When asked, “Which archaeological site should I visit, Pompeii or Herculaneum?” I will inevitably answer, “Go to Oplontis!”

The patrician villa excavated under the modern town of Torre Annunziata, belonged to the Emperor Nero, famous for his appreciation of music and the arts, but more so for his cruelty. The villa was home to his beautiful and devious wife Poppea until she died after her husband kicked her in the stomach when she was heavily pregnant. (She should have been more careful; Nero had ordered the murder of his mother Agrippina as well…)

While it is hard to imagine much domestic bliss within these walls, the villa itself is extraordinary to behold. It contains some of the finest and best preserved wall paintings to have survived from early Imperial times. Visiting Oplontis is like taking a voyeuristic tour into the lives of the imperially rich and famous.  It is amazing how the aura of power and wealth is still palpable in the spacious hallways, frescoed walls and shaded garden with its vast swimming pool. It makes you want to walk on tiptoe or talk in a whisper; as if at any moment you might find yourself in the presence of the emperor, lounging in the calidarium or strolling along its cloistered porticos.

The complex was swallowed in ash during the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 A.D.  Fortunately, the roof of the building survived, preserving the interior for posterity.  Even the doors are visible, poignantly cast in the solidified ashes.

While on a heritage tour with an Italo-American family who had come to meet their Italian relatives, we spent some time with their family near the tiny hilltop village of S. Giorgio la Molara in the province of Benevento.

This is a vast farming region of rolling hills and an immense checker-board effect is created by the colors of the crops: predominant are the powder blue of the sky, the rich browns of the tilled fields and the grey-greens of olive, tobacco and corn, with golden necklaces of tabacco neatly hanging to dry on wooden racks.

At first glance it’s an idyllic scene, with sheep grazing in the meadows, far from the drama of Naples or the exhaltation of the Amalfi Coast.  But it’s a stark, spartan place, where in the early part of the last century lives were torn apart by back-breaking labor, famine and emigration and where even today familes live isolated lives highlighted only by births, baptisms, weddings and funerals.

As we travelled through the countryside, huge turbines harvested the Autumn winds and I reflected that nothing here goes to waste.  And then I was struck by how this stark landscape, viewed from the air, might seem like some titanic game of chess, with the huge windmills posing as pawns on an awesome and endless chessboard.

I wound my way up the narrow road towards the tiny, secluded sanctuary of S. Lucia in Sassinoro. I was on my way to meet Giovanna, a volunteer in the shrine’s wee gift shop.  She and her husband Giorgio were part of the family I was researching for a heritage tour.

Like many holy places, the legend surrounding S. Lucia in Sassinoro began in the spring of 1600 as a shepherd’s tale.  A number of sheep had been mysteriously disappearing and just as mysteriously reappearing again after a few minutes, so the shepherds decided to follow the flock as they grazed.  They discovered that the animals were going in and out of a split in the rocky face of the mountain.  They squeezed through the narrow crack and made their way into the hillside until they reached a grotto where they were suddenly blinded by the appearance of a beautiful woman and a handsome young man bathed in shimmering light.

They ran home to tell of their miraculous encounter and returned with the town priest to verify the account.  In the grotto they found a statue of S. Lucia and S. Michele!  The town fathers decided to erect a place of worship on the spot and construction of the sanctuary began in 1622 and was completed in 1643.

Today this quaint little church nestles quietly into the mountain above the village of Sassinoro. But once inside, the feeling becomes one of awe as the apse is dramatically set into the huge overhanging face of the grotto. It is still possible to squeeze through the original path which the shepherds took on all fours, to view the ancient statues of S. Lucia and S. Michele.

S. Lucia is the patron saint of the blind and a small room off the side of the church is filled with reliquaries containing silver ex-votos donated by faithful worshipers who have regained their sight after praying to her.

A Circus Comes to Sassinoro

On the day of my visit to the sanctuary, I had an experience so glorious in its absurdity that it had to be documented and shared.

While admiring the inside of the church of S. Lucia in Sassinoro, my host Giovanna pointed out the last-minute preparations being made for a wedding that was to take place shortly: the bride and groom’s seats and pew had been padded with white satin drapery; the central aisle carpeted with a white runner and strewn carefully with orange rose petals.  Bouquets of yellow flowers decorated the pews on either side of the carpet, creating a strong visual perspective towards the magnificent, suspended cross with its incredible, rocky backdrop.

As we walked out into the dappled sunlight I began to say my goodbyes, but my eyes were drawn to a strange apparition on the far side of the courtyard, standing directly opposite a white marble statue of Padre Pio.  Like the glimmering image of St. Michael in the dark grotto of 1600, a young man stood, emanating a blinding light.  I had to blinked twice to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me.

He was olive-skinned and decked from head to toe in shades of cream and white.  A diamond-studded clasp closed the lapels of a jacket made out of what seemed to be upholstery fabric; a smaller pin glinted at his throat in place of a tie.  While the unhemmed pants billowed out over his cream-coloured boots, a jauntily-held white cane brought my gaze back to ruffled shirt-cuffs peaking out from the jacket sleeves.  The whole thing was topped off by a top hat studded with sequins.

Could this be St. Barnum or Bailey, I wondered, or was it a character out of a Savoyard production of Gilbert & Sullivan? The total effect was of a ring-leader at a circus and I watched, tranfixed, to see whether he would pull a rabbit out of his hat.

“Oh my God”, I gasped slowly, “It’s the groom!”

Two considertions broke into my mind.  What kind of person could have suggested this bizarre outfit and had the young man had to pay for it?

At that moment the bride’s entourage pulled up at the the gate below, cars piling up behind the her 10-meter limousine which huffed to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.  Out spilled a cresting wave of white tulle.

This gal must have been a long-standing member of the congregation of S. Lucia because the lenses of her glasses were thick as bottle-bottoms. Her father  - also dressed in white, but with an interesting shade of purple shirt and tie – helped her out of the car and proudly led her up the stairs.  Not to be outdone, her mother wore a red strapless gown while her aunt videoed the procession from behind in a tight-fitting black dress with a striking cleavage.  Someone at the top of the steps shouted down to the bride as she bravely navigated the stairs that she was lifting her dress too high for decency…

The riotous assembly regrouped in the sunlit churchyard, as the four-year-old bridesmaid augustly took her place behind the couple and holding the end of veil in her tiny hands.

Padre Pio, unperturbed by the garish show, calmly blessed everyone as they entered into the shadows of the church.

Although the lifestyle of Italian families is rapidly changing, I’m convinced that mamma is more than a person; she’s an all-embracing concept.

To her daughters she is a source of information, a co-conspirator and a friend. Mamma gets her daughter through the minefields of growing up, social interactions, boys and marriage.  When her daughter has children and becomes a mother in her own right, Mamma gets automatically promoted to Nonna (grandma) and begins a second life as senior advisor and babysitter. Actually, babysitter doesn’t even begin to describe it; now her job entails giving her daughter and son-in-law some sort of private and social life. She is always called on to watch little Giovanni or Carla when mammina and papino go away for the weekend or are called away for work or social obligations. Nonna can be seen with the grandchildren everywhere: at the doctor’s office, at the park, at the beach, at school functions, sporting events, buying clothes and meting out the discipline.

When she grows old Nonna will almost always prefer to live with her daughter.

To her sons she is the sun, the font of all things good and warm. Though she inevitably spoils him to the bone, she does teach him the finer points of social interaction, including how to find and marry the right woman.  Mamma is the stencil by which Italian men evaluate their girlfriends and wives. Does she cook like Mamma? Does she keep house like Mamma? Does she get along with Mamma?

It seems to me that the concept of mother as caretaker is inherent in other aspects of Italian life as well. The national television company is known as mamma Rai.  Important governmental and financial institutions are matronly in gender: la Republica Italiana, la Banca d’Italia, (the central bank) la Borsa (the stock market) la Farnesina (the State Department),.

So where is Papà in all this? He’s probably taken a shower and gone out to join his friends. Yes, papà has a rather easy time of it.  So don’t be taken in; his is only the semblance of power. It’s Mamma who rules the roost…

Which is why everyone is so devastated when she passes away.  The word leaps out from the black and white mortuary notices, seeming to implore her attention: “MAMMA”!

CONSIDERAZIONI SULLA MATERNITA’ ALL’ITALIANA

Anche se lo stile di vita degli Italiani sta cambiando, sono convinto che la mamma rappresenta più che una persona ma un concetto multiforme.

Per le figlie è amica, complice e consigliera e le aiuta nei campi, spesso minati, del crescere, relazioni sociali, ragazzi, matrimonio. Quando la figlia diventa madre a sua volta, Mamma è automaticamente promossa Nonna ed entra nella nuova carriera di alto consulente/balia. Balia è sintetico e riduttivo: si tratta di restituire a figlia e genero una vita privata e sociale; quindi bisogna occuparsi del piccolo Giovanni ( o Carla) quando mammina e papino hanno altri impegni, lavoro o fine settimana, o cene. Si vede Nonna con i nipoti ovunque: dal Dottore al parco o spiaggia, dalle riunioni scolastiche agli sport, a comprare i vestiti ed amministrare disciplina.

Nella sua età avanzata Nonna di solito preferirà vivere con la figlia.

Per suo figlio rappresenta il sole, la fonte di ogni bene. Anche se inevitabilmente lo vizierà per sempre, gli insegna le raffinate convenzioni sociali, comprese come trovare e sposare la donna giusta. Mamma è il riscontro per valutare fidanzate e mogli. Cucina come Mamma? Sistema la casa come Mamma? Va d’accordo con Mamma?

Mi sembra che il concetto di madre come custode ricorre in altri aspetti della vita Italiana: la televisione nazionale chiamata ‘mamma’ RAI. Anche importanti istituzioni governative e finanziarie sono di genere matronale: ‘la’ Repubblica, ‘la’ Banca d’Italia, ‘la’ Borsa, ‘la’ Farnesina (Ministero degli Esteri).

Quindi dov’è Papà in tutto ciò? Probabilmente a fare una rapida doccia prima di uscire con gli amici: sì lui ha il ruolo meno impegnativo. Allora , non fatevi ingannare: papà ha solo la facciata, il potere e le redini le tiene Mamma…

Ecco perché quando questa figura passa a miglior vita i figli sono sopraffatti dalla mancanza: il grido inconsolabile balza dai necrologi sui muri del paese. Come sperando di raggiungerla ancora una volta usano l’antica parola: MAMMA!

I  have a particular penchant for the infiorata, a celebration which marks Corpus Domini and the streets and squares are decorated with flower petals. Little did I know that an infiorata took place every year, right under my nose in Sant’Agata!  I mentioned this to my bocce-playing friends (who were working on the masterpiece in the main square) and complained that they had not told me about it.  They gave me a withering a look that said “ If you’d gone to church …”  I asked whether I could participate next year, to which they politely agreed. But between now and then, I’m wondering: had I better let them know I’m Jewish?

l’INFIORATA A SANT’AGATA DE’ GOTI

Ho un debole per le infiorate, una celebrazione del “Corpus Domini” che vede decorare le strade e le piazze con tappeti di petali di fiori. Non immaginavo che una avvenisse regolarmente proprio sotto il mio naso, qui a S. Agata!  Commentavo così con i miei amici bocciofili (impegnatissimi all’opera floreale nella Piazza) e rimproverandoli per non avermi detto della festa. Per tutta risposta sguardi da far sfiorire una rosa, e che forse intendevano: “…bastava andare in Chiesa…”.  Comunque ho chiesto di poter partecipare l’anno prossimo, ed hanno graziosamente consentito.  Ma prima di allora, mi chiedo, è il caso di dirgli che sono ebrea?