Italian Experiences- Continued

Patricia Winton wrote eloquently yesterday about the joys of food shopping in Rome. I decided that the topic is so close to my heart that I’d force you dear readers to put up with one more installment.

I began going to Italy when I was 16 as an exchange student with The Experiment in International Living. I ended up in Bari, which is on the Adriatic Sea right at the “heel of the boot.”

At home I had my driver’s license, did the grocery shopping for the family and was responsible for many of the family dinners. Forty years ago in the very traditional seaport of Bari, young girls never went out alone, never spoke to a boy without an escort, never used the telephone except to quickly hand it over to an adult.

In Bari, I lived in a tiny apartment with four family members. My “big sister” had to sleep on the couch so I could have her bed. The apartment was on the third floor along a busy street packed with small stores. One day I wanted to mail a letter home. The bright red mailbox was across the street. I casually mentioned to my Italian “mother” that I was going to drop the letter in the box and be right back. She refused to let me go. It was too dangerous for a young girl to leave without a chaperone. The letter would be mailed later. I finally convinced her that if she stood on the balcony and watched me cross the street, I was able to place the letter in the drop without assistance. It was a wake-up moment for me at 16, the world had different rules in different places.

One of the joys I discovered was the daily ritual of going to the open air farmers’ market. It spread for nearly three blocks of closed off streets. The fish and meat were on one side with the fruits and vegetables on the other. It was the first time I ate fresh figs. My “mother” bought them for me every day. I was transported by the carefully stacked fruit, the fish beautifully lined up, the large containers of flowers, the constant chatter of women arguing about a price or just getting the daily news from each other, the colors, the perfume of the summer. Well, I went every day. I couldn’t get enough.

Two years ago I was back in Bari. I attended the Women’s Fiction Festival (GREAT conference) in Matera. My husband joined me for the last day. At his insistence we drove the short distance north in the hopes of finding my Italian family. We located the street and the building. I was telling my husband the mailbox story, when, there it was still attached to the side of building and still as red as before. I squealed. My mailbox!

We tried to locate the family. They were gone. Where we don’t know. I stopped older people on the street to ask, just in case they knew the family. I asked in the pharmacy and the tabaccheria. We decided to try the church that was a few blocks away. Parts of the area seemed oddly familiar. Much like it had been in a dream. We reached the church, but it was locked. No hope of finding help there. It was nearing lunch time. I knew that soon our options on finding information would be gone. But we still wandered. My dear husband wanted to be sure I could see and remember as much as possible.

I started to describe how much I loved the market. What it did to literally change my thoughts about food, community, and daily adventures. My friends, we turned the corner and there it was. My market. Still bustling, still fragrant, still with the fish and meat on one side and the produce on the other. I walked all three blocks just to be 16 again.

My mailbox and my market. Italy has never stopped drawing me home.