A Pazzaria!
On our way down to Sorrento and again on the way back north to Tuscany we stopped in my grandfather's hometown of Presenzano and visited my father's first cousin, Minuceio Campopiano. He grew up in Presenzano, moved to Highland Park for 18 years and returned to Italy about 10 years ago to retire. I met him a few times when I was younger.
I called Minuceio about a week before we left for Italy to let him know we were coming. I told him who I was and he said, Do I know you? I said, Maybe. He said when we arrived to just go into town at the top of the hill and ask for him, everyone knows him. My mom said he told her the same thing when she visited and no one recognized his name. She had a hard time finding him. My mom said to make sure we brought something with us because they were going to feed us and we didn't want to come empty-handed. So on the way out of Rome we stopped at this fancy delicatessen called Volpetti and loaded up with sheep cheeses and salami with black truffles.
Presenzano is a hilltop town near Naples surrounded by small farms, full of olive trees, peach trees and there's a factory nearby where they make bufalo mozzarella. There is a reservoir on the hill that sends water to the farms. It's pretty, but you can tell not much goes on there.
I had told Minuceio we'd get there around the middle of the day. Of course we ran late and it was 2:30 or so by the time we arrived. We went to the piazza and asked around, no one knew him. We called and he told us he'd meet us outside his house, he only lived a few hundred meters away. So there he was, standing as we drove back down the hill. He sees us, we see him. He calls out: 'A pazzaria!' (ah BATZ e RI a), just like my old man used to say.
Dad used to announce himself this way when he pulled up to someone's house or a party. He'd say: 'What town is this?' or 'How's yer maggots!' or 'A pazzaria!' I never knew what that meant. I thought it meant: 'What's happening!' or 'What the hell is going on!' Minuceio told me it means 'crazy house,' not for psychos but 'for people who's a little bit crazy.'
I didn't remember Minuceio and he didn't remember me, but we both pretended we did. He looked like his brothers, and pretty soon it felt comfortable. We talked about the people we knew in common: My mom and dad, and his brother Victor (also dead) who was close to my dad in L.A. I see Victor's kids now and then. Minuceio's brother Tony still lives in L.A, and their brother-in-law Ugo is active at St. Peter's where my mom has gotten involved in recent years.
Minuceio and his wife, Giovanna, were gracious, although I think they were puzzled by our laissez faire eating schedule and lack of etiquette. By the time we got there we were starving and hadn't eaten lunch (going to Volpetti had set us back an hour or so). So we broke open the box of cold cuts. Minuceio says, 'Oh, you want to eat. First you need a tablecloth.' They had already eaten lunch so after they set us up, they watched while we ate.
Some of their habits were puzzling to us, too. They didn't all come out together, but one by one. Every few minutes someone new would come down the stairs. We were already eating when Giovanna's sister came down. Then a little while later her husband. Then finally, after we were there maybe half an hour or 45 minutes, Giovanna's 93-year-old mother. She looked good, and had some pointed advice about traveling in Naples. ('If you need to ask for directions, don't ask anyone but the police.')
To be continued...
I called Minuceio about a week before we left for Italy to let him know we were coming. I told him who I was and he said, Do I know you? I said, Maybe. He said when we arrived to just go into town at the top of the hill and ask for him, everyone knows him. My mom said he told her the same thing when she visited and no one recognized his name. She had a hard time finding him. My mom said to make sure we brought something with us because they were going to feed us and we didn't want to come empty-handed. So on the way out of Rome we stopped at this fancy delicatessen called Volpetti and loaded up with sheep cheeses and salami with black truffles.
Presenzano is a hilltop town near Naples surrounded by small farms, full of olive trees, peach trees and there's a factory nearby where they make bufalo mozzarella. There is a reservoir on the hill that sends water to the farms. It's pretty, but you can tell not much goes on there.
I had told Minuceio we'd get there around the middle of the day. Of course we ran late and it was 2:30 or so by the time we arrived. We went to the piazza and asked around, no one knew him. We called and he told us he'd meet us outside his house, he only lived a few hundred meters away. So there he was, standing as we drove back down the hill. He sees us, we see him. He calls out: 'A pazzaria!' (ah BATZ e RI a), just like my old man used to say.
Dad used to announce himself this way when he pulled up to someone's house or a party. He'd say: 'What town is this?' or 'How's yer maggots!' or 'A pazzaria!' I never knew what that meant. I thought it meant: 'What's happening!' or 'What the hell is going on!' Minuceio told me it means 'crazy house,' not for psychos but 'for people who's a little bit crazy.'
I didn't remember Minuceio and he didn't remember me, but we both pretended we did. He looked like his brothers, and pretty soon it felt comfortable. We talked about the people we knew in common: My mom and dad, and his brother Victor (also dead) who was close to my dad in L.A. I see Victor's kids now and then. Minuceio's brother Tony still lives in L.A, and their brother-in-law Ugo is active at St. Peter's where my mom has gotten involved in recent years.
Minuceio and his wife, Giovanna, were gracious, although I think they were puzzled by our laissez faire eating schedule and lack of etiquette. By the time we got there we were starving and hadn't eaten lunch (going to Volpetti had set us back an hour or so). So we broke open the box of cold cuts. Minuceio says, 'Oh, you want to eat. First you need a tablecloth.' They had already eaten lunch so after they set us up, they watched while we ate.
Some of their habits were puzzling to us, too. They didn't all come out together, but one by one. Every few minutes someone new would come down the stairs. We were already eating when Giovanna's sister came down. Then a little while later her husband. Then finally, after we were there maybe half an hour or 45 minutes, Giovanna's 93-year-old mother. She looked good, and had some pointed advice about traveling in Naples. ('If you need to ask for directions, don't ask anyone but the police.')
To be continued...
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