Photos: Ohhhh, Como

littlemisswanderlust — Sun, 3 Apr 2011 02:21:00 GMT

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Responsible Travel

littlemisswanderlust — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 01:01:44 GMT

It was a far cry from the skyscrapers, laundromats and raucous taxi horns of New York City. I’d traveled 4000 miles from my nine-to-five life to work my way through Italy on organic farms.

Perledo was like a hundred fairytales in one village. Cobblestone streets sliced the land into steep plots of forest and garden. Each turn revealed a scene more surreal than the last: painted shutters and crisp lines of laundry added pops of brightness to old stone houses; lively bells threatened the balance of tiny hilltop churches; and staccato splashes of yellow, pink and coral stucco lined the shore below. Layers of tree-covered mountains framed the calm Lake Como, fading with distance into misty blue silhouettes.

My host Gigi made sure we were outside by seven for my first day of work. I asked why he started so early, anticipating an answer involving biodynamics, the anatomy of chestnuts and the angle of the sun.

“We must to go before the tourists rise and to take all the *castagne.*”

“Really?”

“Yes! They pick from the street like the *castagne* do belong to nobody.”

*The nerve. It’s like they think chestnuts grow on…*

Chestnuts grow on trees, five of which belonged to Gigi. I never knew what chestnuts look like “at birth,” so I was struck by their uncanny resemblance to hedgehogs. The creamy nuts are housed inside little green and brown porcupine spheres, typically one to three per shell.

Each night, Gigi’s towering trees rained hundreds of nuts. Inevitably, some would tumble down the rocky hill of a forest and onto the pavement. When chestnuts fall, they often roll naturally from their spiky exteriors, so the harvest is essentially picking them up off the ground. We’d comb the street for runaways and work our way up, poking suspect shells with sticks (or hands – an amateur move) and extracting fruit by stepping on the full ones. It’s simple work, but requires sniper eyesight as you scan soil, stones and foliage for the fleshy gold.

Gigi told me about the different types of chestnuts, instructing me to collect every last *marrone.* *Marroni* are the real deal; the plump, dark-husked ones he sold at the market. They’re omnipresent in wintertime Italy: roasted by vendors on every busy city streetcorner; boiled with simple syrup into a sweet, gelatin-like luxury called *marron glacés* in every respectable pastry shop; and featured as a seasonal flavor in every artisanal gelateria.

By Week Two, I was a seasoned harvester, ready to collect solo. I created my own set of rituals. I’d set off at sunrise, pausing along the narrow path to peek inside the 200-square-foot church, wave to the old man feeding chickens and watch the stream flowing under the footbridge. Just when everything seemed miniature, a glance at Como’s vast waters and the looming Alps would make me feel spectacularly small. Several hours of silence and one backpack of chestnuts later, I’d trek home, giddy for whatever work or wandering the afternoon might hold.

*I could not use Italics in this form, so I've starred the beginning and end of words/phrases that should be Italicized.

Hilltop Bells and Spiky Shells

Photos: Ohhhh, Como

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Responsible Travel