Tritone (via Dei Maroniti, 1-3-5, tel. 06/6798181, www.trattoriatritone.com) a smallish, simple trattoria in a pretty shishi area of Rome. We start with a roast artichoke roman style – grilled and lightly marinated in vinegar. We had seen multitudes of fresh artichokes (carciofi) at the Campo dei Fiori this morning and they are buonissimo. Suzy follows this with a plate of grilled fish and Bill has abbachio, a grilled lamb dish. Suzy’s strategy in choosing the grilled fish v. fried fishes is that you generally get better fish if it is grilled. When ordering the fritti misti, restaurants generally heap piles of unidentified tiny fishes, which could well be guppies or neon tetras given that they are battered and inhaled like aquatic french fries.

The rest of the afternoon is spent shopping for presents for the children (just checking to see if the kids are reading the website), but before heading back to the hotel and searching for dinner we take a stroll around the Spanish Steps. There we visit the cultural mecca that draws all visitors to Rome – McDonalds. Several decades ago we visited the McDonalds at the Spanish Steps, hearing of its legendary hamburgers and world renowned hot apple pies served over ancient Roman ruins. Entering then, we were struck by antique Roman mosaic floors and a festive fountain, but were asked to leave when Bill attempted to videotape this unique Italian adaptation of America. This time, we were free to film the sites, testimony to how the world has changed since the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Deciding to dine lightly, we choose la Bruschetteria degli Angeli, right next door to our hotel (P.zza B. Cairoli, 2/a, tel. 06/68.80.89). The suffix –eria is a magical suffix in Italian that transforms anything mundane into the superlative. In this case a simple bruschetta, essentially toasted bread with toppings, such as olive paste, tomatoes or prosciutto is ennobled when served in a bruschetteria. But noble it is, and the perfect food to cap the perfect end of the perfect day. For while we have now been wandering and shopping and eating and sipping wine and drinking coffee and missing our kids and being amazed by imperial Roman, renaissance and modern art and architecture, it is time to close chapter one on our adventure. In all the excitement we have neglected to notice that we have been here for nearly three quarters of a day, that our internal clocks are set for somewhere around the Azores and that tomorrow morning we have a train to catch to the Amalfi coast. Roma, we hardly knew ye.

(N.B. While we were pleased with ourselves at not being taken in by gypsie cabbies at Leonardo da Vinci (Fiumicino) Airport, we notice late in the day that our Euros, dispensed earlier in the day from an ATM are running surprisingly low. It is then that it dawns on us that our honest, official taxi driver has scammed us in the most embarrassing way. For a fare of Euro 76, I tender Euro 80, a 50 and three 10s. He corrects me, saying that the fare is Euro 80 and that I have given him four 10s. Not noticing that he has switched the Euro 50 I have given him for a Euro 10 note, I give him four more 10s and, for good measure, throw on a Euro 10 tip. Total cost for a taxi from Fiumicino to our hotel – Euro 130. Being able to write about it on a travel blog – priceless.

Olive trees growing on the beach. Only in Italy.

continued . . .

Sulmona is a gem. This assessment is likely influenced by the weather, which after a day and a half of cold, wet, grayness, has gradually brightened and warmed until it has reached today’s perfection, but it is true nonetheless. We are standing just off the main square, an enormous piazza that is entered by passing under a perfectly restored Roman aqueduct and which is flanked by well kept palazzi. The group is in exceptional spirits, perhaps due to the crisp weather, perhaps due to the beautiful scenery of the piazza and the snow flecked mountains surrounding us on all sides. I think, however, that the mood is attributable to the end of jetlag and by our growing friendships, which are forged by our shared experiences over the past three days (as well as many meals and much wine shared together). Familiarity and spontaneous humor have replaced the sterile recitations of our respective curricula vitae. We have come to appreciate one another and a real pleasure in each others’ company is apparent.

This is a group that likes a joke, especially when it comes at the expense of someone else. Themes and running gags are beginning to develop, such as Fernando’s observation that lamb is served with every course of every meal. As we wander into the piazza we approach a stand selling ladies’ hosiery. Fascinated by the dozens of manikin legs bedecked in differing styles of sock and hose, I take a number of close up photos, artistic shots that earn me much ribbing from the group, a matter that is made worse when the stand’s proprietor offers to mail me a copy of his catalog which features semi-clad women as much as it does his offering of socks.

We take a stroll around Sulmona, a slow, meandering walk past ancient buildings that span the recorded history of Italy. I am struck by how spotless, how modern and how large this town is. Italians call such towns paese, the same word they use to connote country. Looking on a map I would hardly give this village a second thought and cannot imagine altering my itinerary to visit it. But a paese it is – I could spend a week here, fully satisfied with the sights, sounds, smells and general good feeling. I really like this town.

Our destination is the Ristorante Gino and we are killing time until the appointed hour. So we continue to stroll. On this corner is a retail shop for Pelino confetti. Next door, with confetti flowers displayed along the door jamb is a William di Carlo shop. Alimentari – Italian specialty food shops – are also selling Pelino, di Carlo and other confetti, as well as Pan Ducale, Parozzo and many of the other confections we have visited or are about to visit. Truly the confection industry plays an important role in Abruzzo.

We wander down a block and it’s déjà vu all over again. Here is a Pelino store and two doors down a di Carlo store. We wander a few more blocks and more of the same. Pelino, di Carlo, di Carlo, Pelino. We even see a di Carlo store with a sign from the previous generation of di Carlo, the owner apparently not having received word of the handing down of the family business to the son. What we have here is the Italian version of Starbucks: confetti on every corner.
We wander back past the main piazza on the way to Gino’s to see scores of uniformed policemen that have just taken part in some sort of ceremony. Their uniforms indicate that they are prison guards and perhaps it is graduation day at the academy. Regardless, this unusual sight of Italians in uniform with smiles on their faces (Italian police, such as the carabinieri are generally quite severe looking – especially when they carry machine guns) adds to the growing good feeling among our group.

I mention all this, because the lunch that is about take place is one of the most magical experiences in recent memory. Perhaps it was the food. Perhaps the wine, which flowed copiously. There is no doubt that this is among the best meals I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying. But more likely it was an inevitability, the confluence of good food, good wine, good weather and good people. Not that we have not had our share of enjoyment thus far. But this is something special.

We enter Ristorante Gino (Piazza Plebiscito, 12, Sulmona, tel. 0864.52289), a simple room with vaulted ceilings and a couple dozen tables. We are seated against a wall at a large table and who is seated one table over but a group of about 20 of those same prison guards, engaged in loud conversation, drinking wine and having a glorious time. On a number of occasions I am overtaken by the urge to shout “Prison Break!” only to be thwarted by my inability to translate it into Italian.

The food at Gino’s is magical and, as we have become accustomed to, never ending. We start with a mixed antipasto platter and despite the promise of a platter, is in reality a series of plates served one after another. A plate of local meats. Assorted crostini, including one with a crema di cecini, a paste made from wild chick peas that Alfredo tells us is typical of the cucina rustica movement that is currently in vogue in Italy. A ramekin with opaque green sprouts that look like washed out green beans, smothered in local olive oil and flavored with red pepper flakes. These, we find out, are garlic sprouts, the shoots that grow from your garlic when you leave it in the clay pot too long. Sometimes called scapes, we discover, they taste delicately of garlic and make an extremely pleasant crunchy snack.

The antipasti offerings are served by a tall, striking man in his forties, impeccably dressed and clearly in charge of the room. Another man who appears to be his brother checks on us often. A matronly woman dressed in white apron and a white toque hovers around, making sure we eat everything, likely the mother of the two brothers. In Italy the best trattorias seem to be family enterprises. As we have seen over the past several days, the confection industry seems to follow this pattern as well.

Wanting a light lunch, although already having failed, I have ordered a grilled scamorza, a ball of smoked cheese a little larger than a tennis ball. It is hung to age, tied around its top, a process that slightly elongates it and gives it the shape of a gourd. It has been scalded on a hot grill so that its outer skin hardens even more and leaves delicious grill marks. The hardened skin ruptures in places and soft, molten cheese oozes from the lacerations. It is a simple meal, but the crunchy, smoky skin with the hotter, oozing cheese is perfection itself.

And what of our group? Each is having his own culinary epiphany, including Fernando who is sampling a lamb dish. Smiles are evident all around and the conversation gets more and more animated until it reaches the moment I think we have all been waiting for. In one of the numerous discussions around the table someone has engaged Alfredo in a conversation about regional differences, including regional accents. Finally lowering his reserve to match his American guests, Alfredo begins a dissertation on and performace of various regional accents, including the clipped cadences and inverted syntax of the Sardinians, the unmelodic monotone of the Romani, the reversal of “c” and “h” by the Florentines that results in requests for hoha hola for America’s favorite soft drink. A natural showman (apparently President Berlusconi was a lounge singer on a cruise ship in an earlier career), Alfredo captivates and entertains us through dessert, when the prison guards finish up and, we hope, return home rather than going back to work.

We finish up as well, and head back to the pullman, another meal under (and bulging over) our belts.

We assemble in front of the hotel at an hour generally agreed to be much too early in order to board our bus (“pullman” in Italian – I do love the way the Italians tend to borrow English words like Pullman, referring to the company that popularized the touring bus, that tends to freeze time in the distant past) for a drive to Sulmona, an ancient trading town in a deep mountain valley to the south of Pescara and the center of the Italian confetti industry. Put simply, Sulmona and confetti are synonymous.

Confetti are best described to Americans as high class Jordan Almonds. They couldn’t be simpler – a roasted almond covered with a thick sheath of sugar coating – but they hold an exalted place in Italian society. These crunchy little sugar bombs are an indispensable fixture at weddings, baptisms, christenings, graduations – just about any important religious or civic occasion in Italy. Alfredo explains that some of the numerous colors they come in – white, pink, red, blue, green (some are even coated in edible silver or gold leaf) – are traditionally reserved for particular events; white for weddings, pink for christenings, etc.. He jokes that in an effort to expand the market for confetti, deep red confetti have been reserved for divorces.

The drive to Sulmona takes us inland and toward the Maiella mountains, an enormous range that makes up part of the Appenines that bisect the boot of Italy vertically, like an overgrown shinbone. Sulmona itself is tucked in a low valley surrounded by towering mountains, capped with snow, on three sides. A few popular ski resorts are found nearby, but the industry here is confetti, confetti, confetti.

We visit two confetti producers, William di Carlo (with whom I had the pleasure of sharing lunch during the introductory workshop on Tuesday) and Pelino, the oldest producer of confetti in Sulmona. But there are dozens of other confetti producers in Sulmona, who toil away at their coating machinery to produce confetti for tradition-honoring Italians.

We enter William di Carlo’s facilities, which house not only the production of di Carlo’s confetti and other confections (he also makes torrone and other sweets) but also a vast showroom of confetti and wedding-related gifts. Here we see for the first time that confetti is not simply a Jordan Almond on steroids, in the hands of skilled Sulmona craftsmen it is a work of art. As we step through the front door bouquets of colorful floral arrangements are everywhere, in whites, reds, purples, greens and pinks. But these are not real flowers; instead inside every petal is a confetto, a single coated almond, painstakingly handcrafted into a flower, with the addition of petals, each flower arranged into a bunch and displayed in a vase. These arrangements are set on banquet tables at wedding receptions or other occasions to give a festive air.

Elsewhere confetti are being put in sachetti or sachets, always in an odd number, to be handed out to guests at the important celebration.

We wander through room after room filled with these confetti-based treasures that are supplemented with other wedding gifts. These rooms are truly a bride’s dream come true.
We are shown the production process which is really quite simple. Almonds from Avola in Sicily (it is confirmed by everyone we meet that Avola produces the best almonds in the world) are placed in a machine that resembles a cement mixer (the stationary kind, not the enormous ones that are built into trucks), and a coating medium, either sugar or chocolate is poured over the nuts as they are rotated. The process is carefully controlled both in terms of time, temperature and moisture, with hot and cool air being jetted into the container at given times. I don’t confess to understand how it all works, but after several hours this sticky goo becomes . . . drum roll, please . . . confetti.

We thank Signore di Carlo for the tour, reboard the pullman and head across town to one of di Carlo’s nemeses, Confetti Pelino. Housed in a small building on a commercial street, Pelino is part factory, part retail store and part museum. We pass through the retail portion which, like di Carlo, displays beautiful confetti floral arrangements and a variety of wedding trinkets, walk up the staircase in the rear, briefly viewing the production machinery through a window and enter the Pelino shrine to confetti.

Pelino is a family run business, having been owned and managed by six generations of Pelino since 1783. The names of the forbears, each one male until this generation, when ownership was passed to five Pelini of both genders, are listed on a plaque at the beginning of the exhibit. The rooms that follow contain exhibits of confetti and other Pelino products from yesteryear, correspondence and testimonials from famous Italians proclaiming their love and devotion for Pelino confetti (a particularly macabre exhibit is a box of decaying Pelino confetti from over one hundred years ago, found stuffed in every pocket of a uniquely gluttonous, but famous Italian composer upon his death) and machinery from ancient to modern times that has been used for making confetti.

According to our hosts, confetti has been traced back to the time hundreds of years before the birth of Christ, and Sulmona became the epicenter of the confetti industry due to its strategic placement on trade routes that had to be traversed by Adriatic merchants wishing to do business throughout the Italian peninsula. Simply put, Sulmona was the place where almonds met sugar and for that, the Pelino family is obviously very happy (and wealthy).

The exhibit goes on to lionize Mario Pelino, inventor and confetti cognoscenti par excellence, who invented and patented the confetti cement mixer, a feat that is chronicled in great detail.
We exit the exhibit and are summoned upstairs to meet one of the senior Pelino family members, a tall thin man dressed in an expensive tailored suit and those impossibly fashionable Italian eyeglasses. Exuding an air of if not royalty, at least vast wealth and privilege, he gives an uninspired presentation, talking about their efforts to expand into the U.S. market. He appears singularly unimpressed with our group, a ragtag bunch of Americans, not one of which sports those impossibly fashionable Italian eyeglasses or an expensive tailored suit and none of whom exude royalty or wealth. He perks up, however, when one of our group asks him about the availability of individually wrapped confetti for use as a bedtime mint to be placed on pillows throughout his international hotel chain. Interest is further piqued when another of our group speaks of carrying confetti in his national grocery chain.

We depart Pelino after a half hour, having convinced Count Confetti that we were worthy of an audience. I leave with the thought that perhaps, unlike confetti where the beauty is apparent on the surface, we Americans may not always dazzle with our outer shell, but that sometimes you have to look hard to find the almond within.

On the map, Scanno, our destination this afternoon, is approximately 15 kilometers (about 10 miles) from Sulmona. The drive, however, takes about 45 minutes, as we wind back and forth along a mountain road to this beautiful, but isolated paese, home of di Masso Dolciaria, maker of Pan dell’Orso, another version of the famed peasant cake of the Abruzzo.

We have been told that lago di Scanno (lake Scanno) is one of the most beautiful lakes in Italy, but it is lago San Domenico, less a lake than a slight widening of the Sagittario River, that brings oohs and ahs from the crowd. A milky green color, the lake follows the road for about a mile, giving way to a clear blue color at its source, where we pass through an ancient gateway, marking the final portion of the road to Scanno.

We arrive in the small town at dark, the temperature having dropped precipitously from the afternoon warmth. We make our way to di Masso, where Signore Gino di Masso, owner of the dolciaria welcomes us. Signore di Masso tells his unusual story of reverse immigration, where his father, who had emigrated from Italy to the United States returned to Abruzzo after the war. Although born in Italy, Signore di Masso has an affinity for the United States and is determined to bring Abruzzo (and, of course, Pan dell’Orso) to the attention of America.

We tour the facilities, once again impressed by the how these family businesses are able to meld machinery with the human touch. It seems as though there is a specially designed machine to do every task – mixing the dough, making crepes, covering cakes in chocolate, packaging and sealing finished products – but each process is monitored and nudged by human intervention. Dough is tested, crepes are crunched, chocolate is monitored to ensure it is at the correct temperature for coating and finished packages are boxed by hand. While automated, these are artisinal products that reflect the craftsmanship and care of the humans that make them.

We sample products and then retire to the café run by di Masso to talk about his products. The conversation turns to Abruzzo, however, as Signore di Massso is fiercely proud of his region and Scanno in particular. He asks us how he and his fellow Abruzzese can bring Abruzzo to America and Americans to Abruzzo. A thoughtful conversation follows. Selling Abruzzo to American will not be easy, we agree. It is practically unknown to Americans and lacks the sex appeal of Tuscany or the major cities of Rome, Florence or Venice. It seems to me that Abruzzo will have to grow into the American consciousness over time, slowly building and audience that can spread the word and build a following. It seems to me, too, that it is a goal that is extremely worthwhile, for Abruzzo has so much to offer.

We take leave of Signore di Masso and return to our pullman. Dinner has been planned this evening in Scanno, but the group, swollen from lunch at Gino’s, samples of confections throughout the day, and the cumulative gorging of the past several days, decides that we have had enough. We take a stroll around the lovely town of Scanno, retire to the pullman (where Daniel and Monty have been kind enough to supply us with prosecco for the return drive) and head back to Pescara for an evening on our own. Many take the opportunity to fast for an evening as we prepare for our final day tomorrow, which will take us to the capital of Abruzzo – l’Aquila – where we will visit to two torrone producers. Who would have thought that not eating dinner in Italy would be such a welcome pleasure?

Today we visit several of the producers that we met at yesterday’s workshop. All of them have something special to show us and all of them have something special to say, even if they are not aware that they are saying it.

We visit Luigi d’Amico, producer of parrozzo, Abruzzo’s best known and most beloved confection. Parrozzo received its name compliments of Gabriele d’Annunzio, the region’s larger-than-life literary giant who is practically a patron saint in Abruzzo. He suggested the name, a derivative of pane (bread) and rozzo (rough), for this peasant bread that has been gussied up for the modern market. Signore Pierluigi Francini, the fifth generation in his family to run Luigi d’Amico leads us on a tour of the facilities, but of greater interest is his storytelling of the genesis of parrozzo and of his forebear’s relationship with d’Annunzio. (Parrozzo, which is made with whole wheat flour and no yeast, represented the only ingredients available to ancient peasants after they sold the good stuff – farina, or white flour – to the rich landlords. As they followed their grazing herds southward for the winter, they would take this rough bread with them to remind them of home and to sustain them until their return.)

The anteroom of the d’Amico bakery is a veritable museum, the walls covered with black and white photographs of famous Italians from bygone eras, together with their correspondence to Signore Francini’s relatives singing the praises of parrozzo. One would think it on par with Fleming’s discovery of penicillin, but such is the allure of Abruzzo, where a humble peasant cake can play such a meaningful role in the life of its people. Why there are even letters from King Victor Emanuelle and Benito Mussolini!

Not satisfied simply to create an indoor shrine to parrozzo, the province of Pescara, in collaboration with Luigi d’Amico, published a beautiful book entitled “Una Fetta della Cultura d’Abruzzo” (A slice of Abruzzo Culture), featuring the photographs and recollections of these famous Italians about d’Amico confections, primarily parrozzo. There is even a handwritten score for a song about parrozzo, written by a well-known local composer, with lyrics by an equally famous writer (“ma la piu grande allegrezza, ma la piu grande dolcezza di Pescara e il Parrozzo. Chi lo mangia ci fa nozze,” which translates, to the extent of my Italian, “but the greatest joy, the greatest sweet in Pescara is Parrozzo. He who eats it will get married here.” Even if it is not an accurate translation, I think you get my point.)

We leave this shrine to sweetness and head to the mountain town of Atri to visit a licorice producer and the producer of Pan Ducale, another local cake vying for primacy in hearts and minds of Abruzzese. We are joined for lunch by Danilo d’Amario, the youthful Managing Director of Pan Ducale and son of the matriarch who does the baking for this family run business. We eat an excellent lunch at Locanda Duca d’Atri (via S. Domenico, 54, Atri, tel. 085-8797586, closed Tuesdays) in record time, as we have two afternoon appointments. Our lunch group raves about our two different vini rossi, both Montepulciano d’Abruzzo D.O.C. wines. The Montepulciano d’Abruzzo is one of three D.O.C. wines from Abruzzo and is often confused with the better known Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. We have learned that the local wine, Montepulciano d’Abruzzo is named after the Montepulciano grape from which it is made whereas Vino Nobile di Montepulciano is named for the town of Montepulciano in Tuscany where it is made from sangiovese grapes. I still chuckle when recalling that when ordering a bottle of Montepulciano the previous evening at dinner, our waiter replied to the modifier “d’Abruzzo” in typical Abruzzese style simply with “there is another?”

We briefly tour Altri, a mountain town north of Pescara that is older than Rome and once again a thoroughly serene and wonderful experience. Then it is off to Liquirizia Menozzi & De Rosa, one of a handful of licorice producers in the world. They demonstrate the entire production process, from the extraction of licorice essence from the roots of the licorice plants, to the extruding, cutting and polishing of hard, pure licorice lozenges, and the mixing, extruding, cutting and packaging of better known soft licorice. Stefano Menozzi and his brother show us the impressive product line, which includes charming pasta-shaped licorice, sold in boxes that look like boxes of pasta.

We then return to Pan Ducale, where Danilo regales us with stories about the origins of the Pan Ducale (it was given to the newly installed Duke by the citizens of Atri who feared his retribution. He apparently like it and spared the population a horrible death. Indeed, according to Danilo, the Pan Ducale was later used as a present by the Duke to a rival King and was so well received that war was averted. Lesson: make cakes, not war). He shares some historical teachings with us, including the little known right of dukes to jus prime noctis and then begins assailing us with cakes and pastries brought up from the bakery by his perpetually-smiling mother every 15 minutes or so. The whole family enterprise is so friendly and smiling that we dub it “the happiest place on earth (other than Disney World).”

After refusing yet another proffered sweet we bid our adieus but are unexpectedly joined on the bus by Danilo, who accompanies us to his grandfather’s local olive oil pressing facility. The machinery is run by Danilo’s grandfather for local olive growers who cannot afford their own processing equipment, and Danilo wants to show us how olive oil is made. Unfortunately, bad weather has stifled any recent harvesting, so there is no activity tonight, except for Danilo’s activity, the level of which has been high and continuous all day long. He shows us how the machinery operates and then insists that we sample some of the olio novello. In an instant wine glasses are passed around and recently produced local wine is poured for all. Danilo, it seems, simply can’t stand to part with us.

And then come the stories, or rather the story. Danilo, who is clearly very proud of his octogenarian grandfather asks him to show us a picture of a special German woman that his grandfather first met as a prisoner of war in Germany. He produces a small newspaper article from his wallet, the reverse side showing the eye of (presumably) a woman. In cutting out the article about her, he apparently defaced the picture on the opposite side.

According to Danilo – and I am sure I am getting some of the facts wrong – his father met this woman somehow while a POW in Germany. He overheard her talking about him and thought she was demeaning him in German, only later to discover that she was hitting on him. The war ended and he never saw her again. Apparently, however, he has never stopped talking about this woman and recently Danilo had business in Switerland that would take him close to the town where the encounter occurred. He talked his grandfather into accompanying him and after much effort, they narrowed their search to a small area. One night at dinner Danilo engaged some locals in conversation about their search, and as the two sides translated their questions and answers back and forth, the grandfather and one of the dinner patrons realized that they were talking about each other. According to Danilo’s grandfather, the woman leapt up and kissed him. “She really ate me up.”

Sometimes, it seems, love at first sight does end well. But after my third day here I am happy with Abruzzo, my slow and steady new love.

Humans are capable of experiencing two types of love, which are neither mutually exclusive nor mutually compatible. The first is the stuff of literature and movies, the wild, sensual love that is impulsive, all-consuming and, often, fleeting or self-destructive. The second is a steady love that is neither flashy nor outwardly focused nor selfish. It is “the love of a good woman” type of love, that is balanced, proper and lasting. Love can come at first sight, but such love is revered and romanticized because it is the exception, rather than the rule. More often the love that lasts is a love that is built on a solid foundation, a love that grows and changes over time, a love in which both partners give to and take from the relationship without keeping score or tally.

Today I woke up realizing that in a few short days I have grown to love Abruzzo. Not the impulsive love at first sight kind of love, but the hold hands and slowly stroll down the street type of love. Other parts of Italy, like Tuscany, offer the flash and sexiness that have also won my heart, but here the process has been slower, so slow that I didn’t realize that I was falling in love. Perhaps I was set up – the Italian Trade Commission who organized this trip may have known that if we were kept in Abruzzo for more than a few days we would all fall in love with it. God knows, I doubt I would have planned to stay here for five days or even visit at all without their encouragement. But it has come to pass. I am in love and I don’t want to change.

And on what foundation is this love built? For one, the people. For several days we have been in the company of Abruzzese artisans – men and women proud of their work, their families, their traditions and their histories. These people admittedly occupy a special place and may not accurately reflect the majority of Abruzzo, but when you are in love, you don’t care about such things. It is enough to be with them, to be in their presence and to share their stories, their feelings and their aspirations for themselves, their families and their region.

The place they live in is truly remarkable. The tourist literature hypes that Abruzzo uniquely features mountains, valleys and the sea. It is a remarkable place just for that reason, the mountains, valleys and the sea. Pescara, a typical beach town, has served as our base of operations. It is not particularly attractive (especially at this time of year when the beach is deserted and many of the beachfront enterprises are shut down for the season), but it is hard not to like a place that has miles of sand, gentle breezes and palm trees. It is renowned, too, for its seafood, which he have not yet been able to sample as the rough seas have kept the fleet in port, but that will only add to its pleasantness.

In a matter of minutes, one can be exploring the coast, such as we did yesterday along the trabucchi coast, finding hidden treasures and then head inland and find oneself in towering mountains that look out on other mountains or back over the coast.

This is an area with an unrivaled past. It is full of ancient towns that predate Rome and civilizations that vied with it. The mountain towns are jewels – hodgepodges of historical eras and architectural styles piled one atop another, melding and blending together to create a mystical feeling. Streets are laid out along ancient footpaths, meandering and ambling from here to there, and you feel your mind and spirit transformed and transported to a different place by the simple act of walking. (Beware, this is a tangent: Social scientists have theorized that western peoples, who typically inhabit carpentered spaces, with walls and ceilings joining at least roughly at right angles, process certain visual information differently from peoples who inhabit non-uniform structures, such as mud huts. Those with a “carpentered world view” interpret a two dimensional representation of three lines joining in the shape of a “Y” as a three dimensional corner of three intersecting planes. Those with a non-carpentered world view see the shape as a Y. I believe that the meandering street plans (if you can call them plans) of ancient cities can detach modern man, with his Manhattan-esque gridwork street plan world view, from his orderly, structured way of thinking and feeling, even if only marginally and only temporarily. This is, I believe, why I feel such a wonderful sense of repose and freedom whilst wandering medieval alleys. End of tangent.)

These are but a few of the reasons I awoke this morning to find myself in love with Abruzzo. I am sure there are more, but the reasons are not important when you feel this way.