| Carol Ann Howell ...page 5 |
| VACATION #3 S. MAMETE, ITALY The village of S. Mamete is in the northernmost portion of Italy three kilometers from the Swiss border. Antonio Rogezzaro, a famous writer of the last century, lived there for many years. The town is also remembered for a musician, Giuseppe Verdi. You are staying with your friend, a doctor who lives on the third level of an ancient edifice. He owns the top floor, which he calls his house. It's right on the edge of the lake where the windows face lovely Lake Lugano. The other side of the house has a view of a sheer mountain, which in spring is covered with garlands of flowers. But he is not blas� about where he lives. "I love my house. I love my lake. I love my mountains." He knows that it's one of the most beautiful places in the world, even in winter. The sun shines over two thousand hours during December. While you're visiting you discover a special Italian treat, a soap made of milk, and when you come out of your bath your skin is silky. In the clean air one December morning you and your friend stroll out for breakfast to S. Mamete's center to have a capuccino at Carlezzo. The coffee has no liquor in it, just milk. You find these stand-up bars everywhere in Italy, mostly frequented by men who dash down the scalding coffee in a demi-tasse cup. But your mouth is too tender and you just sip it. Liquor is served at the bar also. It's a meeting place for men. "We like to sing," says the doctor. (Of course, they're Italian.) Your friend thinks he's quite ordinary with is perfect tenor voice. One night the two of you climb two hundred steps up a mountain to a friend's house for dinner. (You have to be in shape to live in S. Mamete.) They cook on a wood stove. They make their own wine, which is not acid or strong. In northern Italy they eat more rice than spaghetti. The meal begins with a rice dish made with wine and topped with shaved truffles. They serve roast beef and wonderful bread. And the dessert is a chocolate mousse with whipped cream and almonds called Monte Blanco after the famous mountain. The next morning you go with the doctor on his rounds. A family invites you for breakfast. "You may have anything you want!" says the lady of the house proudly. But when you ask for eggs, she replies emphatically, "No!" Eggs aren't the custom for breakfast. Wonderful rolls, marvelous jam, delicious cheese and great coffee and orange juice make a memorable and satisfying breakfast. Your friend, a country doctor, travels into the Alps, climbing hundreds of stairs a day to care for the sick in their ancient homes. One such trip takes you to a many-storied building in a piazza with an entrance not big enough to bring more than a small goat cart through. The piazza looks like a multi-dimensional painting from the Renaissance. The people are light-haired and skinned and they are so -- Italian! That sounds dumb, but they are everything good that you've ever heard about Italians -- friendly, affectionate, sincere, sharing. That night you visit a seventy-year-old man who lives alone. He is delighted to have a visitor. He makes you spaghetti and scrambled eggs. And for dessert, he proudly serves you an apple. Of course, there is plenty of delicious wine. The next morning you say good by to your good friend the doctor. You get a ride with one of your new friends. Like a race driver, she takes you in her Fiat along the strada for fifty kilometers to the big city of Como. You two have lunch at an elegant sandwich shop and watch the beautiful people parading by in their furs and leathers. They sure can dress in northern Italy. But then it's time for good by and you board the train for Milano. It's Christmas time and even though you have a reservation you're lucky to find a seat on the plane that takes you home. Buon Natale! Ciao! ****** |