The Night Train to Sepino

kgrames — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 18:08:00 GMT

Rumbling out of Roma Termini with the September sun low on the horizon, I walked the aisle of the packed train with the evening commuters. A single seat by the open window, in a quartet wedged between three chatting businessmen. As I cordially motioned to the seat, one of the men danced to his feet, offering the seat in the song that is Italian.

I dove into my notebook to document the excitement of the day; the highlight was surely stumbling upon the giant indoor mercato nestled in the outskirts of an unlabeled Roman warehouse, tucked between railroad rubble and ancient crumbling monuments. Ripe tomatoes, a basil stalk, plump peaches, and fresh country bread to serve as dinner were safely stowed for later. The downfall was surely the two hour delayed departure of this Eastward-bound train. I fingered the forty-year old picture tucked between the sheets of notes, a photo my mother took of a man in the bright Molise sun. Just like my uncle. To meet this man I might not recognize, without notification of the late arrival would be a miracle, though my only chance.

Small antique villages, propped on rolling hills between cultivated pastures, stood as gestures of beauty to the passing trains, each with breathtaking charm. Through my reverie I overheard my seatmates attempting to deduce my situation, having noticed the scribbled writing on my lined pages. The brave one, Sergio, made the first attempt. They spoke no English and my Italian was near tragic at that point. After a few introductions, a series of gestures and my pocket dictionary served to expedite our extended conversation. They were baffled why a young American traveling alone would travel to the rural Molisese countryside, just like the Wild West, the said. An immediate sigh of recognition resounded when they discovered I was intending to meet family for the first time. Yes, I explained, my grandfather was from Saepinum, the house he was born in now serves as a museum within the ancient ruin site, the most fully preserved in the whole of Italy.

The train came to an abrupt stop and an announcement was made overhead in muffled dialect. Passengers were exiting frantically. The train was splitting in the half and heading on tracks in two directions, Campobasso riders must transfer. My new comrades joked about the rail employee strike, the second that week, as they helped me fumble with my luggage out and into the last car. I would have been less humored if I hadn’t had the company of these convivial men. The landscape faded to silhouettes of passing hills and I felt a pang of regret to have lost this aesthetic experience of my grandfather’s countryside to the light.

I bid adieu at Isernia to the last of my new friends. As the train pulled into the Campobasso station, a knot of anticipation welled to my throat. A warm blast of dry summer air overtook me as the electric doors sprung open. I searched for a sign of familiarity in the men waiting on the platform, slowly at first, then more frantically as parties began to disperse. A man, the right age, turned, our eyes locked, and we felt an immediate sign of recognition. Just like my uncle. A miracle.

My Scholarship entry - Understanding a Culture through Food

kgrames — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 17:53:00 GMT

Perched on a precipice on the skirts of Agerola, I overlook the miniature marine town of Conca, a near 2000-foot plummet directly below. The burnt pink hue of the fading September sun tints the iridescent Mediterranean coastline from famous Amalfi, partially obscured by an eastern protrusion of the craggy sea cliffs, to the tip of Sorrento, now just a shadow in the distant west. Standing at the entrance to the famed Path of the Gods, once both trod and treasured by awestruck authors D.H. Lawrence and Italo Calvino, the name is implicit.

The stunning natural vista aside, one cannot overlook the flourishing agriculture. Tiered farms thrive, juxtaposed between crumbling stone villas and goats grazing the steep incline, their crops equally grape vines and vegetation. Tufts of gray smoke float skyward where responsible farmers are spot-burning dry brush, hazards left by the scorching heat of summer, adding the curious sensation of a campfire to the balmy air. Wild lemon and fig trees speckle the path, their ripe fruits hanging low, aching to be picked.

Recent ‘locally sourced’ revolutions in food culture have no place here on the Costiera Amalfitana. The small markets would never consider vending foreign produce and non-organic procedures are utterly unfathomable. Unlike its neighboring tourist towns, San Lazzaro, Agerola contains few restaurants. In their stead are Agriturismo farms.

Night descended as I warily approach Casale Paradiso, at first obscured by the horses penned out front. My trepidations are relieved upon the first sip of the chilled red wine on my lips, pressed from grapes grown feet away. Each course, from the antipasti to the succulent roasted peaches dripping in caramel, consisted of the freshest ingredients plucked that day. This was food transcended; a complete crop to table experience. I decide, as I appreciatively dig my knife into the heart of the homemade burrata, spilling its juicy contents over plump tomato slices, this is truly fine dining.

Adventures in Ecotourism

The Night Train to Sepino

My Scholarship entry - Understanding a Culture through Food