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Greetings from Mondovì

A year is ended, a year begins
On the second-to-last day of the year we took a drive to Rocca Ciglie, a little dot on the map we’d never visited before. With its castello, medieval tower, and substantial church, Rocca Ciglie is much like many other hill towns in Piemonte. But its specific charm lies in its location on a ridge between two Alpine ranges, the Alpi Marittime that lie between us and the Mediterranean to the south and the Alpi Graie, which form the border between Italy and France to the west, Switzerland and Austria to the north.

We found long views in all directions; a slight haze over the mountains turned everything blue, even the snow cloaking the highest peaks. The day was sunny and warm enough that we loosened coats and scarves and shed our hats while we sat on the porch of a little chapel dedicated to San Bernardo, lunching on cheese and tomatoes. Rose bushes beside of the porch stairs bristled with bright red fruit and a few drooping flowers, dried now along the edges. We walked afterward on trails and farm roads that were by turns muddy, stony, or thick with frosted grass. Breathing the scents of earth and manure, squinting against the sun, it was a good day to be alive.

The year 2012 was one of upheaval and loss and seemingly endless transition. It was also a year of exploration and discovery, liberation and possibility; the year we rode the roller coaster together (literally, in the park at Borjomi Springs, the first day of our journey from Georgia to Italy) and walked away laughing and gasping at our own daring. We began 2012 in Tbilisi, celebrating at home with new friends, and we finished the year in much the same way–eating, talking, laughing for hours with new friends, this time in Mondovi. We’re down off the roller coaster for the moment; moving on together, still laughing every day and curious to see what the new year will bring. Happy New Year.

Mongolfiere over Mondovi
At the end of a week of unseasonably warm, clear days the skies above Mondovi filled with brightly colored orbs that floated gently overhead—le mongolfiere sono arrivate! The annual hot-air balloon festival brought nearly 30 ballooning teams from all over Europe to Mondovi for two days. (The Italian word for hot-air balloon is “mongolfiera,” after the 18th-century inventors of the craft, the brothers Mongolfier.)

The staging area was in the lower town, in a small park surrounded by apartment blocks, and it was amazing to see how little space the crews needed to inflate and launch the great things. Jim and I chatted awhile with one group of English balloonists who live not far from Mondovi, and they were so jolly that we sort of adopted them—they became “our team” to watch for on the ground and in the air. We chased them (in Dora the Explorer) across the hills around town for most of Saturday afternoon, picked them out of the crowd on Sunday morning and tracked their progress until they landed just before dusk on Sunday evening.

The mongolfiere added one more element of magic to this picturesque town—colorful globes suspended in the spring-like breeze, with the medieval piazza and the Alps beyond. I hope you enjoy this glimpse at some of the sights that made us especially happy all weekend.

 

 

In the blue shadows
Snow all day on Saturday, beginning just as we left for the big market down in Breo and continuing until after dark. We wanted to visit our house in the hush of snowfall, but thought better of it when the wind picked up, drawing a billowy white curtain across the view from our apartment balcony. Instead we stayed indoors, made a fish soup with cozze (mussels) and fresh merluzzo (cod), potatoes, fennel, saffron.

Sunday we woke to bright sunlight and the sound of snowmelt dripping from the eaves. Pulled on our boots and went out to meet the sparkling day. By now the little house and walled courtyard are familiar to you; probably I could leave off the photo captions altogether. But look closely at the doorway with a terra cotta pot in the lower left corner: at first glance I thought some elves must have left us a pot of my favorite vermilion pansies! Then I saw the others, lining the stairway, and I began to understand what Jim finds to do during the long hours he spends there.

Before we knew it, blue shadows lengthened toward afternoon. The sunlight cooled and thinned, reminding us the days grow ever shorter, the sun rides lower in the sky. We locked up and climbed the steep road out of the valley, toward a late lunch and the Sunday NYTimes crossword.

 

Piccola castagnata
There’s always something food-related going on here–in Piemonte it seems the seasons exist to bring on the next good thing to eat. After the bounty of summer comes funghi season, the woods all around full of foragers with baskets over their arms, hunting wild porcini mushrooms. Tartufo season follows, but truffle hunters tend to be a bit more secretive, pretending to be out for a casual walk with the dog, who has a nose for locating the fragrant nuggets at the base of certain trees. Tartufi are a rare and precious delicacy, and those who know where to find them guard their sources closely.

Now we’ve come to the castagnata, or caldarroste–the ritual of roasting chestnuts. Chestnut trees grow everywhere and the nuts are thick on the ground–you can pick up kilos during a walk in the woods. Some friends who actually cultivate a few trees gave us a huge sackful, and we roasted them on Sunday with our friend Paolo.

Paolo brought the padella, a big, heavy pan with perforations that allow the nuts to roast over an open fire, and instructed us in the ways of the castagnata:

Prepare the chestnuts by cutting a small slit in each shell. This prevents the nuts from bursting when exposed to extreme heat. (Well, that’s the theory. We had a few nuts burst, leaping out of the skillet like popcorn.)

While roasting, toss the chestnuts in the padella so they cook evenly. After 20-30 minutes, when the shells are blackened and the nuts are caramelized, with a texture like a perfect baked potato, pour them into a burlap sack to keep them warm.

Slip the chestnuts from their shells as soon as you can handle them without burning your fingers; while they are warm eat as many as you can–rich, sweet, and smoky, few other things are as delicious. The traditional accompaniment is vin brule’, mulled wine with spices, but we had a thermos of espresso instead.

 

Historic Synagogue, Mondovi
Sunday, 29 September 2013 was designated “la giornata europea della cultura ebraica,” or European Day of Jewish Culture. On this special occasion, in Italian towns and cities from Asti to Venezia, Jewish historic and cultural sites are open to the public. This includes the historic synagogue at via Vico 65, a few doors down from our first apartment in Mondovi. For a full year we lived just steps away from this treasure, which is normally open by appointment only, but just today we spent 30 minutes touring the sanctuary, women’s gallery, and children’s classroom. I’m sending some photos to share (see attached file below my signature), and will give just a few points of information from our tour. (Thanks to my friend and former Hillel colleague, JB, for the following link with a fuller history of the synagogue: http://synagogueartresearch.wordpress.com/countries/italy/mondovi/

The synagogue occupies the third (top) floor of a small apartment building, and we were asked to keep silent on the stairs out of respect for the residents. As you can see from a photo of the floor plan, the sanctuary is irregularly shaped, with the door at the rear, the pulpit in the center, and the ark at the far side of the room. Markings on the pulpit indicate it may have been re-assembled after moving from a previous location. Simple wooden benches run along three walls, which are painted with trompe l’oile blue draperies. The carved and gilded wooden doors of the ark are curtained with heavy silk, thought to be original 18th-century furnishing. The rest of the synagogue comprises a women’s gallery, completely separate from the sanctuary, a small classroom for children, and a balcony, now enclosed, with views to a green valley below the city ramparts.
The Mondovi ghetto of the mid-18th century consisted of a few houses and a common courtyard, perhaps from number 65 to number 59 via Vico. During the 19th century, as many as 150-200 people lived in this tiny enclave. By law, no identifying sign or symbol could show passersby that behind the houses a small Jewish community existed, seeking to live in peace and relative safety.

LESLIE MCBRIDE WILE

 

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Postcards from Mondovì: All Saints’ Day

Tuesday was Tutti i Santi, All Saints’ Day.  Schools, shops, and offices close for this annual day of solemn remembrance, families visit the graves of their forebears to leave fresh flowers, florists do big business in chrysanthemums, the traditional choice, and cyclamen, another cool weather bloom.

Following a suggestion from my friend M___ we joined the crowds at the cemetery on the outskirts of town in order to visit the Jewish cemetery, contained within as the old ghetto was contained inside the city walls.  We carried a pot of chrysanthemums to leave at the grave of Marco Levi, the well-respected, self-proclaimed “last Jew of Mondovi`”. Upon his death in 2001 Levi’s estate created a foundation to establish the Museo della Ceramica, where I am a docent for English-speaking tour groups.

 

At the custodian’s office I asked for the Jewish cemetery, received a key and some simple directions: walk along the perimeter wall until you find a gate.  We did as we were told and soon found a high iron gate set in the wall; I turned the key in the lock and we stepped inside.  Small gravestones in Hebrew lean beside flat tombs and large memorial markers.  Clipped hedges, mostly leafless now, divide the cemetery into sections.  We moved along the graveled pathways, reading names and family histories, until we came to Marco Levi.  Few of the other graves showed signs of recent attention but Levi’s is well cared for; we placed our flowers on his stone beside a vase of mums and one of eucalyptus and a pot of crimson cyclamen.

Across the way and behind a thick hedge we saw the tomb of Felice Momigliano, a prominent member of the 19th-century Jewish community whose name we recognized from a plaque at his residence in via Vico, a few doors down from our first home in Mondovì. Momigliano’s grave was unattended, a few dead leaves scattered across the large stone, lichen darkening the pale surface, the letters fading and eroded by weather.  Among all the other neglected memorials this one seemed sadder to me. That a man once so renowned should be forgotten seemed wrong somehow.  After all, we knew of him, recognized his name and his place in the Jewish history of Mondovì.

On Thursday morning I returned. I found the key to the gated cemetery hanging just where I’d left it; I opened the iron portal and pushed through the bare hedge, swept leaves from Momigliano’s tomb and left a pot of cyclamen at the foot of his stone to honor his memory. I felt better.

 

LESLIE MCBRIDE WILE

 

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Postcards from Mondovì: The Good Neighbor, or Everyone Knows That Guy

 

There is a fire burning merrily in my bedroom fireplace, a fire of fagus logs. I ordered the wood this morning and it was delivered this evening–and there is quite a story about THAT. The story has a happy ending (well, actually it’s not quite finished yet) and a hero I will not name, to avoid embarrassing him. Let me back up a bit, give you some background on my situation, and then I will tell the story.
My husband and I have a neighbor. Living as we do in a detached house, a renovated cascinetta, on 1200 mq of prato, he is the only neighbor within shouting distance, and at that one would need a very healthy set of lungs. Throughout the long months of our renovation, which caused him significant inconvenience, our neighbor remained friendly, cheerful, generous, helpful, and altogether cooperative. He is a sort of guardian angel/white knight in a pickup truck—kind, resourceful, energetic, and willing to lend a hand. He is the hero of my firewood story. One last thing to know is that my husband is presently away, working abroad. To continue . . .
Around 5 o’clock yesterday afternoon I got a call from the firewood delivery guy, saying he’d be here in half an hour. Forty minutes later he called again to say he was leaving his place with the load of wood. I said okay and reminded him “sempre a destra, sempregiu.” After a couple more calls he got here. By now it was nearly dark.

I showed him where I wanted the wood to end up in the cortile and for some reason he decided to drive down past the vegetable garden and up the other side, to enteri the courtyard from the far side. I tried to stop him but he barreled on and got himself all the way to the lowest point in the dirt road before he realized the problem: mud. We talked; I told him he had no choice but to reverse up to the turn-around and then drive up the hill again. Now it’s night, full dark. It took many tries and much swearing (I stayed out of the way, pacing in the cortile) before he got up to the turn-around, but then he couldn’t get up the hill. We talked again; he said he needed a tractor. I said our neighbor has a couple of tractors; he said, a bit sourly, that he only needed one.

 

Reluctantly, I called our neighbor, found him still at work. I explained the problem, he said he was on his way. When he arrived about 10 minutes later of course he and the delivery ragazzo recognized each other and began speaking Piemontese dialect. (I said to deliveryman, “you know him?”, to which he replied “everyone knows that guy.”) Long story short, the good neighbor took over. Got a rope to tow the guy’s truck. Towed the truck, helped the guy unload two pallets of wood and get turned around and on his way back to town. Helped me cover the wood with our tarp (it’s supposed to rain tonight). Said he’ll be back tomorrow to move the wood into the cortile with his tractor. The man is indispensable. And that’s how it happens that a fire of fagus logs is burning merrily in my bedroom. And why I am glad thatI know that guy, and feel especially fortunate to have him as my neighbor.

 

LESLIE MCBRIDE WILE

 

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Postcards from Mondovì: Carnevale

 

 

Tomorrow is Martedì Grasso (Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday), and the last day of Carnevale. Here in Mondovi` we have been celebrating since 24 January with processions, presentations, ceremonies and formal dinners, dancing and general revelry most every night at the big dance hall on the outskirts of town. Every afternoon carnival rides and games come to life in a central parking lot, neon and music pulsing in the winter twilight and the smell of cotton candy fanning children’s desires.

Last Sunday we joined the crowds along Corso Statuto for the biggest event of the season, the sfilata in maschera (costume parade). We walked from our home near the medieval upper town, along the road to the lower town and down steep flights of crumbling stairs of concrete and stone. We heard the parade before we could see it, booming music with a heavy beat and hundreds of voices raised in song. From a curve in the road we caught our first glimpse—a dragon breathing smoke, squads of merrymakers in bright costumes, balloons, banners, and clouds of confetti flying in pale sunlight.

Down in the center throngs stood six deep, waving and cheering, singing in Piemontese dialect and in Italian. The parade crawled along, bands played, and fistfuls of confetti flew in all directions. Toddlers in costume perched on shoulders, squirmed to the front for a better view, or played among the crowds. We walked the parade route for a while, met some friends, laughed and jostled and joked. Our ears were ringing as we made our way home, trailing confetti and filled with the spirit of unbridled joy that is Carnevale.

LESLIE MCBRIDE WILE

 

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Postcards from Mondovì: Snow arrived mid-morning

 

Snow arrived mid-morning, shortly after the last magpie deserted the tall maples, leaving bare branches to catch whatever they might of the fine, wind-driven whiteness.  I’d been waiting since early, fretting over whether the air would be cold enough for snow.  Certainly the sky was the flat, no-color blankness that often yields snow, and the mountains were obliterated as if leveled overnight, or blotted right out of existence by the shadowless dawn.  With no early sun to light their peaks, the whole range had gone, swallowed by an absolute emptiness so full of possibility.  Still I waited, anxious for the wintry promise to pay out.

I needn’t have worried, ought never to have doubted.  I should have trusted in Nature and the prescience of the magpies.  The birds read all the signs: a steady breeze out of the west, damp and lowering skies, and at just the right moment abandoned their open perches for closer shelter.

By noon the wind dies away; having carried winter down from the mountains it rests, letting the snow drop of its own weight.  Tiny snow shards soften, lighten into flakes and fall slowly, steadily downward.  The weightless veil thickens, draws closer, while strange light leaches every color to grey, caught inside an engulfing whiteness.

The waiting is over; I have a snowy day, which satisfies me as nothing else can do.

LESLIE MCBRIDE WILE

 

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Postcards from Mondovì: Fireworks

 

 

Siamo in Italia!  It means ‘We are in Italy!’, and people here often say this to us when they cannot explain some bureaucratic tangle or incomprehensible administrative regulation.  With a characteristic gesture that is half-shrug, half-surrender, they let us know there is nothing more they can do.  Because.  Siamo in Italia! is more than a statement of simple fact.  It is an expression of helplessness or futility in the face of certain frustrations that may arise when dealing with Italian officialdom.  As with most things in life there is another side to this catchphrase, as I was reminded last evening.

Wednesday night I joined J and D for the annual community band concert and fireworks in Piazza Maggiore. I walked up and found them at a table at Antico Borgo, with S and G. On my way, in via Vico, I passed two old ladies, walking heads together and chatting away; they were gossiping about someone, probably another girlfriend. A young man came walking quickly up the street and I heard him greet them politely. One of them said, Oh, you’re one of the twins! and they all laughed a bit and I went on, up the medieval street, smiling.
The band was still tuning up (concert scheduled for 8:30; I arrived at 9:00) but the chairs for the audience were nearly full and small groups stood around under the portici or sat on the benches in the piazza or strolled up toward the Belvedere. Diners sat at tables outside the pizzeria. Everyone was talking to someone else and children skipped and ran, weaving through clusters of grownups, or walked hand in hand with a parent to the gelato window.

S brought a chair and I settled in, joined the conversation, watched the night sky deepen between La Missione and the old municipio. A microphone squealed and the assessore for tourism said a few words. M said a few words, in his capacity as president of L’ Associazione della Funicolare. The band leader said a few words, took his place and raised his baton, and the music began. Throughout the concert the crowds thickened; Piazza was packed with families, couples, groups of teenagers. S brought a tray of baked peaches stuffed with amaretti and cocoa; G gave the recipe while we ate.

Around 10:30 the band played a final, rousing number and the first rocket sailed into the night. The display was spectacular–lots of florals and feathery sprays of light punctuated with big bangs, circles and flares of bright green, red, purple. S teased me a bit, saying Oooh and Ahhh and Wow, the way Americans do when watching fireworks, and we all laughed together. The climax was a glorious, nonstop eruption of sound and color. G stopped taking video on her phone and covered her ears. The lights came up in the portici and the crowd began drifting toward the funicolare, down via Vico, toward the parcheggi below Belvedere. The band struck up again to see us all home. We said our goodnights and strolled along the piazza, dancing a bit to the music–even D–and on to Piazza d’Armi. I turned down the hill toward home.

Mondovì is a time warp, a parallel cultural universe kinder and slower and more beautiful than much of the rest of the 21st century world. I feel lucky to live here, and I will try to remember that the next time I get frustrated with bureaucracy or stymied by over-regulation. Siamo in Italia!

LESLIE MCBRIDE WILE

 

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