Arrivato: Vallelunga

I learned in the Vallelunga train station that when some Italians are concerned for your safety they yell at you like you just stole from them.  The station lady apparently was very concerned that I was waiting alone and proceed to scream at me, called other women over, creating a chorus of screaming Italian women.    I just looked at them and then at the patch work quilt of sepia and green hills behind dotted with bleating sheep and I wondered what did they think would happen to me.  The cacophony of their clucking did bead up tears in my eyes and create a strong impulse to fall to the ground in a ball, squeeze my eyes shut, plug my ears and sing the theme song to the Flintstones to make it all go away. Instead I shrugged my shoulders, picked up my bags, turned on my heels and went outside.  They still clucked as I left, the sound pounding on the empty waiting room.  They walked by me to get to their cars, flailing their hands still muttering under their breathe looking at me like I did something shameful.  Over the steering wheels of their cars, still they looked at me with scorn. "Geezum Crow. I thought "are you kidding me?"


The next task was to announce my arrival to the woman owned the farm, Eleanora.  "Oh didn't you get my email.  I do not want you to come until Tuesday."  "Ah well  I have been traveling and its Sunday and I am already here  in Vallelunga."  With a deep shy, weighted with a deep sense of being inconvenience, she conceded  to arrange for someone to collect me at the station.  This experience on the heels of being screamed at by the train lady, I said out loud to myself  "what the hell am i doing here."   My inner Gitty Up Gril said "No no.  Do not loose site of the excitement of being in Sicily and the adventure that was ahead."  I waited patiently for my ride and stayed on course.

After about an hour a small black car with a smiling man chanted "Marianna,  Marianna,  Ciao Ciao. Benevienuti, Bella.  Benevenienuti. "  "Ah what a relief .  A happy person." I thought,  things are already looking better.  I was collected at the station by a sweet man that spoke absolutely no English.  He spoke slowly to me but his hands moved like blurs of flesh colored smears in front of my face and around.  The car climbed mountain side roads that bent like a hairpin, down and around bowls of farm land surrounded by mountains.   I wondered how he managed to stay on the road.  At some point I made a clear and conscious decision to just not think about it.   The other fact was he looked in my eyes everytime he said something, and did the same when I answered.  I decided to keep looking at him too and not the road.  I thought well he is not then I am not.  In this state he even passed a slow moving vehicle more than once and traveled at about 60 mile an hour.   I smiled and giggled.  My tummy flipped and I had to fight my impulse to put my hands up in the air and hoot when we were barreling down a hill.   

As we entered the villiage of Vallelunga he said  "Pay attention it will be over quickly.  Not much here."  This made me smile, first because I understood what he said, even in Italian, and second he was just so stinking sweet.  He kept repeating, "There is not much to to here/"  It was a warning and maybe a plea.  "Why do Americans come so far to do work that most Italians do not want to do." he asked  "Italians can't wait to get out places like this."  This was something that was too complicated to explain so I skipped answering, smiled and shrugged.  After he kept his questions simple and I was able to answer him in Italian. How old are you?  Where are you from?  How long will you stay?  What will you do?   "Why does your  face look so Italian." "Well I was American made of Italian goods."  This made him laugh.  Tell me your name, your whole name.  Marianne Serena Marrone.  He repeated MARIANNE SERENA MARRONE, E TUTTI Italiano, this is why you have such an italian face,  you were named by Italians.  We rounded the last corner, drove through the gate and Arrivato.  I have arrived.  "Do you know how many Americans are here now, there are five.  Now with you there are six."  He shook his head gave me a doe eyed look. This is Italian for Disbelief.

 I was greeted by Eleanor.  A 25 year old WWOOFer living in Northern Italy.  She was in mad love with an Italian and settling in a small villiage called Cormon.  She was shiny,  sparkly eyes, sparkly smile, even the words she spoke had smiles on them.  The next one for me to meet was Zoe, 20 year old from Boston.  An itty bitty girl, big cool blue eyes and a mop of blonde curls like a putto.  She had the confidence of a woman twice her age but the fair face and playfulness of youth.  She is a shutterbug.  Her camera is never too far from her. This will be something that inspired me and change the way I traveled from the point of meeting her until now.  Chris was next, a 20 year old Culinary Instiutute of America student  from Pittsburgh in love with bacon.  We spent hours talking about how to use bacon.  He even had photos on his phone documenting some of his ideas. I gave away one of my bacon secrets to him and told him if he ends up getting famous over it I will find him and hurt him bad.  I think that was the moment we became friends. 

The farm was owned by a family.  Mother, father, two sisters Eleanora, the one with the bull horn and whip and Laura the indentured servant.  It turns out the other two Americans were actually British. Christopher was dating Laura and the other David.  He was a WWOOFer. David was searching for himself after having an outer body experience during a concert he was playing.  I found him silly but tolerable.  Humorous even in a way that a grow up laughs at a child.  Christopher seemed like someone not to trust and not to take too seriously.  It seemed like he was someone that had a false sense of power and could make your life miserable if you were not paying attention.  It seemed that everyone knew that his position was precarious and temporary except him.

I had two spectacular days with olives here.  I was instantly content stroking the fruit from the bows.  The days were filled with the kerplunk of olives bouncing off the wooden ladder, swoosh of rakes through the leaves and chatting away with Eleanor. We spoke of our mutual love and passion for food, all the lists of our favorites, good books, and life.  It was easy to feel comfortable with her.  She was pleasant and awake.  It was not the insipid kind of pleasant,  it was the kind of pleasant that someone earns.  It is what one gains after they ask themselves the hard "How did I get here" questions and "How do I get out".  She was lovely.

What I can tell you from here is that things quickly went down hill.  I don't know what started it.  It could have been over three euros worth of mortadella, could have been over cheese,  could have been over a broken espresso cup, or mud on the olive net.  I have no idea but it went to hell in a handbasket and I was sure that this was not what I came to Italy for.  As far as I could tell we were working well past our WWOOF charter agreement of six hours a day, aways working 10.  We were not complaining about the cramped sleeping arrangements or the small portions of really bad food.  Still these people were hen pecking. The bottom line was that I was not mistreated directly but the farm hosts were being very rude to the other American WWOOFers, especially the two pie faced, beautiful girls Eleanor and Zoe.  We made a diplomatic effort to understand what caused the downward spiral but it was met with more snide remarks and yelling.  I  resigned  to the fact that the answers were never going to come.  It was time to go.   I felt responsible for encouraging this idea so I was hoping for the best but my gut was yelling out GOOOOOOOOO.  Without discussing in, in the morning in silence Zoe, Eleanor and I packed our things.  Chris woke with the same sense of resolution.  He popped his head in to tell us "I am good to go ladies"

The plan was to attempt to have a conversation with Eleanora about what would be best for her.  Did she want us to help in the morning or stay on for a few days so she could have other WWOOFers?  We told her we wanted to talk.  She replied "I am not here to talk.  I am here to work.  If you want to work, work.  If you want to go. Go."  Eleanor looked at me wide eyed like a baby that just heard a terribly loud sound and said "Well that mades it pretty easy."   It was time to get off of Disfunction Junction and find another adventure.  Chris wagered a bet that we were going to walk to the train station. He won. 

A two hour walk to the station, all of our gear on backs or in tow, like a caravan of turtles, we marched.  Cars full of pointing, laughing Italians passed.  They  shook there heads and hands in the "Where the hell are you going?"  What the hell are you doing?"  We held up our heads, gave a prom queen wave,  as though we meant to be where we were all along  Our resolution was punctuated with laughter and a few "umph."  We are going to Palermo and we were going go pick olives for happy people dammit.  We did not know who but all of us knew there had to be people in Sicily just waiting for people like us.  Silly Americans traveling thousands of miles, spending thousands of dollars to climb silver leafed trees, to bend the bows toward us and free them from their burden of plump green fruit!

We waited together for four hours for the train.  Time always passes quickly in good company, even if it is mostly in silence.   Christopher climbed buildings, Zoe collected used shot gun shells and lined them up in like a serpant.  Eleanor read.  I watched the white dots of sheep mozzy from one patch of green to another.
Eleanor doe eyed the conductor, putting him in an absolute trance so we all rode for free.     We  fantasized on the train about what we would eat first and should be have a compari in the afternoon, a nap and shower and then another round of snacking.  The answer: AH YES !  In these moments especially I knew that I was in very good company.

We all were addicted to the swoosh of the rakes, the kerplunk of the fruit against wood and the way the wind rocked you when you were far off the ground wrapped in branches.  It was the smell of mud and the romance of doing good work for other people that kept the kindles alight in our bellies. We knew that this was just the start and perhaps we all have met people that we will know for a life time.