Foligno, Italy 2004

 Foligno, Italy 2004

As anyone who has ever traveled abroad knows, all it takes is a few days of rain to turn the mood, flip the trip into an endeavor of survival. In 2004 the family went to Italy right after the November election. The first greeting at passport control after landing was: Your country has just re-elected George Bush. My husband apologized. Stamp. Out into the chaotic public transportation system that is the Rome airport.

The weather was perfect, as was our spirits the first couple days. We had energy for the ruins, the underlit dim churches, for the long lines to see David. We ate pizza on the steps. We ate Nutella-filled pastries called cornetto because they resembled little horns. We ate cheap, saving our euros for the price of admission, the next experience, the funicular. In retrospect, we were slightly on the verge of protein deficiency, always a bit hungry. In a foreign land, it is sometimes hard to interpret what one is feeling. There is always this mind maze of translation. Until meaning is lost.

As we went north from Rome and Siena into the cute little mountain towns of Gubbio/Assisi the weather took a decided turn. Again, what is 13 Celsius—on a damp afternoon smooshed into a local bus with dozens of school kids loaded down with books and hair oil—it feels uncomfortable. 

I remember sitting at an outdoor table in a narrow alleyway in Assisi under an awning trying to gulp down an cappuccino.  We’d just experienced the miracle of medieval art, frescos decorating the high chapel ceiling and walls, telling biblical stories, and were trying to adjust to real life. Plink, plink, came the rain drops. We bought an umbrella from a vendor at a stall. The coffee wasn’t cutting it and we had to journey on. Foligno lacked charm, but would serve as a hub to branch out to small mountain towns.

We disembarked and were immediately without a clue. We had an address for our hostel but no idea of how to get there. In 2004 we didn’t travel with a phone (not to mention a smart phone), thus no GPS. Our lexicon of Basic Italian didn’t include directional words such as behind or in front of—just left or right or the wave of the hand meaning to keep going. My backpack straps dug into my shoulders as we wandered, in the rain.

That night after finally finding the hostel—submerged in one of the little alleyways that make these small towns unique but also a true pain on the butt to navigate—we alighted in search of food. We’d made a mistake the day before of not having visited the supermarket on Saturday, thus finding ourselves shut out from sustenance because everything is CLOSED on Sunday. Now we needed real food. We were done (temporarily) with heat-lamp pizza. But what could we afford? Eventually, we found a refuge.

This is a restaurant review, a food memory without proper nouns—I can’t remember the name of the establishment or the owner/chef. It was once stored in my mind, but now escapes me. I once kept a napkin from that evening (I see the space where it was in my scrapbook from that trip) but must’ve given it to someone and told them if in Foligno go to see—

What I can’t forget is the feeling, the feeling of finally being full. Fed.

We entered the cave of a place and asked to see a menu. This was how we judged whether to stay or go. No menu! He hustled us to a table. Before I could protest he came back with a basket of bread and a dipping bowl of fresh olive oil. He waited to see the amazement on our faces of how simple and good it tasted. He left and came back with a tureen of soup. So far I knew we could afford these courses. But, what came next was: everything. He brought pork and a photograph of a pig, his pig that hunted truffles. He assured us we ere not eating that pig. We were eating truffles, a kind of spread on the bread. We ate quail, salads, more sauces and sides. Finally, he brought a small slice of a desert. I was happy. Who cares about rain!

Then anxious. After more than 2 hours there we would have to settle up the bill. I left my husband and Senor to go over the tab as I and my daughter waited out on the glistening streets. Soon he joined us and we started back to the hostel. Later he told me it was all quite reasonable. A miracle.

That evening meal has continued to stew in my memory, not just for the exquisite flavors but the generosity of this cook to us, strangers needing a good meal. I knew then, I wanted to live like this forever, welcoming people to my table.