First, let me explain that my relatives are from Valpolicella, an area just outside Verona. They are rather distant relatives, as correspondence between my grandfather and his parents’ relatives in Italy lapsed as the decades passed, only to be reestablished shortly before his death seventeen years ago.
Soon after my grandfather passed away, I got in touch with one family of relatives and went for a visit. Over the course of several years, I got to know other relatives in other towns. These cousins were from both my great-grandmother's and my great-grandfather’s sides of the family, and all lived within a relatively small radius.
I must also make it clear that Italy—as far I’ve seen—is not the quaint and fetishized fairyland we see in movies like Letters to Juliet and Under the Tuscan Sun. It is the eighth largest economy in the world, it is thoroughly industrialized, and its mode of life is every bit as modern as ours here in America—perhaps more so. And while the escapades of Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi are a salient feature of a mass-media culture every bit as idle and vacuous as our own here in America, no one in Italy, and I mean no one, remotely resembles anyone in the cast of Jersey Shore.
All of this said, the modern and true manifestation of Italian hospitality is evident each time we visit. On this most recent trip, my wife, my father, and I stayed at the home of my father’s cousin Rinalda and her husband Giorgio. Giorgio is the mayor of Negrar, a municipality to the north of Verona. He is very proud of the history of his region—a history that stretches back before the Roman Empire. He is also very appreciative of the American contribution to his region’s fortunes since World War II.
One evening before supper, Giorgio recounted several stories about his childhood during the 1940s. As the Axis disintegrated, German troops destroyed as much of Italy as they could on their way north, leaving much of Italy, and Valpolicella in particular, destitute and in ruins. The American military presence at the end of the war and for several years after was a comfort and a boon to the people of Valpolicella (and a source of candy and soda to Giorgio and his friends at the playground). Under the Marshall Plan, Europe pieced itself back together, and the north of Italy built itself up industrially. In fact, industry in the northern portion of Italy gave the nation as a whole prestige as a European economic entity, perhaps not to the extent of Germany or Great Britain, but certainly enough to lead a sizable minority of northern Italians to wonder aloud if they should secede from the rest of Italy. The Lega Nord, or Northern League, is unlikely to bring about such a secession, however, as even most northern Italians are fiercely proud of Italian unity, which was so dearly brought about a century and a half ago.
But heavy industry was just one part of the recovery. Valpolicella also flourished as a prestigious wine-producing region. Its distinctive grapes and its winemaking methods, some of which date back to pre-Roman centuries when Greeks colonized the area, set the wines of Valpolicella vastly apart from other European wines in terms of style. In addition, the quality of the wine in this region matches that of wines produced anywhere in Europe. It is even more interesting that in the last two or three decades, production has exploded, and Valpolicella produces and exports wine on an industrial scale while remaining true to traditional methods of production. In short, wine is a significant component of the economic success of northern Italy.
Pair that wonderful elixir with the local cuisine, and I become reluctant to let the word out on this blog that Verona is perhaps Italy’s best kept secret. It and Valpolicella are a part of the province of Veneto, of which Venice is the capital—and the chief tourist draw. The foods of this part of Italy are quite different from the fare that we consume in Italian restaurants in America. Butter and cream are used at least as much as olive oil; rice (in the form of risotto) is nearly as common as pasta, and the only tomato sauce I ate on this recent trip was on a pizza I had. A far greater portion of the food in Italy is locally produced than of that in America, so the quality of the ingredients is superior to what I am accustomed to at home. Pasta is often made fresh and is bought and consumed within hours. The joy with which Italians are said to eat is no fable for American cinema. That much, at least, is for real.
The primary reason for this trip was the wedding of Paolo, Giorgio and Rinalda’s son. He and his bride Indira had met some years before in her homeland of the Domincan Republic, where Paolo was often sent on business as a banker. Their actual wedding took place in Santo Domingo, but this event in Valpolicella was meant to be a celebration for the family in Italy. It took place Saturday evening, less than twenty-four hours after our arrival, at a restaurant on a vineyard in San Pietro in Cariano, the town where my Fornale ancestors lived for generations. It is also, incidentally, the town in which Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie purchased a villa for over thirty million euros.
Getting to the restaurant involved driving across the fields on a long path lined with tall cypress trees, a scene perhaps fit for one of those movies. The restaurant itself was so new and modern in its features and facilities, and yet traditional in its design—stuccoed walls with a tiled roof. And everything in the place, as in most restaurants and homes in Italy, was just so darned clean. It would seem that by Italian law, bathrooms are sparkling, floors are dustless, and scratches or spots on silverware and glasses is strictly prohibited.
More than just enjoying the food, I savored every moment I could with relatives with whom I correspond fairly regularly by email and Skype, but who are even more wonderful to be with in person. They are always so patient about my halting Italian, and there were always a few people around who can speak English, so my father and my wife never felt left out. It may be possible to eat too much, but there was no way I could get enough of these beautiful people, and they made a point repeatedly to tell us how thrilled they were that we could make the trip and be with them on a day when so many relatives would be together. The honor, I kept telling them, was all ours.
The rest of the trip was just as magical. Sunday we spent the entire day with cousins in Bussolengo and Pastrengo, intermediary towns between Verona and Lake Garda, another place I don’t want too many people to know about. Two cousins of my father’s generation, Maria and Loretta, have been like doting aunts to me on many visits. Loretta’s daughters Mascia, married to Simone, and Alessia, married to Giovanni, are career women whose husbands—also career men—can seriously cook! Simone has an advantage, however, as he cooks for a living, and lunch at Loretta’s house was courtesy of him. Dinner at Alessia’s was a barbecue executed by Giovanni in his basement fireplace. Joining us were old friends Paolo and Stefania, who we hope will visit us next summer.
Starting Monday, daytime was for resting, as I was still not feeling a hundred percent, and the evenings were set aside mainly for more dinners with various relatives, all of whom were unbelievably gracious and genuinely happy to have us. On Monday, we had an outdoor dinner at the San Pietro home of Bruna and Pino. Pino makes his own wine, and his grape trellises served as another film-scene backdrop. On Wednesday evening, our cousins Gianmarco and Gloria had a cookout for us at their garden apartment in Verona.
Thursday was more of an adventure. In the late afternoon, we were picked up by my cousin Elisa and her husband Giorgio. Their plan was to take us up to the mountains, specifically, the town of Erbezzo, where Elisa’s parents, Luisa and Elio, have a weekend home. The temperature in Erbezzo is typically about fifteen degrees cooler on the Fahrenheit scale, which was fine with me. My relatives had been ribbing me all week that for my second consecutive visit (the last one was in 2007), I had brought a New Jersey heat wave with me. Temperatures were in the high nineties, not all that common in Valpolicella.
Erbezzo is where I hope to retire. At an elevation of roughly four thousand feet above sea level, it is cool in the summer, and there is snow for most of the winter. Despite the mountainous landscape, there are many farms, and cows and sheep are continually out grazing. I caution the reader against romanticized cinematic visions of yokels riding around in mule-driven wagons. This is a posh-looking, modern little town without the exorbitant prices you would expect in equivalent (assuming there are equivalent) American towns. After some Prosecco and bruscetta (yes, this is another thing the movies depict accurately) with Luisa and Elio, we headed to Ristorante La Stua for my favorite local specialty, gnocchi sbatui. Bruno Fantoni is the proprietor, and his place is a family operation. A good friend of Elisa and Giorgio, he came out several times to chat with us, and he sent me home with a bottle of excellent grappa—on the house.
The one evening not devoted to dinner with relatives was Tuesday. On that night, Mayor Giorgio had gotten us tickets to see La Traviata at the Arena di Verona. The Arena is about as old and roughly half the size of the famous Colosseum in Rome, only it is mostly intact and still in regular use. Much of its outer ring was quarried over the centuries and has found its way into several buildings inside the old walled city, but apart from that, it looks much as it might have during Roman times. The Arena is impressive to behold during the day, but it is hauntingly beautiful at night, particularly on the inside when the stage is set for an opera. While opera companies across the globe are known to struggle to fill seats and pay for productions, the Veronese are very proud of the productions at the Arena. Virtually every show is sold out during each season, and this in a venue with more than eighteen thousand seats.
Departing on that Friday was very difficult. I had never had so short a visit to these relatives, and my work schedule only afforded me that one week. We endured a mild scolding from Rinalda and Giorgio for not having set aside more time, and we offered to make it up by extending our own invitation to them, which we hope they will accept. We are eager to repay their hospitality—not as one repays a debt, however. These are people who shared Valpolicella with us and made me see it as a sort of homeland. It will be our honor to make our home theirs as well.
From:
Soon after my grandfather passed away, I got in touch with one family of relatives and went for a visit. Over the course of several years, I got to know other relatives in other towns. These cousins were from both my great-grandmother's and my great-grandfather’s sides of the family, and all lived within a relatively small radius.
I must also make it clear that Italy—as far I’ve seen—is not the quaint and fetishized fairyland we see in movies like Letters to Juliet and Under the Tuscan Sun. It is the eighth largest economy in the world, it is thoroughly industrialized, and its mode of life is every bit as modern as ours here in America—perhaps more so. And while the escapades of Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi are a salient feature of a mass-media culture every bit as idle and vacuous as our own here in America, no one in Italy, and I mean no one, remotely resembles anyone in the cast of Jersey Shore.
All of this said, the modern and true manifestation of Italian hospitality is evident each time we visit. On this most recent trip, my wife, my father, and I stayed at the home of my father’s cousin Rinalda and her husband Giorgio. Giorgio is the mayor of Negrar, a municipality to the north of Verona. He is very proud of the history of his region—a history that stretches back before the Roman Empire. He is also very appreciative of the American contribution to his region’s fortunes since World War II.
One evening before supper, Giorgio recounted several stories about his childhood during the 1940s. As the Axis disintegrated, German troops destroyed as much of Italy as they could on their way north, leaving much of Italy, and Valpolicella in particular, destitute and in ruins. The American military presence at the end of the war and for several years after was a comfort and a boon to the people of Valpolicella (and a source of candy and soda to Giorgio and his friends at the playground). Under the Marshall Plan, Europe pieced itself back together, and the north of Italy built itself up industrially. In fact, industry in the northern portion of Italy gave the nation as a whole prestige as a European economic entity, perhaps not to the extent of Germany or Great Britain, but certainly enough to lead a sizable minority of northern Italians to wonder aloud if they should secede from the rest of Italy. The Lega Nord, or Northern League, is unlikely to bring about such a secession, however, as even most northern Italians are fiercely proud of Italian unity, which was so dearly brought about a century and a half ago.
But heavy industry was just one part of the recovery. Valpolicella also flourished as a prestigious wine-producing region. Its distinctive grapes and its winemaking methods, some of which date back to pre-Roman centuries when Greeks colonized the area, set the wines of Valpolicella vastly apart from other European wines in terms of style. In addition, the quality of the wine in this region matches that of wines produced anywhere in Europe. It is even more interesting that in the last two or three decades, production has exploded, and Valpolicella produces and exports wine on an industrial scale while remaining true to traditional methods of production. In short, wine is a significant component of the economic success of northern Italy.
Pair that wonderful elixir with the local cuisine, and I become reluctant to let the word out on this blog that Verona is perhaps Italy’s best kept secret. It and Valpolicella are a part of the province of Veneto, of which Venice is the capital—and the chief tourist draw. The foods of this part of Italy are quite different from the fare that we consume in Italian restaurants in America. Butter and cream are used at least as much as olive oil; rice (in the form of risotto) is nearly as common as pasta, and the only tomato sauce I ate on this recent trip was on a pizza I had. A far greater portion of the food in Italy is locally produced than of that in America, so the quality of the ingredients is superior to what I am accustomed to at home. Pasta is often made fresh and is bought and consumed within hours. The joy with which Italians are said to eat is no fable for American cinema. That much, at least, is for real.
The primary reason for this trip was the wedding of Paolo, Giorgio and Rinalda’s son. He and his bride Indira had met some years before in her homeland of the Domincan Republic, where Paolo was often sent on business as a banker. Their actual wedding took place in Santo Domingo, but this event in Valpolicella was meant to be a celebration for the family in Italy. It took place Saturday evening, less than twenty-four hours after our arrival, at a restaurant on a vineyard in San Pietro in Cariano, the town where my Fornale ancestors lived for generations. It is also, incidentally, the town in which Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie purchased a villa for over thirty million euros.
Getting to the restaurant involved driving across the fields on a long path lined with tall cypress trees, a scene perhaps fit for one of those movies. The restaurant itself was so new and modern in its features and facilities, and yet traditional in its design—stuccoed walls with a tiled roof. And everything in the place, as in most restaurants and homes in Italy, was just so darned clean. It would seem that by Italian law, bathrooms are sparkling, floors are dustless, and scratches or spots on silverware and glasses is strictly prohibited.
More than just enjoying the food, I savored every moment I could with relatives with whom I correspond fairly regularly by email and Skype, but who are even more wonderful to be with in person. They are always so patient about my halting Italian, and there were always a few people around who can speak English, so my father and my wife never felt left out. It may be possible to eat too much, but there was no way I could get enough of these beautiful people, and they made a point repeatedly to tell us how thrilled they were that we could make the trip and be with them on a day when so many relatives would be together. The honor, I kept telling them, was all ours.
The rest of the trip was just as magical. Sunday we spent the entire day with cousins in Bussolengo and Pastrengo, intermediary towns between Verona and Lake Garda, another place I don’t want too many people to know about. Two cousins of my father’s generation, Maria and Loretta, have been like doting aunts to me on many visits. Loretta’s daughters Mascia, married to Simone, and Alessia, married to Giovanni, are career women whose husbands—also career men—can seriously cook! Simone has an advantage, however, as he cooks for a living, and lunch at Loretta’s house was courtesy of him. Dinner at Alessia’s was a barbecue executed by Giovanni in his basement fireplace. Joining us were old friends Paolo and Stefania, who we hope will visit us next summer.
Starting Monday, daytime was for resting, as I was still not feeling a hundred percent, and the evenings were set aside mainly for more dinners with various relatives, all of whom were unbelievably gracious and genuinely happy to have us. On Monday, we had an outdoor dinner at the San Pietro home of Bruna and Pino. Pino makes his own wine, and his grape trellises served as another film-scene backdrop. On Wednesday evening, our cousins Gianmarco and Gloria had a cookout for us at their garden apartment in Verona.
Thursday was more of an adventure. In the late afternoon, we were picked up by my cousin Elisa and her husband Giorgio. Their plan was to take us up to the mountains, specifically, the town of Erbezzo, where Elisa’s parents, Luisa and Elio, have a weekend home. The temperature in Erbezzo is typically about fifteen degrees cooler on the Fahrenheit scale, which was fine with me. My relatives had been ribbing me all week that for my second consecutive visit (the last one was in 2007), I had brought a New Jersey heat wave with me. Temperatures were in the high nineties, not all that common in Valpolicella.
Erbezzo is where I hope to retire. At an elevation of roughly four thousand feet above sea level, it is cool in the summer, and there is snow for most of the winter. Despite the mountainous landscape, there are many farms, and cows and sheep are continually out grazing. I caution the reader against romanticized cinematic visions of yokels riding around in mule-driven wagons. This is a posh-looking, modern little town without the exorbitant prices you would expect in equivalent (assuming there are equivalent) American towns. After some Prosecco and bruscetta (yes, this is another thing the movies depict accurately) with Luisa and Elio, we headed to Ristorante La Stua for my favorite local specialty, gnocchi sbatui. Bruno Fantoni is the proprietor, and his place is a family operation. A good friend of Elisa and Giorgio, he came out several times to chat with us, and he sent me home with a bottle of excellent grappa—on the house.
The one evening not devoted to dinner with relatives was Tuesday. On that night, Mayor Giorgio had gotten us tickets to see La Traviata at the Arena di Verona. The Arena is about as old and roughly half the size of the famous Colosseum in Rome, only it is mostly intact and still in regular use. Much of its outer ring was quarried over the centuries and has found its way into several buildings inside the old walled city, but apart from that, it looks much as it might have during Roman times. The Arena is impressive to behold during the day, but it is hauntingly beautiful at night, particularly on the inside when the stage is set for an opera. While opera companies across the globe are known to struggle to fill seats and pay for productions, the Veronese are very proud of the productions at the Arena. Virtually every show is sold out during each season, and this in a venue with more than eighteen thousand seats.
Departing on that Friday was very difficult. I had never had so short a visit to these relatives, and my work schedule only afforded me that one week. We endured a mild scolding from Rinalda and Giorgio for not having set aside more time, and we offered to make it up by extending our own invitation to them, which we hope they will accept. We are eager to repay their hospitality—not as one repays a debt, however. These are people who shared Valpolicella with us and made me see it as a sort of homeland. It will be our honor to make our home theirs as well.
From:
I really love that region and that wine.
ReplyDeleteIt's an amazing little region undiscovered...