My time in Pescosolido began with an Italian lesson, which continued throughout. I lived sometimes alone, and sometimes with other Americans in a crumbling room, which was once a chicken coop. The walls were damp, and the ceiling was falling in and there was no electricity and I loved it. It was here that I met the only real Italian cowboy, walked my feet into senselessness, and fell in love with Sicily without ever having been there (via my adopted grandfather, Giuseppe). During the day I worked with Giuseppe. He lives at the first farm, which is a 20 minute walk from the second farm, where I live, down a hill and then up a hill. Sometimes we organized the firewood, sometimes we bottled wine, but one day we butchered and cleaned four chickens and two rabbits for Christmas presents. This was one of the most humbling experiences I have ever had.
I decided I don't like places that are excruciatingly beautiful. Like Cape Town. In Cape Town you never get a break. You can't think because every second, you are just "wow wow wow." Where I just was (Parco Nazionale d'Abruzzo), it's gorgeous, but my brain can handle it. Whatever that means. Then again, I have missed Cape Town everyday since I left it and everything is relative. Sora next to Buffalo is a stunner.
There are little dots of electricity all around us, and we are outside of this. We are something else, unreachable, except by those who know where to find us and have strong legs. At night especially we feel outside of the plan. You start to think differently: of a dirty tissue, of an empty toilet paper roll. They are valuable firestarters. Everything at Le Mogli is scarce except for sweaters, cookies (thank the lord) and wet socks. If you can read by one candle, you read by one. You create old world entertainment: coloring a chess board into existence, molding pieces out of clay. Plastic bags are braided into ropes--this is entertaining and useful!
My shoulders are tense from the cold at night, and there is something really wonderful about doing yoga in the room. Or on the roof of the room if it's not raining. Because it's so what yoga is about to me: not a fancy studio, but finding peace anywhere.
New Year's. Me, my two paisans, and two Slovakian couchsurfers. We made pizza and bread in the brick oven outside, in the rain. The Slovakians made the best effort, but after a little chat and some candlelight reading, we were all asleep by 11:30. We woke at the stroke of New Year's, or just after to a war of fireworks going on in the hills around us. From our various beds, in various languages, grumbles could be heard. My favorite was Joe, because he never swears in the daytime, but only in his sleep. I got up and stole somebody's gumboots and walked outside, but it was foggy and raining hard, and I didn't know why or what exactly I was doing, or trying to see, so I went back to sleep, promptly.
When I returned to the states, I showed these, and other pictures to my parents and described, in great detail, my lifestyle in Pescosolido. My dad was amazed, and a little aghast. "This is exactly what your grandparents were trying to leave behind," he said. And they were right to do so. Life there was rough: my feet were always wet, cooking first required fire building, warmth required fire building, and wood collecting was a constant of life. Bathing was a luxury, as were tea and coffee. The chores required to live often took up the whole day, leaving less time than I would've liked for things like exploring and reading. But the simplicity of life allowed us joy too: visits from our local shepherd were preceded by a clanging of bells and concluded with a round of the most incredible pecorino. There was the evening two wandering Dutchmen happened on our little cave and I was delighted to have new faces to entertain. Eating persimmons from the trees that grew next to our house was another pleasure. Life in Pescosolido was hard and dirty in that damp little room, but I wouldn't have traded those weeks for a thing in the world. I pushed limits there--emotionally and physically. I don't think it's necessary for life to be so hard--my grandparents were right to leave this kind of life--but there are so many things we can do without. The crux of the thing is that traveling is humbling. And mind-boggling.
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