Romaggi is in the backview mirror today as we move to our B&B in Soglio. We left behind some accidentally thrown-out trash which was our laundry, but enjoyed a full week of mainly boneless relaxing. We are now in our newly remodeled Locanda da Sale — next door to church #2, San Michaele di Soglio, dated on the plate from 1037. The church is surrounded by knife-edged hills, deep green trees, and olive groves getting ready to spill their oil. A few houses in salmon, ochre, and yellow pop their red roofs out along between ridges and hillsides. It feels like they’ve been there forever as well.
It’s hard to imagine the size of these small towns. Romaggi yesterday –40 souls perhaps — a few houses on a lane, perhaps, given their name by the family that once lived there, or a road nearby. Blink and you are into the next hamlet.
We’ve had a fun day with someone else’s relatives. Our somehow cousin Chris has first cousins here — her closest family other than her own daughters and brother. They are gregarious and everyone is throwing arms around each other, and making rapid speech right away, while my mind is still translating word for word, and often losing the conversation completely. Once we all jump around and wave our hands and arms, the point is usually clearer.
One far-somehow cousin is Tommy, who lives here part-time, and who is the inspiration for my desire to buy a home here in the valley. He’s done it and gotten his Italian citizenship too.
So tomorrow, Wednesday, we visit an old (1540) church to seek their records with the approval of the Burundian priest, Don Salvator. We’re hoping for information — he’s probably hoping for donations. We’re prepared for both.
The day bloomed perfectly, neither hot nor cold. Slight breeze. We are again busy being Catholics, searching through church records, revisiting the Latin of our various high schools, and coming up short. This church is a larger one, and we were invited to visit the archivio, and spend some hours there, which we did until we were numb with fatigue. Our one book took us, Christina and I, working together, four hours, and it was solely the baptismal records from 1840 through 1889. There are about 35 more books we could record if we had but thought this out first, and prepared for the very long process. We didn’t.
Lunch was more enthusiastic, and we ate well at a local place with the socially delightful Don Salvator Bizmano from Burundi. Everyone knew him and greeted him, and we managed, in broken English/Italian to have a discussion about the religious tendencies of the world today (not so much). Lunch was the big deal of the day, and in many ways that makes sense. We have several hours to burn off the lunch, and several hours to enjoy eating it. Three hours, a short nap after.
Bells. I so enjoy the raucous metallic ringing of bells at every hour. I wish we had bells that were allowed to ring out in the US. Our room at the Locanda di Sale is right smack up against the church tower, and they are right in your ear. Obnoxious — I love em.
Slate — it’s the building block here. It takes a while to realize that the ground is actually layers upon layers of slate, wedged dirt in between, and trees and fruits snatching what they can out of what is available. The slate is obvious on rooftops, walls, dormers, windowsills, stairs, cabinet tops, and every other possibility, and in the land, layered like a fine pastry stacked thin 20 feet tall. Using what is available seems to be the best rule to follow, and some folks are genius at coaxing tables and decor about this. No wonder people had to leave — there’s no room to support the gardens and eating habits of families, if there is no soil-sufficiency.
But if they had not — we wouldn’t be here following the footsteps, like 5 local chickens pecking around to see what we can find. Fair trade maybe, with some rough seas in between the exchanges.
Rumor has it that relatives of Christina, one of our traveling cousins, are planning a big reunion. She has made the every day so exciting, with Guido, her local first cousin so thrilled to present her to everyone. He is older – like he remembers the last family visit in 1958. ( HUH? ) and expansively hugs us all in greeting, chattering, smiling, and carrying on with glee. We don’t understand much of what he says, but it’s impossible to miss the intention and the warmth regardless.
Below our window, the plans for the big celebration, and processional, and festa, continue with new work daily. There will be some glorious community carrying-on soon, I feel sure. Turns out that nearly every church has a festival for its particular namesake during September and October. We will sadly miss several.
Hi, Miss Judy. Of all the Lavezzi Letters I’ve read, this one struck me as the loveliest in both its content and writing. At times the latter was positively lyrical, which I loved.
As for the challenges of the language, you might crack a smile at this: Of my two semesters of Italian at Amherst College, all that remains is a silly little ditty I made up for a fraternity brother of Italian descent: “Invece di fare niente, fare qualque cosa!”