Our tour of the Roccamonfina Regional Park starts at the Sanctuary of St. Mary of the Lattani which houses a 15th century church, a Franciscan monastery, magnificent cloisters and a hermitage overlooking the vast and luscious Campanian landscape and poised on the edge of the Roccamonfina volcano.

The religious complex was founded in 1430.  A statue of the Virgin Mary had been miraculously discovered in a nearby grotto where a shepherd kept his sheep. The news spread and pilgrims soon began to appear.  The location was visited by S. Giacomo and S. Bernardino of Siena who decided to help erect a temple worthy of the event.  A small chapel was built next to the grotto which became the site of subsequent miracles and as pilgrimages increased, this was incorporated into a small Romanesque church. Later this too became part of  a larger gothic plan in the late 16^th century when the hermitage was added. The beautifully carved wooden doors with their original locks are some of the oldest and finest examples of its kind in Italy.

Not to forget: the waters of the tiled fountain in the main square are said ensure the birth of male children if imbibed by pregnant women.

Certainly the best parts of the building complex are its cloisters and dining hall which were built in the early 1600’s. The peaceful and serene cloisters are frescoed with beautiful floral designs delightfully juxtaposed with macabre images of martyred saints. The splendid dining hall boasts Renaissance frescoes and fantastic walls covered with hand-painted and hand-fired tiles.

During World War II American bombs caused serious damage to the portico and the convent but these were fortunately restored in 1966.

Just when you think the heat has taken its final toll on the countryside, when the trees are wilting with thirst, when the high grasses are nothing but a tinderbox, when you can’t stand another day of brutal sunshine, the rain finally arrives.  Soft and gentle, it soothes and cools and relieves your anxiety, giving way to a physical feeling of release and renewal.   People here describe it as sense of grace.  When you live in southern Italy it’s easy to see the ties between the people, their land and livelihood, natural and supernatural phenomena, and religion.  Events that are promoted by the Church are often tinged with a little paganism, such as in the food festivals that take place throughout the year: there is the cherry and apple sagre at S. Agata dei Goti, the wheat festival at Foglianise, even the mushrooms are feted at Cusano Mutri; all these crops are anxiously awaited and their bounty celebrated.  A case in point is the Festa dell’Uva at Solopaca.

Solopaca is a small town (population just over 4000) located at the base of the Taburno Mountain and has been known for its wines since the 12th century although its origins date back to pre-history. Like many towns in Campania, it was invaded by the Normans after the fall of the Roman Empire.  In the 15th and 16th centuries it came under the rule of feudal families such as the Monsori, the Lagonesse and the Caraccoioli.

Grapes and wines represent the mainstays of the local economy, so this is a really important event.  Mayors from all over the region are seated on a raised platform strategically placed before the main church, accompanied by the city’s police force carrying their colorful municipal banners.  Solopacan’s parade along the main street in period costumes, solemly pacing ahead of the sbandieratori (flag throwers). There are brigands and pulcinellas, peasants playing the putipù, kings, queens and damsels, gayly defying the brooding clouds that are gathering over the mountain tops.

Hundreds of people line the streets, young and old, eating sausages, broiled corn and ice cream, waiting to see the giant floats as they pass by (which will then procede to Naples to be displayed the following day).   But they all have one thing in common: they are completely covered and carefully inlaid with grapes: green, gold and black.  First come the various wine producers with their logos interpreted as mosaics of grapes.  Then comes the triumphant Madonna, elegantly cloaked in black and gold (grapes).

Then follow the bigger floats with subjects running from political satire to television shows.  My favorite had a sign boasting, “Non farti prendere dal panico, futtite ‘na bottiglia e Aglianico” (”Don’t get yourself into a panico, relax and drink a bottle of Aglianico”).

I enjoy participating in these events where the sacred and profane intermingle quite naturally.  A nun strolls with a woman in excruciatingly tight pants; priests and politicians pose amicably in front of the church. Life is too damn short and everyone wants to enjoy the last summer sun… as Winter is just around the corner.

It all started as a game.  Sabra was showing off her acrobatic skills, after a big Sunday lunch at Terre di Conca.

As usual, a small group of people had gathered to watch.   Suddenly a man came forward and insisted that I enrol Sabra in the upcoming dog show at Roccamonfina.  (This event was part of the inaugural festivities of the Regional Park and was being held to raise money and awareness for a sterilization campaign in the area.  Stray dogs are a major problem in Campania where they are often hit by cars, leaving them homeless and crippled)

“But she’s not even a pure breed” I protested, secretly proud that he seemed so impressed.

“Non importa” he interrupted, “Nobody here has ever seen anything like this!”

You must know that Sabra loves to perform and will do just about anything for her pallina (her little ball).  She sits and lies down; she jumps on command, she twists, rolls over and comes to heal;  she slaloms like a down-hill racer; she throws herself down any slide in the playground; she will sit up and beg like a chihuahua; so long as you have her little ball in your hand.

So I enrolled her in the contest and on the day of the show, as we left the villa, chef Berardino Lombardo’s parting words were: “If Sabra wins a prize I’m going to cook her a steak!” and off we went.  The town’s central square had been cordoned off and a raised platform constructed for the judges. On a table to the left were the trophies, medals and statues.  I pointed to a sculpture of a german shepherd that looked like Sabra and told Chiara “We’re going to win that one”.

There were alot of dogs. Pure breeds, mixed breeds, and a couple of alien breeds pathetically dressed as ballerinas, shivering in their bows and tutus. In the initial round Sabra behaved beautifully, trotting elegantly by my side and seating herself in the center of the piazza. She performed two or three commands, received her pallina and trotted back to our group. She was chosen as one of the 10 finalists.

On the second round we managed to present an “orsetto” (always a favourite, meaning ‘little bear’, where she sits up on her back haunches looking absolutely adorable, and a “rollover” which were received many “ooh’s” and “ah’s”.

It took the judges another half hour to make their decisions.  They announced the “Best of Breed” winners and the dogs and owners were duly photographed with their trophies.  Then came “Il Più Grande” (the biggest), “Il Più Piccolo” (the smallest), “il Più Carino” (the cutest), “Il Più Simpatico” (the most endearing), “Il Più Buffo” (the funniest)… It was getting dark and we had to admit that Sabra had probably not won over any hearts.

Then, just as we were starting to head back to the car, the judge announced, “And last but not least, we award the prize for “Best Show” to Sabra and her owner Signora Goldfinger!” (it’s the closest they ever get to Goldfield)

What a rush! I started to scream and jump up and down like one of those crazy ballroom-dance moms. We ran to the stage, Sabra prancing like a princess, where we recieved our prize: lo and behold, it was the german shepherd statue mounted on a thick slab of marble…

…and when Sabra got home, there was a huge steak waiting for her.

Che soddisfazione!

It’s awkward to write a lightweight newsletter on Italy while we’re all staring into an economic black hole.  As an American who has lived her life abroad, the sense of impending doom has been in the air for quite some time.  Now I sit at my computer, reading the articles as they come in over the internet and watch how the television anchormen and women spin this crisis (at least someone is smiling).  It feels like a financial 9/11, but with a weird time warp that stretches the disaster out day after day.

I suppose it’s useless to look back on the behaviour of this Administration; how they expected us to not question their ideologies and had the gall to say that those who did were un-American; how they jammed a senseless war down our throats (not to speak of the Iraqis’) and then binged, rampaged, and slurped their way through the world financial markets.  At the end, after they dropped the last wrapper into the gutter, they looked around –and threw another tantrum until they got more.  And to think that my parents instilled in their children the idea that was once called the American ethic: that of an honest day’s work. Now, my friends, we will have to live with the reputation for being a nation of shysters out to make a fast buck.

The thought of having awarded the Paulsons and the Bernankes and the Gramms and the Wall St. vampires 700 billion dollars is nauseating. So as I watch my country come tumbling down like a Mother Goose rhyme, what can we do?

I would certainly like to see these gentlemen behind bars for a long enough time so that they can’t get their grimey hands on a penny of the bailout package. Unfortunately it seems we can never underestimate their capacity for greed, or their cynicism about our guliblity.  I think that until we get these culprits out of the equation, it will be hard to see a return of confidence.

There is so much at stake in these elections.  As the financial infection spreads, my thoughts drift to Don Quixote and his battle to right the unrightable wrong.  I have registered to vote and sent in my ballot and hope that Barack Obama wins by a landslide. Even though I doubt whether he or anyone else will be able to fix this mess any time soon, at least we’ll go down fighting the good fight.  Some consolation, huh?

Ingredients for 4 people:

1 kg new potatoes

300 gr. dried cannellini beans

3 cloves garlic

1 large onion

Oregano

Salt

The night before put the beans to soak in a bowl and cover with water.

Next morning, rinse the beans, throw them in a pot and add enough water to cover them at least three times over. Without any salt, bring the water to a slow boil, partially cover the pot and stir regularly for two hours in order that the beans don’t stick to the bottom of the pot. Drain the beans but keep a couple of cups of the water.

Peal the potates and cut into one-inch cubes. In a large pan heat the garlic in extra-virgin olive oil. Add the raw potatoes, the beans, ½ diced onion and oregano. Add one cup of the bean water and cook, stirring until the potatoes are well cooked, adding more water if necessary, until they reach a partially creamy consistency. Salt to taste. Peperoncino is optional

Here’s the good part: Locals serve this soup using the separated layers of the other half onion as a spoon, enhancing the wholesome flavour with the wonderful aroma of fresh onion.

A variation includes serving the soup over croutons made from stale bread that has been cubed and backed in the oven until crisp and crunchy.