I Pazz' Sono Fuori

Michele: Sabato's friend, co-worker, and my unofficial Neapolitan dialect tutor.

They have saying here, that in the mental hospital, one guy looks to the other, and says "The real crazies are outside", or in Napoletan', "I pazz' sono fuori." I'm starting to think it might be true.

I've been here almost three weeks, and although I haven't done any real work aside from washing dishes occasionally, these three weeks have left me exhausted.

Everyday, Sabato, the man who is hosting me here, picks me up from the hotel, but I have difficulty interpreting Naples time. Sometimes we say 9:30, and he calls me at 10:15, and asks me where I am. One morning, we had set 9 as the start time, and after consecutive mornings of 9 being 9:15, 9:30 being 9:45, he shows up at 8:45, and I feel bad because I have just gotten out of the shower, and he has to wait for me.

Everyday, Sabato shows up in a different car. Sometimes he is driving his own vehicle, a Fiat Multipla that has seen better days. Other days, he is riding shotgun in one of his friend's cars. Once I leave the hotel, I have no idea what will happen. I have learned to make myself ready for anything. I always pack layered clothing and wear comfortable shoes.

Some days are completely calm. We run a few errands and eat lunch with one of the two grandmas that live nearby. I nap on the couch, watch some Italian TV. We run more errands, and his wife comes home from her job as a Chemistry professor and makes dinner. These days are rare.

One day he picks me up with the master pizzaiolo who will teach me to make good pizza. We drive up a windy road to a mountain town called Agerola. Here they make the best Fior di Latte and Provola di Monaco cheeses. We visit a cheesemaker who takes us down to the cellar to see his rare aged cheeses. They all seem to be arguing about something, but that is just how they talk here. We have a coffee and listen to the pizzaiolo's "special CD" on the way back. He turns the volume up when "Forever Young" comes on.

One day we visit Faella, one of the oldest pasta factories in Gragnano. We greet the owner Mario Faella, age 96, dressed in a three-piece suit. He doesn't want Sabato to pay for the two boxes of pasta Sabato is trying to buy. Somehow, Sabato gets them to accept his cash, and we leave. Sabato often doesn't pay for goods and services around here, and when he does, he always pays cash.

Sabato gives me an impromptu lesson on tomato sauce.

Another day, he picks me up and we stop by at the house of one of his artichoke farmers. We see the farmer's wife cleaning some sort of scrawny red carcass over a bucket of water. The daughter has her mom's wide-set eyes and plays listlessly with dusty toys and sticks. The nonna is dressed in black and with her protruding chin and craggy face, looks like she could cast spells on all of us if she wanted two. We pick up two boxes of artichokes and leave.

The same day, we eat lunch at Sabato's mother-in-law, "Nonna Chiara's", house. She has a garden the size of two tennis courts out back, and her son, Giovanni, tends to it on the weekends. She makes hand cut Candelle pasta with tomato sauce from the garden. Then we eat a stewed hen from her chicken pen, salad from the garden, charcoal-roasted artichokes, salame and prosciutto Giovanni makes every year in January, and whole grain, twice cooked bread from her wood oven. Someone murmurs something about dessert, and Nonna Chiara scoots out to the chicken pen for eggs. In twenty minutes she has a warm lemon and raisin cake on the table.

In these three weeks, I've been through extremes of discomfort, isolation, and pure joy. Discomfort from sitting in on family arguments and being force-fed unnatural amounts of food. Isolation from not speaking dialect (I really can't understand them). A moment of pure joy: Sabato and I make my first pizzas together in his wood-fired oven. We take out my first effort, a gorgeous margherita, and he says, "Get your camera. Take a picture. This is your first pizza, and it's beautiful." He slices it in half, and we eat it folded in half "portofoglio" style, like a true Neapolitan. We make a quick toast, drain a small glass of beer, and run back to the oven to make pizzas for the rest of the family.

My first pizza.

It hasn't always been fun. I have to be honest about that. Nineteen days is a long time to have no independence, and to basically follow a person around, waiting for the next thing to happen. There have been times I've wanted this to be over, but every day I understand that it is important that I came. Before I start making pizza's full time, I'll at least know a little bit about the people and the place that invented my favorite food.