Matera: November 2

(Continuing from the last post.)

By the time I got downstairs the next morning, Morlaine and Robin had gone. I was sad to see them go but already eager for today's adventures. I found Armando right away, who greeted me with a kiss on each cheek and offered me eggs for breakfast, "straight from the ass of the hen." I heartily agreed and was brought into the kitchen, where Armando asked me for how many minutes ("Tre minuti? Quattro?") I wanted my eggs to cook. Not having a semblance of a clue, I said four; he had me keep an eye on them, cooking in their shells in a small cup of water. After four minutes, I said they were finished, and Armando brought them to one of the guest tables with a piece of foccaccia. Espidenzo brought me a fresh caffè, and Armando sat across from me as I started to work on the eggs.

They were pure liquid inside. Not wanting to appear rude, I tried to inconspicuously spoon the globular, membraney, totally uncooked egg-white out of the shell. It pooled in a swimming mess on my plate. Failing spectacularly to appear in control of the situation, I frantically tried to mop up the goop with the foccaccia. That proving largely ineffective, I tried scooping it onto my spoon like soup; for the most part, it just slid right off. I kept my face as composed as possible amid the fragments of eggshell and puddles of egg and dove into the second (equally problematic) egg, trying vainly to at least scoop out the yoke (which, as I thought bravely, I liked runny anyway).

The fateful breakfast

Finally, I swallowed my pride and confessed to Armando in rudimentary Italian that I didn't know how to eat eggs like this. To make a long story short, he didn't either, because contrary to my belief Italians prefer their eggs cooked all the way, too. So it was not a cultural difference I was experiencing after all; I was just dumb enough to eat raw eggs for breakfast. I apologized to Armando for wasting two of his beautiful fresh eggs, and he replied easily that tomorrow would be better. Grateful for his understanding, I scarfed down the rest of the foccaccia and a sweet veneziano square before getting my things for our trip to the Belvedere (literally "beautiful to see"), where Armando still promised to take me.

Though it was foggy when we left the Bagni, it was clear by the time we reached the Belvedere in Armando's car. It was a stretch of flat ground at the top of a rocky outcrop across a small valley from the old sector of Matera, a picturesque view of the sassi, which are entire neighborhoods carved out of and into the stone cliffs. (Matera is one of the oldest continually inhabited settlements in the world, with some prehistoric cave dwellings dating from the Paleolithic period.) Armando led me down the great hill for some good photos, pointing out landmarks in the city like the Duomo. We spoke all the way down (and in the car) in Italian, for unlike the younger workers he knew zero English; like many of the Italian adults I was to encounter, one of his first questions for me was whether or not I was engaged (that I was only nineteen did not seem to register as an adequate reason for not having a fiancee), followed shortly thereafter by whether I was Protestant or Catholic. For about twenty minutes or so we wandered around the hill as I took pictures and asked questions, peering into a few ancient caves used by shepherds and bandits during and before Biblical times.

The sassi from the Belvedere

Armando!

See the stone cave ahead of the rock-cut homes

The tower is the church of San Pietro

Shepherds and bandits would live in these caves

The sun peeped out as we drove away from the Belvedere. Armando took me to a cafe and treated me to a small southern Italian sweet, a custard-filled pastry with cherry jam on top, and a caffè. Then he offered to drop me off at the sassi so I could explore on foot; with another kiss on each cheek, he bid me a good day and promised to see me either that night or the next morning.

For the rest of the day, then, I wandered the beautiful streets of the Matera sassi, peeking into abandoned wine cellars and climbing through old stone-carved residences, even a little chapel. For about a half hour I sat on the roof of one empty house overlooking the sunny little valley, just breathing and enjoying the fresh, quiet air. (After six weeks in Rome, the clean stillness of the air was a welcome release.) Then I wandered into a medieval wine cellar (still set up as it would have been centuries ago) and met Fabrizio, the owner.

From my rooftop perch

Inside one of the rock-cut wine cellars

We started chatting, and then he offered me a sample of Basilicata herbs in olive oil. It looked so good I decided sit down and try it...and then ended up being served a delicious meal of typical Basilicata cheeses, salamis, olives, crackers, wine, and cookies. Fabrizio cooked it all from scratch, and as he cooked (and I ate) we talked about traveling and life in Matera. It turned out that he was a business owner in Rome but spent parts of tourist season in Basilicata, where he maintained this wine cellar/restaurant overlooking the little valley. I told him how much I appreciated getting away from the city busy-ness for a while, and he spoke of how important it was to take time to be alone, to appreciate the stillness and engage with your surroundings not in the frantic manner of a tourist but in the unhurried ways of a traveler. He had a very calm and composed personality (we spoke mainly English, but with a little Italian sprinkled in...probably for my benefit), and I had a lovely afternoon sharing travel stories and listening to his advice about experiencing Italy. When it came time to pay, he told me I could pay whatever I liked and showed me a little wooden box where patrons put their bills. I had no idea how much to pay, so I dropped in what I hoped was a generous offer for what had been a fascinating afternoon, wrote a thank-you note in his guest book, and said farewell.

Lunch with Fabrizio!

I made my way slowly back through Matera, stopping in a few little shops and making the trek uphill to the Duomo for a spectacular view of the city. As the sun began to set, I left the sassi and headed to more modern territory on the way back to the Bagni di Sole, pausing to watch a spectacular sunset over the distant mountains and feeling absolutely content. When I reached the B&B, Armando was there, greeting a young French couple - Julien and Sandra - and their little son Robin. Armando offered to make me bruschetta for dinner, which I eagerly accepted, and as he bustled about I talked to Julien and Sandra. They lived in Paris, I learned, and were traveling with Robin for the first time (he was only a toddler), though they had traveled much more before parenthood. Sandra spoke excellent Spanish and therefore helped decipher what Armando was saying. (Spanish and Italian are so similar that it's not difficult to have a working understanding of the other. Since I speak about ten words of Spanish, this has not benefitted me much yet.) She seemed astonished, however, when I told her I didn't speak French.

"You don't speak any French?" she asked, genuinely surprised.

I muttered my excuses about taking Latin instead, but the truth is when you're around young Europeans, you just have to get used to feeling like the least intelligent organism in the room. Not because they try to make you feel stupid, but because many of them not only speak but are fluent in at least two languages. Now I'm not one who's in the "AMERICA SUCKS" camp - I mean, being isolated from the great Continent understandably lowers the urgency with which we are inclined to become bilingual - but I do feel a bit defunct by speaking only English with any kind of consistency.

Anyhow, back to bruschetta: It was delicious. I shared some with Espidenzo, who made snide comments to Armando about treating me like a principessa, a princess (I had to admit he was right). Domenico returned and, with the customary kiss on each cheek, asked me if I'd enjoyed last night's dancing; I assured him I had. As he left, he wished me farewell and said it had been a pleasure getting to know me. I was going to miss him, I realized!

After bruschetta, I hung around the fire Armando had made and talked a little bit more to Julien and Sandra before they headed out for dinner. A young Japanese man came in shortly after; though he didn't speak much English, we talked for a little bit, and I learned that he was traveling alone across Europe for a few weeks (though he was a medical student back in Japan). My own two-night adventure had been intimidating enough; I couldn't imagine trekking alone across Europe for weeks on end! (After a few more weekends of travel, I now can picture myself in that situation a bit more easily.)

Overall, it was a peaceful evening after a very full day. I journaled, talked to the Japanese man, told Espidenzo and Gianfranco a bit about what Wisconsin was like, and took a brief walk outside to enjoy the beautiful stars and fresh air one more time before returning to the city the next day. Even in just over twenty-four hours, I felt that I had changed, that my perspective had changed so much. As I stared avidly up at the stars and breathed in the crisp Basilicata night, I had never felt luckier, or more fortunate, or more blessed (however you see it). In coming here alone, I had done something that had scared me - many things that had scared me, in fact - and I had not only survived but loved every second of it. I'd met people, seen things, done things, eaten things, experienced things, and I felt finally like a traveler. Not a tourist. Not a displaced American. Not a wannabe European. A traveler. One who lives in the world. A citizen of Planet Earth. It was a very exciting, very tranquil moment. More than before, I felt ready for what lay ahead. Ready, and even hungry for it.

(I'll continue with November 3 as soon as I can.)