IL RITORNO DELL' "AMERICANU"

Tony Tasca, dopo 61 anni negli USA , è tornato nel proprio paesello natio.
E ci descrive, nell'articolo che segue, i ritmi della vita  di paese, i piccoli riti del quotidiano.
Uno  spaccato di una cittadina la cui qualità di vita sembra che Tony apprezzi moltissimo .
Pe la traduzione servirsi dell'apposita funzione su Google.

 

 

REDISCOVERING MY VILLAGE’S LIFE

 

In my earlier article I wrote about what it is like to return home after 61 years. In this article I explore village life.

 

My village is Castel di Tusa, in the province of Messina, Tyrrhenian litoral connecting Sicily’s capital Palermo with Messina on the Ionian Sea.

The village is a destination of choice for tourists looking for the serenity of a small town, an unbelievably beautiful setting, and easy access to nearby major towns such Cefalu’ to the west and Santo Stefano Camastra to the east.  
Cefalu’ is well known for its magnificent beaches, the impressive 11^th century Norman Cathedral, and a highly developed tourist industry. Santo Stefano is famous for its ceramic school and the many shops flanking its main street, featuring the talented work by local artists.

 

 

The Metaphor of Speed

 Life in the village can be best illustrated using this metaphor.

Imagine driving along at 65-70 miles per hour when the traffic suddenly slows down to 20-25 miles per hour. Bumper to bumper … no way to pass, no likelihood that speed will pick up, no way out, and you become part of a long caravan.

 

You have three options: (1) get angry and stressed out, (2) toot the horn and urge folks to go faster, or (3) relax and go with the flow.

Those who select option one are destined to have a bad time, and maybe get an ulcer in the process. Those who select the second option will discover that no one is really paying attention to them or caring about the slow speed, thus feeding their stress.  Those who choose option three will discover this change of pace … made just right for those seeking simplicity, a basic existence, and fewer complications.

 Life in the village is slower of what we are used to in the U.S. Compared to the push-push, shove-shove life on the fast lane, people here seem to go intentionally slow. No need to hurry … no drama. Take a deep breath, and go with the flow. You are free to utter “whatever!” several times. You cannot change things. Your option is to accept their modus operandi or take the next train out.

 +I must admit that it takes me a couple days to accept this reality and let go of my need for control.  A less hectic life has many advantages. My blood pressure goes down, my stomach stops churning, and I am able to savor the environment and feast on its customs.

 The Village’s Rhythm

 You soon discover that about 200 feet from the main church in Via Nazionale, there is the snack bar Porto Marina. Run by two brothers, Pino and Cristofaro, this snack bar is the village’s meeting place of choice.

 People come and go constantly. Some come to partake of the wonderful pastries that Cristofaro bakes early every morning. Some stop for a granita or a cup of gelato made with Pino’s award winning recipes. Others arrive to have a plate of spaghetti with fresh seafood cooked by Pino’s wife Nunzia.

 The snack bar closes on Wednesday and from mid January until early March.  When that happens, the village comes to a standstill. Folks lament this closure to anyone willing to listen. Although there are 3-4 other meeting places, none measures up to Porto Marina.

The town has several B&Bs and two hotels. One hotel (Tus’) has a four-star rating, and the other (Atelier sul Mare) is an artist’s paradise. They both have a very good restaurant.  Tus’ Hotel is located on a hilltop and Atelier sul Mare by the beach area.  Many residents offer individual rooms for rent for $ 30-40 per day.

The village sports seven restaurants and a large grocery store. The food is very Sicilian and amazingly affordable. To get gas, a haircut, or buy freshly baked bread you need to drive up to Tusa. 

 My Routine

I go the Porto Marina snack bar just about every morning for breakfast. My favorite order is a freshly made cartoccio (a large ricotta-filled fried tube), a double decaf espresso, and a spremuta (freshly squeezed orange juice).  As I savor my breakfast, I scan the Giornale di Sicilia, Sicily’s main newspaper, and catch up on local and international events. Cost? About $ 5.

 Three times per week, around 9 AM, a pick-up truck outfitted to carry fresh vegetables parks across the street from the snack bar. The driver, Stefano, exists the cab and starts caring for many who come to buy. Stefano explains what is fresh, what is in season, and the prices. He fills each order rapidly and diligently.

As I approach the truck I see Stefano coming over to greet me. He does not know my first name, but he knew my mother. He gets always emotional. Tears stream down his cheeks and as he rubs his eyes he tells me every time that my mom was his customer for some 35 years. This scene gets repeated every time I see him.

 I usually shop for fruit, whatever is in season, figs, pears, peaches, apricots, cherries, berries, nectarines, oranges, mulberries, etc. I especially like the cherries he brings. A kilogram (2.2 pounds) of Bing cherries in will sell for about $ 4.

 About once per week I drive up to Tusa, 6 miles up hill, to visit my favorite butcher. His name is Gasparino. His wife’s grandmother was one of my mother‘s first cousins. Gasparino is in his mid thirties and in great physical shape. The work of an old fashioned butcher requires physical stamina. Gasparino’s shop features beef, lamb, goat, and pork cuts. He makes his own sausage fresh on-demand. He also sells locally made caciocavallo (Sicilian provolone) and ricotta cheese. I most always will buy 2-3 kg of sausage and watch him make it for me, using the recipe that my dad gave him some 20 years ago. Cost? $ 8.80 for 1 kg (2.2 pounds).

Every couple weeks I walk about 400 feet from Gasparino’s shop to the barbershop. Domenico, the barber, greets me and hugs me. He is a small man, about 4’10” tall. He reminds me that he was a schoolmate of my brother Carmelo in grammar school. I wait my turn, and sit down in his comfortable barber chair and get an old fashion shave. When you leave, your face feels like a baby’s bottom. Cost? Three euros (about $ 3.30). I remind Domenico to increase his prices. He tells me that locals would refuse to pay more.

Every time I come to Tusa, I stop at the Lombardo’s grocery store. It is always full of folks buying fresh produce, local cheeses, and charcuterie. They sell homemade traditional rustic bread they bake daily. I always get a loaf. I also buy dry pasta and cured olives here. Two brothers own the store. Their father, Antonio, was a schoolmate of mine in junior high school. Antonio can be found sometime sitting in front of the store. When he sees me he gets up and comes to greet me. He had a stroke several years ago. His speech is slurred but his message of affection is clear.

About once per week, I visit the Tavola Calda (buffet style restaurant) by signora Ammirata. Every day she cooks small quantities of fish, meat, vegetables, pasta, and other delicacies. You select what you want to eat and one of her sons will deliver it to your table, either inside or outside al fresco. You can have a 4-5 courses meal for about $ 15. The food merits much praise for its freshness and cooking method.
To get fresh seafood, I drive to Santo Stefano. The fishmonger recognizes me as the brother of Ingegniere Tasca (my brother Angelo is an engineer). Titles are still used as a sign of respect. He does not know what my first name is. I ask him what’s fresh and he guides me to my choices.
The best time to buy fish is on Tuesday morning. Fishermen go out on Monday afternoon, so the fresh catch comes in early on Tuesday morning. The catch is from the Tyrrhenian Sea … sword, tuna, mackerel, sardines, octopus, squid, shrimps, red mullets, bream, sea bass, cuttlefish, and mussels. Fish is becoming more and more expensive every year as people all over the world discover the delight and benefits of fresh seafood.

 Insights about Village Life

Everything you do in the village is dominated by the local culture. For example, you don’t go to the grocery store, you go to Lombardo; you don’t go to the barbershop, you go to Domenico; you don’t go to buy vegetables, you go to meet Stefano; you don’t go to the butcher, you go to Gasparino; you don’t go to the restaurant, you go to Signora Ammirata; and you don’t go to the snack bar, you go to see Pino or Cristofaro.

It is this highly personalized and stylized way of life that makes living in a small village special. Your service providers know you. They remember who you are and what you like. You get to appreciate the human element and a less automated world.
It feels special being greeted at the Porto Marina snack bar by the Carabinieri with “buon giorno, signor Tasca”. The Carabinieri is the national police force. Its members are rotated to avoid personal ties with the local population.  They come from different parts of the country. Yet they learn immediately the ways of small town living. Make no mistake about it, they seem to know everyone.
I would be remiss to skip this item. During my visits, I eat often at my brother Angelo’s house. If I miss a meal, I am called on the carpet. My sister-in-law Tania is an excellent cook, in addition to being a medical doctor. Their son Antonio and daughter Elena are often present. Folks in the village don’t just sit down to fill up, they come together to celebrate life, to give thanks for their bounty, and to strengthen their bonds.
We sit always in the same spots. Angelo sits at the head of the table in his role as family patriarch, I as his older brother and patriarch of the clan, to his right. His wife sits to his left, and his kids across. Lunch is always served at 1 PM and it is the biggest meal, usually a four-five courses affair. Supper is served at 8 PM and is the lighter meal e.g., soups, left overs, boiled greens, and seasonal fruit.
Elders, who might not know who you are, remember your parents’ first and last names (women keep their maiden name in Italy). I find it curious when an elder asks me if I am the son of Giuseppe Tasca. I respond in the affirmative saying that I am the oldest son. Immediately, they know my name. As the oldest son, I was given my paternal grandfather’s first name, as it was the custom in earlier years.  Old timers knew my grandparents.
Folks I greet along the way share with me tidbits about my parents that I did not know. In one case, I stopped to buy fresh ricotta at a farm outlet. I asked how much and I was told that the Tascas don’t pay in their place. Why, I asked? Because it was my father who helped them acquire their farm and set up their business. I guess I should come back more often, I suggested humoredly.

 My dad had 32 first cousins. Two are still alive. I visit them whenever I come. They are happy to see me, and happy that I remember them. I visited in an assisted living hostel run by the village, a couple years ago, one of my dad’s first cousins, uncle Arcangelo, who had lost his eyesight. He would always greet me by name with a big smile. He would know instantly that it was I the americanu visiting him, even though he could not see. I asked him once how could he tell it was me. He smiled and said that like all Americans I smell differently. Uncle Arcangelo was semi literate yet while an assisted-living-resident he wrote poetry, beautiful poetry, I might add, in Sicilian. After his passing, I asked one of his daughters, who is a schoolteacher, to give me a copy of all his poetry.

 

Although I left 61 years ago, I am no stranger in my village. I might have changed, but those who stayed behind have not. Their world is very different that what my world has been like in America. I might have accumulated more material things, but they are much richer as a result of the special traditions and customs they have managed to preserve. Family ties here are very strong. Although 5 or 6 degrees removed, you are still welcomed as a cousin or the son of uncle Giuseppe, my dad, or the son of aunt Angelina Piscitello, my mom.

 I cherish this level of closeness. As a teenager I lamented that it was archaic and too confining. Now as an elder, I bask in it, and in it I find safety and warmth. They say that you cannot go home again. Not true! I go home 3-5 times per year now. Part of me never left, part of me will always be there.