Ferragosto

On Ferragosto, August 15, all of Italy comes to a standstill.

The day celebrates the Feast of the Assumption, but what began as a church holiday has extended into a national day of vacating the premises. It is one day of the year when you can drive the death-defying autostrade virtually alone. Everyone is already where they planned to be. If you haven't booked your hotel, particularly at the spiaggia (beach), or restaurant long in advance, you are out of luck.

John and I learned about the importance of August 15 many years ago on a trip to Sardinia. We were cavalierly driving around the island with no advance reservations. The idea was to stop when and where we felt like it. In those days it wasn't easy to find a rental car that offered air-conditioning, so we tooled around in the August heat in a small Fiat Panda, with the windows wide open to blow around the hot air. We were windblown, sweaty, and increasingly grouchy. A few hours of that and we were desperate to find a hotel.

The problem was, we couldn't find one with a room available at any price. It was Ferragosto and everything was booked. We drove up and down the coast, and through the heart of Sardinia (where we read bandits still lived in the hills) trying to find a place a stay. We took the ferry to the island of Maddalena, only to come back again. It was our version of no room at the inn.

After twelve hours or more of getting to know every road in Sardinia, we found a small guesthouse with one room available because of a no-show guest. Neither of us can remember where it was, but we still remember the cool showers, the spotless floor, the snow white bedspread, the ceiling fan and the night breeze.

On Ferragosto this year, John was in London and I stayed in our village. In the morning I went to our local bar caffe to show the women who run it Nina's wedding pictures. They had given the newlyweds a surprise apertivi party after the ceremony last year and were anxious to see the photos.

When they found out I was sola (alone), they insisted that I join them for Ferragosto lunch. They closed the bar from 1:30 - 6:00 pm, "piu o meno" (more or less), and we went upstairs for the feast. After my day in Florence speaking only Italian (see Atelier Adventure blog), I braced myself for another crash language course with the family.

Above the bar there is a small albergo (hotel), and the family home. The family consists of the mother and father, both in their 80's, two sisters in their 50's, their husbands, and three sons (ages 30, 20 and 10). We all gathered around a long table outside of the kitchen.

There is a dining room, but I'm not sure it is ever used. The Mamma showed it to me as if revealing a shrine. There is a huge breakfront across the back wall filled with her treasures, as well as two leather recliners that sit against one wall. The dining table and chairs are in the center of the room under a heavy chandelier, and the wall is hung with blown-up pictures of the parents on their wedding day sixty years ago and with their three grandsons. There is a special place for a photograph of their deceased son taken with Pope John Paul II on an Alitalia flight in which he was an attendant.

The meal was described as "vero toscano" (true Tuscan) and it was delicious. Mamma had prepared shell pasta served with a simple tomato sauce, grilled coniglio (rabbit), pork, string beans, peas, a tomato and cucumber salad, fruit and gelato (ice cream) for dessert. All of the vegetables came from their garden. I had never eaten rabbit before, but it was an honor to be invited so I could not refuse the main dish. It was tender and juicy white meat, much like chicken, and I liked it.

They asked if the Fourth of July was the most important holiday in America. I told them Christmas was first, tied with or followed by Thanksgiving. "Si, si, con il tacchino grande!" (yes, yes, with the big turkey), they shouted in unison. They had seen it on TV.

We discussed food, holiday traditions, how to cook this or that. Once again there was talk about mozzarella di bufala when one of the men left the table for a few minutes and came back with a huge styrofoam container of it. A friend, on his way back from Naples, had dropped it off.

I went away from that lunch feeling gratified. I had been invited to join a local family for Ferragosto lunch, a sure sign of acceptance, and I had made the grade in Italian that day. I gave myself an A-.

I also went away with a few balls of mozzarella di bufala from Napoli.