All across Cinque Terre, the hills are
lined with rows of short stonewalls – some are neat and orderly, others are
overgrown with plants; in many places, the walls have crumbled into mere piles
of rocks. Were I traveling here on my own, I might not have taken much note of the
walls. They certainly make for an interesting landscape and some pretty pictures,
but these structures (called dry-stone walls because they are built without
cement) are integral to Cinque Terre’s heritage.
When the first people settled in Cinque
Terre, they had to build these walls in order to cultivate the land because the
hills are so steep. Long days were spent carrying heavy rocks up the hills and
chipping away at the hard dirt to make terraces. The efforts of their labors –
the kilometers of walls that wind along all of Cinque Terre’s landscape and
rival the length of the Great Wall of China cumulatively – have withstood
centuries, but they are more fragile than they seem. Without constant
maintenance, plants begin to grow in the crevices and water can no longer
stream between the rocks. The inventive design of the dry-stone walls is thus
corrupted and when it rains, water floods behind the walls and the pressure
causes them to collapse.
The art of building these walls – it truly is an art – rests on finding the right size stones to fit together, like a puzzle. Today, Cinque Terre’s youth isn’t very interested in learning how to build these walls and the older generation is concerned about who will continue to fortify the walls and create new ones after they’re gone.
To an outsider, the history of these
walls and the current issues that revolve around them may not be apparent or
important, but today I met with with Giampietro Ferri, a man who helped me not
only to build a wall, but also to understand the significance of continuing the
tradition.
Together, we reconstructed a section of
one of the walls on his property. He was eager to teach me how to choose the
correct stone to fit along the wall so that it would create an even line along the
perimeter and a flat surface on top. When I got the hang out it, he would praise
me with a hearty “brava!” His enthusiasm was contagious.
Building the wall was hard work, but
seeing Giampietro out in the sunshine amongst his olive trees, surrounded by
his sons (whom he proudly referred to as “the future,” stressing the importance
of their role in the olive groves), I could see how worthwhile his life’s work
was and I am proud to have played a part in it. I may be one American tourist
in Cinque Terre, but I lent a hand in the reconstruction of a medieval wall
that may remain for centuries.
After working outside all day, it was
time to get my hands dirty in the kitchen. As an avid cook, I was delighted by
the news that I was going to prepare dinner, but I was even happier to find out
I’d be making ravioli with a true Italian women, Franca.
I grew up hearing stories from both my
parents about how their mothers and grandmothers had spent Sundays in the
kitchen preparing pastas for dinner. For years, I’d been meaning to try my hand
at making pasta (particularly my favorite type, ravioli). It seemed to me
incredibly important in accessing some lost part of my heritage and perhaps it
was for this reason that making pasta seemed a little daunting and I’d never
tried. Then, all of a sudden, I found myself in Italy having an apron put on me
by a cheerful, sweet woman who spoke hardly any English but was set on teaching
me her family recipe.
Though my Italian vocabulary for baking is
fairly basic, cooking is universal and I immediately felt comfortable, as I
always do in the kitchen. Franca poured a small mountain of flour onto the
table and demonstrated how to crack an egg into the center of it. We took turns
with the dough, kneading it until it was the perfect texture and ready to be
fed through the pasta machine. I cranked the pieces through several times each
until they were soft, thin ribbons a few inches thick. We laid them out and put
dollops of filling (hers featured mortadella, parmesan and spinach) across. We
tucked over the sides and pressed them into individual pockets with our
fingers, then used the scalloped tool to cut the edges for the signature
ravioli shape. By the time they were ready to plop into boiling water, I had
fallen in love with the pasta-making process… and the fresh lemon marmalade that
Franca let me taste as they cooked.
In the meantime, I had the pleasure of
sharing my first batch of ravioli with about a half dozen of my new Italian
friends. We carried the bowls of pasta downstairs to a nearby neighbor’s cantina. What could be more Italian than
eating ravioli in a wine cellar?
Franca and her husband, Gianni,
introduced me to Luccio, their neighbor, who just so happened to be a local
wine connoisseur. When I expressed my admiration of his wine collection in the
cellar and his impressive display of different-sized wine glasses, Luccio’s
eyes lit up. It was all I needed to say for a spur-of-the-moment, private
lesson on wine.
It was a perfect night of drinking wine,
eating ravioli, and afterward, listening to one of the guests play guitar.
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