I have long come to a conclusion that more often than not spontaneous decisions are those that end up being the best.
Sometime in rainy and muddy March in Moscow, hiding under the blankets with my laptop and trying to do tedious job-searching, I got the courage to apply for a volunteering work camp. In a nutshell, you get to travel abroad for free (you only pay an administration fee and cover your tickets), while taking part in exciting educational/cultural/environmental projects and meeting cool people from all over the world.
This one turned out to be life-changing for me. Long story short, mid-August I found myself quitting my job and embarking on a 04:20 plane to Rome (with a stopover it Istanbul) to spend two weeks volunteering at a jazz festival in some remote village town in the south of Italy.
Brienza
Nina, one of the organisers, kindly agreed to pick me up at Sala Consilina - a bus station about 20 min drive from Brienza. To get there, I had to take a train from Fiumicino airport to Tiburtina, and from there hop on a 5-hour bus to my final destination. The road ahead of me was long, but I had my playlists ready, my pencil sharpened and my brand new notebook ready to record a new adventure.
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Rome, 4:58 PM
On the train now from the airport to Tiburtina station. From there will have to take a bus to Brienza. What a bliss to be finally seated after all those corridors and endless stuffy passages. The space between the seats is so small, my knees are jammed against my suitcase, I'm thirsty. Refusing to speak English, so far it's working.
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The station was different from what I had imagined (precisely, something of a scene from "Talented Mr Ripley"). No cute cafes or beautiful couples sipping their coffee as they wait for their first-class ride to Venice. It was a loud, sweaty, swirling, scary chaos.
My ticket from Fiumicino to Tiburtina and from Tiburtina to Sala Consilina
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Rome, 6:04 PM
Coming out of Roma Tiburtina I couldn't have imagined that I will be thrown into, what seemed to remotely remind me of a Vietnamese market. The smells, so unbearably incompatible, the brain refuses to distinguish between them, noise that seems to come from underneath you, suspicious looks and this uneasy feeling of complete defencelessness.
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We drove for over five hours. All this time I was curled up in my dirty seat, shivering from the unexpectedly strong A/C, falling in and out of unconscious sleep.
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Somewhere, 8:10 PM
Hidden behind my dirty bus window, I am flying past lines of orange trees, melting into the cloudy humid air, fluffy mountains and dots of people, disappearing into the distance.
We passed Cosetta, that reminded me of the south of France, noisy Napoli - just like I remembered it from 3 years ago. By the time we got to my stop, there were just three of us left.
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10 PM. I stood there, at this empty station: suitcase too big for me to handle, clutching at my ukulele, like a lost child in a supermarket.
As I was desperately trying to spot a girl with long black hair (having done all the necessary Facebook stalking), I realised two guys were walking directly towards me.
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Sala Consilina, 22:58
I was met by Michele and Francesco, two sweet Italian guys, in a big black car (it took me about 15 seconds to figure out how to open that door). All the way to the house we were talking about politics, Italy and education. I could feel this warm fuzzy feeling stirring up in my stomach - the anticipation of a new adventure.
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By the time we arrived at the volunteer house, the others were all waiting for me. It already felt like home, and I was just a child, coming back from a long trip. There was food everywhere: crostata (traditional marmalade pie), fresh mozzarella and fried zucchinis. That night I slept so tight I didn’t even dream.
View of the castle from our terrace
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My back hurts from the fold-out bed. To lie belly-down on the bench, warm from the sun. To eat fresh pasta with tomatoes and mozzarella. To eat lemon gelato and chat with local old men. Happiness.
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Franco, father of Nina and one of the kindest hearts I've ever met
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This evening they threw us a welcome party. All the dads were playing guitar and singing old classics like "Bella ciao" and "O sole mio", confirming all the possible stereotypes.
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There were piles and piles of food: cold pasta, warm pasta, parmigiana, vegetables (fresh, boiled, fried), potatoes, omelette, tiramisu, cake, another cake. There was homemade wine, limoncello, grappa. My feet hurt from all the dancing, my teeth were red from all the wine.
The 300-year old oak was wrapped with fairy lights, but the stars were brighter. There was a moment which I’ll never forget when he picked up the guitar - I said: “What can you play?” - and he said, “Do you know Candy by Paolo Nutini?”. Maybe, that’s when I knew.
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We walked around the city, peaking around the corners, stroking the walls, smiling at passers-by.
We squinted at the white sun, seeking refuge in the shadows of bedsheets, stretched up between the windows to dry.
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Everything here is stunning in its authenticity. Balconies, from which for centuries Juliettes have declared love for their Romeos, tiny doors and unexpectedly huge windows, opening to a view that looks like an old postcard.
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I learned how to drink black coffee from the machinetta, and saw a real Italian wedding: with white convertible fiats and overdressed groomsmen.
Perhaps the good in me writing this now is that the work doesn’t seem hard and tedious anymore. We built benches, sewed pillows, painted barrels, swept the dusty floors and carried dozens of boxes up the castle.
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My arms hurt from shoulders down to my wrists.
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Volunteers relaxing after a hard day's work
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Then the magic started.
Everyone was assigned to its post: I started at Antipasti (Starters) on my first day, located at the very entrance of the festival.
I saw them all come in: beautiful women in heeled sandals, men in linen jackets, teenagers, frantically looking for someone to buy them a beer, old couples, holding each other and taking symmetrical steps.
I poured beer and listened, mesmerised, to others speaking this language that I was yet trying to tame.
The (only) local policeman Luigi patrolling the area before the festival
It really was magical. The soothing sounds of Nicoletta Tari, the deep full whisper of a double bass. The smells: freshly cut cheese, boiling pasta, sizzling steaks and fried pepper. Holding in a plastic cup the ultimate taste of summer - Aperol, with a little too much Prosecco.
By the time we'd visited all the exhibitions and performances (there was a dark strange man with a bunny mask that was following everyone and making weird gestures), the pasta stall was tempting us so we'd grab a plate of pasta crusco - the traditional dish, made with dried red peppers (not chilli!), olive oil and breadcrumbs.
Swivelling out way past a walking orchestra, rails with flowery dresses and children running around with their ice tea cans, we'd (no doubt) run into someone we know, have a quick discussion about the music and the food (always), and slowly end up grabbing a glass of wine.
Few steps up are the Secondi - grilled meats and cheeses with vegetables. At this point it would get harder and harder to walk uphill, so we'd sit on the stairs, take a breath and listen to a girl in a white dress singing "Summertime”.
The top of the castle was glowing in all the blues, the purples and the reds of flashlights. The view was almost surreal: as if we were the only people alive in the middle of a dormant sea.
Behind the bar we were making sangria, mixing mojitos and vodka-red bulls, watching drunk dancers and, unconsciously, tapping our feet with the Parov Stelar-like beats of The Swing Rowers.
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One day we went to Matera, a UNESCO heritage site and a stunning, unexpected gem. A small stone island in the ocean of green mountains. We walked, smoked, ate home-made packed sandwiches and sat on the marble piazza, looking at the sky.
Matera
Running down those slippery echo-y steps, it was impossible to feel anything less than a medieval princess.
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It smells as if there’s a wave coming from just around the peak. He laughed at me and said I have a very vivid imagination.
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Maybe, that’s when I knew.
Or maybe on the way back, when we were driving through the pitch black night highway, his hand, always holding a lit cigarette, resting on the wheel. We listened to Tchaikovsky, silently, the beauty of his music matching the beauty of the moment so perfectly, I held my breath in fear of disturbing it.
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We went to the wine festival at nearby St Angelo - a town with stunning murals and less stunning wine.
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Another day we went to Maratea, to the sea. A city of 47 churches, as they say, but we lost count.
We lied on the beach of black sand, then dipped out hot bodies into the cool salty water. All the little cuts from building benches, carrying barrels and sweeping the floor were burning.
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Last days were heavy and full of melancholy. Like the next day after your 10th birthday, as you re-read all the hand-drawn cards and put away all the presents when the feeling of celebration is unquestionably gone and you are left sitting in this vacuum of stale cake and flattened balloons.
But you can’t be miserable in Italy at the end of summer. So we had a goodbye party.
Each one of us cooked a national meal and put on his best (remaining clean) clothes. Just when we thought it was impossible, there was more food and more wine, and we ate it and drank it.
We sung to The Cranberries and Maroon 5, took stupid photos with the pretext that we are never going to see each other again, smoked too much and hugged.
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That night Franco told me something that only he knew to be true, and was right, of course. And as we stood there under that 300-year old oak, trying to see the stars through its thick branches, somehow I knew that this was just the beginning.