L’esperienza Italiana
By Kenley Stevens, Staff Writer
As we stood on the corner waiting for our shuttle, I felt the warmth of the sun radiating off my skin from the swim in the Tyrrhenian Sea. The boardwalks were lined with classic yellow and green striped booths. The backdrop included abrupt cliffs, and when studied, windows and staircases sprinkled the cliff. They were ancient and no longer in use. The stone steps were a ledge, only inches wide; a product of many years overlooking the sea. Sprouting from these protrusions were emerald vines and vibrant flowers. At the base of the cliff were gaping caves filled with caverns that often held reverie. The water was like seaglass, clear but a rich blue in color; increasingly more cerulean as the sand dropped from view. The dock was striped with rows of yellow tanning chairs, almost all of them occupied by leathery locals and mildly decent italians.
The bright afternoon uv still hung around me as we waited for our car to take us to an Italian farm, a special excursion. The bench we sat on felt dangerous as clown cars flew around the roundabout in front of us, passing where Americans wouldn't and honking a fraction as much. Vespas weaved where water would not even pass. A car sped slightly past us, hit the curb, and abruptly stopped. I was praying that our shuttle would come as soon as humanly possible. Italians had very little tolerance for obstacles on their route. I looked around, partly to prepare myself for more incoming vehicles, and partly to search desperately for the one that would be our ticket out of here. Just as a promising new fiat abarth rolled towards us, a man emerged from the car that had hit the curb. Chattering like he was in some sort of argument with himself, he turned to face us. His elbows rested on the roof of the tiny car. He stopped quarreling with the removal of his airpod and ended what we deduced was a call with his wife. I had a feeling this was a regular occurrence for him, and had no doubt the bickering would resume whenever he was ready.
The man was obviously a native italian. He was about my height, but what he lacked in altitude, he made up for in chesthair. He gave us an exasperated look that said whoever he had been chatting with had spent all his patience. He motioned for us to get in the car while we stood, uncertain what he meant. His impatience was palpable.
“Andiamos, andiamos!” I do not think a single one of us wanted to push his patience and good heart further. We quickly shuffled into the fiat. It squatted, its foreign suspension not used to American builds. The man had returned his airpod back to his ear.. I am not fluent, but his rapid speech seemed to be more in self defense rather than offense.
“Reeta! Reeta! Ascoltami, Reeta! Ascoltami!” The fiat hiccuped and sped off, throwing our heads back and our mouths silent. We drove for a few minutes, experiencing the sights of residential Italy; stone walls, linens hanging from suspended lines running from apartment to apartment. This was nothing like North America. All of these structures dated back centuries, even the most meager of housing was historical. It was incredible. Vines trailed down the plaster of some buildings, around and over the uniquely shaped windows. Some tranquil residents who had toiled all their lives, likely leaving this community only an occasion or two, sat unperturbed on their balconies, overlooking the timeless city of Sorrento.
The cobblestone streets were historic, but so was the excellent suspension on our driver’s car. The turbulence was unmatched. We were rolling down one of these streets, accelerating and braking constantly, but maintaining a speed I doubted this car could handle. We were nearing the end of the path. There was a walking alley ahead and a few side streets to turn down. The farm will be just around the corner, I thought. There was only a hundred feet to the end. We were not slowing down. Fifty feet. Italians do not concern themselves with gradual braking. Ten. We flew into the narrow pathway between the towering stone walls. I had originally believed it was a walking alley for sauntering pedestrians. It was not. The walls were inches from the sides of the car. Our speed only climbed. The alley curved and I could not believe there was enough room for any sort of rotation of the wheels. All the time, the squatty Italian man squawked at his wife. His muscle memory took command as he performed the improbable feat of denying the laws of physics.
After the seemingly endless car ride from the depths of Sheol, we arrived at the farm. As I stepped out of the fiat, the Italians immediately began to insist on serving me food. My ghastly expression and lack of pigmentation, for them, translated to desperate malnourishment. Any Italian problem is easily solved, and that solution has either been baked or fermented.
After a hearty snack that doubled what we in the U.S. call a,’daily caloric intake’, we began the tour of the farm. The property was sloped down a lush hill, and the path had mild switchbacks that held each section of the compound. There were copious olive trees beginning at the henhouses and spreading across the vast hillside. Mario and Luigi, a set of rotund pigs, sprawled in the mud beneath the boughs. As we veered left, rows of asymmetrical squashes and fruits awaited harvest. Some rows that were less developed had colorful blooms that ranged from fuschia to chartreuse. Around the next bend, one solitary cow had smears of hazel fur in his white hide and a matching star centered on his skull. He bawled at the presence of visitors, eager for the possibility of a treat. The last section of the farm held Italy's speciality- lemons. There were groves upon groves of deep green branches bearing golden lemons. We were each allowed one. When the peel was scratched, a sugary citrus scent radiated off of them. We strolled for a long stretch under the leaves, absorbing the sweet scent.
We returned to the top of the hill, and the tour was nearly completed. The guide informed us we had one more stop and then we would get to taste all of the ingredients we saw in various classic Italian dishes prepared by the family. The dirt path transitioned into cobblestone. We halted in front of a round, wooden door painted the color of the shallow Tyrrhenian sea. Our guide, Georgio, informed us that we were about to enter the cellar. A European cellar sounds magical. It is where the best products materialize: wines and cheeses, salami and sourdough. But when I stepped inside, all my senses were smothered. The stench attacked my nostrils.
Hanging from the stone ceiling were hunks of green and brown mold. The furry growth climbed up the chain the shape was hung from. The suspended figures were unrecognizable, but that could have been due to the copious amounts of brain cells I was sacrificing every second I stayed in there. This was unbearable. I could feel the vomit climbing up my throat.
“Andiamos! Is time to taste!” exclaimed Georgio. He marched out of the cellar, unaffected. We wasted no time exciting the stifling space. I could not shake the tang that had seeped into my nose and my skin. There was no way I was going to put anything in my mouth that had seen the darkness of the repulsive pocket of death.
I suffered through the gorgeous meal laid before us, conscious of every bite I choked down. Now, I sit overlooking the bay of Sorrento. The sun set softly, cushioned by layers of pink and yellow. After my two showers and relentless scrubbing, an attempt to be rid of the smell, I accepted that it would haunt me. But when you swallow prosecco, you can not smell a thing.