Tastes of Home

The funny thing about unforgettable experiences is that you actually end up forgetting a lot about them. You can forget the date and the time, you can forget where you were, and you can even end up forgetting the people you were with. That stuff doesn’t matter so much though, not really. Down the road, it’s the small details, like the sounds and smells and feelings, that you cherish forever.

I had been there for nearly two weeks and had already fallen head over heels in love with all things Italy. I had seen the winding canals of Venice, walked the halls of the Colosseum, and hiked the trails of Cinque Terre, but I couldn’t get enough. Enter Matera, Italy. Situated in South-East Italy, this small, UNESCO heritage town was unique and quintessentially ‘Italy’. In other words, just what I was craving.

The road leading down the hill to the Sassi was narrow, jagged and crumbly- but beautiful- it fit perfectly into the old, Italian town stereotype. The Sassi was empty, of tourists anyway, and I can only assume everyone was taking refuge from the heat. It was hot, sweltering in fact; the shirt I was wearing had melted to my skin and my flow-y pants were no longer flow-y.

I tried to find relief wherever I could: under a rope of laundry, pressed beside a cool, stone wall, while still absorbing every bit I could of this cave site. In my dramatic state, it seemed to me a very real possibility that this was the last bit of Italy I would ever see.

I stumbled on it then, my tiny bit of garlic-y, butter-y heaven. A perfectly dimpled, garlic smothered, slice of Focaccia, hand crafted and sent to me from my Italian angel. The owner, a long haired, bearded man, took one look at me as I all but crawled inside his café, pushed me into a chair, and brought me a slice. He then sat down next to me, with a concerned look on his face and a hand on my shoulder, and told me to eat. I have never eaten so well in my entire life. After I inhaled my food, I sat with the man for the rest of the day and we talked. He told me about his family, his music (he even played me some guitar!) and his café. I told him about my travels. And while we talked, I ate.

Ironically, his café was at the top of the road leading out of the Sassi, only a few more meters and I would have been out. But, I am grateful for my heat-induced delusion that day; otherwise I would never have met this man or tasted his Focaccia. Next time though, I'll visit Matera in December.