“Sorry — you’re probably sick of listening to me talk about Italy.”
“No,” my father said, trying to find his words, “It’s your ancestors calling out to you. Do what you’ve got to do.”
He went on to reveal that his father, my nonno, had longed to return — and bring the family back permanently — to Italy. It was a longing that was never realized.
I had just come home from a month in Italy. An intensely hot, delicious, heartbreaking, dazzling turquoise and sun-soaked terra cotta month in life-changing Italy. Burnout at work was filling me with anxiety and leaving others disappointed and I needed to recharge. Italy is where I’ve recharged for years, starting with my first trip over 20 years ago. This month-long visit was intended to be a slow, relaxing break but I could not ignore the feeling that it would be much more than that.
I packed a capsule wardrobe with a month’s worth of looks that fit in a tote bag, grabbed my nice sunglasses, rings and other things that make me “look like a local” in Italy and dashed to the airport the day of my flight.
But this was not going as planned. The first two weeks I was forced to brush aside this anxious feeling that this trip had change in store for me because my boyfriend at the time had met me in Italy for the first two weeks of my trip. I’m sure one factor that bothered him was my difficulty being present with this unnamable anxiety welling up within me. After two weeks with him in Rome and Ischia, we said goodbye as the inner drumbeat began to pound. I was fucking terrified.
Then I remembered a time when this kind of fear and anxiety was my signal that I was on the right track, that if I move through this fear, something on the other side of it will be worth it.
Anthony Bourdain mentioned a few times that the further south you travel in Italy, the more intense the experience becomes. If Rome is too much for you, don’t go to Naples. It’s true that the food, passion, and personalities intensify as you get closer to the south. For me, it’s like a heartbeat getting louder and louder as I take the train from Rome to Naples, closer and closer to the land of my ancestors.
This time, the anxious boom pulsing through me started to match that mystical heartbeat I always feel rising up and pervading everything as the train heads south, now arriving in Salerno.
Prior to this trip, my only experience on the Amalfi Coast was being stuck in traffic on Amalfi Drive when I was fifteen after someone had commit suicide on one of the cliffs. Between that memory and the mental image of a tourist nightmare, I didn’t think I’d ever opt for a trip to that dazzling strip of mountains and sea, but there I was, monthly wardrobe slung over my shoulder, trying to appear chic, boarding the ferry to Minori, where I chose to stay.
What convinced me to give the Amalfi Coast a chance was an article by Cassandra Santoro of Travel Italian Style that a friend had sent me. We connected over our love of Italy and family connections and I looked forward to meeting her at one of typical piazzas for a caffe shakerato and what would turn out to be more than one Aperol spritz.
Yes, I know there’s an accent missing over “caffe” but it I can’t figure it out and Google is failing me. Tranquillo.
The ferry ride to Minori was stunning. It was intensely hot and humid and the rush of sea air on the top of the boat was refreshing. Most of the native Italians, however, were sweltering below for fear of being “punched by the witch” — an ailment taken very seriously by Italians and said to be caused when a breeze meets sweaty skin. I figured I’d chance it.
My Airbnb host, Priscilla, was on the ferry with me and I hadn’t realized until I stepped off the boat and immediately heard my name.
“Gab — Gabriel? Gabriele? I thought that was you but I wanted to be sure! Ciao! Welcome to the Amalfi Coast!” Priscilla and her now husband Ivano graciously led me up the many stairs into the M.C. Escher maze of interconnectedness that make up Minori and all of the villages on the Amalfi Coast. With each and every step up into town the view behind us became more vast, more beautiful, more enveloping.
The drum beat stopped. The anxiety was settling. There’s something solid here.
It does not take long to settle into a place when you’ve only got a tote bag. I hit the AC, took a quick nap, and asked my hosts where to have dinner. They told me Sal de Riso, right at the port, was one of Minori’s famous restaurants. It’s also the name of the head chef and owner. Apropos to the place, a put on my blue and white linen shirt, yellow shorts, and my handmade sandals and headed down the steps. It was the feast day of the local saint, Trofimena, whose historically sketchy story includes being murdered by her father, stuffed into an urn, and washed up on the coast of Minori, some say around a thousand years ago. Nonetheless, she draws people together for celebration as though she herself coordinates all of the festivities — street food, elaborate lights, processions, and singing. An inclusive community affair I felt very much included it.
I sat down at the restaurant and spoke to the host in Italian about my grandparents who came to America from nearby Avellino, and that I’ve love a glass of wine from the region. He was pleased with my accent, and my tasteful wine. Fiano di Avellino — in an instant! He recommended the ndunderi di Minori, a local gnocchi with ricotta and nutmeg served in a meat ragu — accent over the u, I know.
While I was being transported through some gustatory dimension of delight I felt someone standing next to me. It was the chef and owner, Salvatore de Riso and, to my total shock and awe, Gennaro Contaldo, the beloved icon of Minori, and a well known chef in Italy and Britain. Mr. Contaldo reminds me of my late nonno who was always smiling or cracking a joke, and who loved food and cultivated an organic garden for decades. He’s been an inspiration to my cooking for years.
Sometimes when I’m in Italy, I’m mistaken for a famous person. I’m not sure who people think I might be, and perhaps Mr. Contaldo assumed me to be someone else, but he pulled up the other chair at my table, sat down, and started a conversation.
“Your grandparents are from Avellino, I hear! Well, then you must get your Italian citizenship. Look at this beautiful place! The sea and mountains and the beautiful, beautiful people. I was a boy here in Minori, and you need to come here too. Oh, Madonna! All of this is yours — all of Italy and everything it has is a gift for you. Get the citizenship and come here. Come to Italy.”
Gulp. I took another sip of wine. Was I awake? Did I die? Who is this guy? What the fuck is happening here? Am I going to be charged extra for the psychic reading? Am I being punked Italian-style?
Without knowing it — or maybe quite aware — Gennaro Contaldo named, confirmed, and in a very real sense, validated this deep desire that I felt too silly to entertain for too long, too poor to be able to afford, to difficult to achieve.
Everyone dreams of buying a house in Italy, but who actually does it?
This guy.
Fast-forward. Like, real fast.
It’s April 2020. I had quit my job in November, moved across the country from Massachusetts to California for a new job and a significant raise. I don’t know anyone in the area and we’re a month into the COVID-19 pandemic. I’m going to lose my shit. If I’m not working toward something tangible, I’m only acting as a conduit of money from my employer to my bills.
So, quite the opposite of Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love, I didn’t pray. I made a spreadsheet.
I simply created a budget with the bare minimum expenses allocated. At the end of the day, the leftover money could be spent on weed, takeout, overpriced groceries, or online shopping, or I could put my money where my mouth always is, where my heart is: ITALY.
A search on an Italian real estate website turned up a tiny gem on the Amalfi Coast — perfect for me and my future husband. The price was less than some people pay for a new car, and it was, amazingly, not a fixer-upper.
I went on Instagram and looked for local businesses and folks from the village, to get a feel for the place. A winery responded with contact information for a realtor and I reached out to her. I should have expected this and in fact I think we should all learn to expect a little more, but the realtor knew the owner of the property personally. Of course she did.
Shit. Would I actually be able to make this work?
Indeed. In a place like Italy, where it can often seem like nothing at all works, if there is any gift that’s universally Italian, it’s making it work.
I negotiated a payment arrangement according to the schedule I proposed with what was feasible for me financially over a period of time.
Italy called. My ancestors called. I answered. Finally.
In some point in 2022, I’ll see you at my house on the Amalfi Coast. In the meantime, come back to watch the journey unfold, hear hilarious and racy tales of my Italian travels and romances, and learn some recipes you can enjoy while you read along.
Welcome to my journey. Welcome to Amalfi Flavors.
