Two months ago, my wife and I took a trip to Italy. We saved for this trip for ages, cancelled it a time or two due to complications with kids and cross-country moves, saved for it all over again, and finally got to take the trip (sans-children, thanks to the kindness of grandparents) a few months shy of our 10-year anniversary.
We visited
Lake Como in northern Italy at the Switzerland border, then spent a few days in
the Cinque Terra in Liguria. We cancelled most sight-seeing plans we had, skipping Rome, Vienna, Florence, et al. Instead, we rested. Read thick novels. Drank wine. Hiked. Ate slow meals. Strolled small villages. Drank more wine.
It was
Mary Poppins, and I wouldn’t change a thing about the trip.
The one drawback to nixing our intentions to tour Italian cities was that I missed a chance to gape at study the religious art I long to see. I intended to come back to Colorado with material for an article about a Protestant looking for Jesus in Italy, reporting on the current state of the museum sites and our responses to them. I was curious to know if my flirtations with Catholicism would flower or fold under the Sistine ceiling.
As it turns out, I didn’t need to go to Rome to encounter something Christlike. On the first full day of our trip, we took a cooking class at
Il Caminetto, a restaurant in a village nestled in the hills above Varenna. Chef Moreno picked us in in Varenna, along with another couple, and drove us the few miles to his restaurant, which is in the same small structure that has been his home since birth. His wife was in a separate vehicle picking up a few other tourists from the UK.
The class was supposed to last for about 3 hours, but it went all day long. We were an inquisitive, talkative bunch, enjoying one another’s company and the presence of Chef Moreno and his wife, Rosella. We asked questions about his heritage–his family has been in the area for 1000 years–and the development of cuisine culture in northern Italy. He explained in broken English how northern Italian personalities and food traditions differ from those in the south, how the cold, narrow, mountainous north has resulted in a more closed-in people, quite distinct from the large, gregarious southern Italian personalities we’re accustomed to from stereotypes.
Chef Moreno also patiently explained the details of his food preparation, making sure we understood the subtleties involved in making pasta, risotto, pastry wraps, tomato sauce and more from scratch. As he did spoke, pausing to thoughtfully answer our questions about his culture, I felt like I entered a whole new way of being. He gave his entire day away, going far past the time we had paid for, and as we let him, my sense of days began to change.
For one whole day, I focused on one thing, one environment, and mostly on one person. That happened 9 weeks ago, and I’ve not yet gotten over it.
I realize this is a typical American experience of other cultures; I’ve experienced it previously in China and Mexico, and indeed in subcultures within the States that are less given over to busyness. Still, it was revelatory.
In the
weeks months 2 or 3 years before this trip, I’ve kept an insane pace. Graduate school + kids + writing + media work + homeownership and various other commitments have encouraged in me a constant rush, a
continuous partial attention to a range of data and disturbance. In an earlier season of life, I was proud of the fact that I was generous with my time. I lingered in the presence of friends, family, and strangers, and encouraged them to linger in turn. In recent years, I’ve hardly had a lunch where I wasn’t wondering about the emails and text message I was missing–or just responding to messages during the meal.
The day with Chef Moreno put me on Italian time, or at least his version of it. I didn’t rush the rest of that week, and I’ve been working hard at breaking my bad time habits since returning home.
I received all this as a measure of grace. It’s a grace I very much need. Since Italy, I’ve made more time for silence and solitude, whether that means fasting through lunch, getting up early, or descending downstairs late at night. I’ve begun to learn to sit in complete contemplation, and I’ve given myself fully into whatever moment I’m in: talking to my wife or a friend, playing with my kids, cooking complicated or ordinary meals, diving deep into a novel, like I used to. Strangely, I’ve also gotten more done, and more done well, in these past weeks.
A few weeks ago, I made Chef Moreno’s hand-rolled pasta. It took forever. Forever. It won’t take as long from now on–I just wasn’t very good at it, and my 7000-foot elevation complicated matters just a bit. But thanks to Chef Moreno and his witness to a better way of living, I liked that it took a long time, and was grateful that he invited me into a new-old way of being in time.
posted December 5, 2008 at 1:15 pm
Posts like this are why I enjoy your blog so much. It’s one of the things I love about travel, the way it takes us out of ourselves and our usual ways of “being in time” – if we let it. I’ll be thinking of hand rolled pasta next time I dump a pox of Prince spaghetti into the pot