Pizza journal, vol. 2. Three scenes in Campania.

Sulfur rises from the earth. It passes through freezing water, and sticks to my legs. My feet wobble on round river stones. The liquid elicits a flight reaction. I force my body deeper. It is painful. I collapse wholly under the surface. Thermal normalization never comes. Completely submerged, then floating, every second is a struggle to remain in the frigid pool.

Talese Terme smells like eggs. Elegant gardens surround the spring. Columns, statues, art nouveau posters of bathers with parasols drinking sulfurous water as a curative. The literature that accompanies my 12 euro entrance fee suggests Talese’s fizzy water is a miracle liquid to heal many small maladies. Two long arcs of whitewashed alcoves surround the pool. A reclining chair is tucked into each alcove. They are comfortable. After the plunge I sink into one, and doze off. Cognitive function is gone. My body uses all available power to return its temperature to the normal range for land mammals.

Pizza Journal July 4, 2022. La Comedia dell'Dante/Daniele

The hills outside of Rome are on fire. Funny that didn’t make the news in America. I suppose we have our own problems. And our own fires. I’ve listened to farmers chronicle the days without rainfall this spring and summer, and unremitting heat that started in May. We’ve reached the burst-into-flames point on our journey through the pre-apocalypse.

It’s raining ash on the northern half of the city, including the Parioli neighborhood where I’m staying. I notice the extreme haze while driving away from Fiumicino airport. The smell of woodsmoke hangs over Il Cigno Pasticceria while I stop for a coffee-flavored granita, and a coffee. Served in a chilled silver chalice! I’m tired. Or maybe my blood oxygen level is low. Or maybe withdrawal is setting in. Twenty four hours away from American cold brew and my thoughts and movements are slowing down.

I was sure someone in Parioli was grilling brats in an oil drum over fancy charcoal, to celebrate our country’s glorious revolution. Italians love American things. There’s a Don’t Tread on Me flag hanging from the balcony behind the hotel. Maybe it’s that guy. I wonder if he misses his AR-15. Writes it letters. Has a postcard from the gun range taped to his fridge.

A visit with Renata at Slow Foods Italy

I had to catch up with Renata and Giovanni at Slow Wine Bologna the moment I arrived, because they were sneaking out early to catch a plane to Copenhagen, Denmark, and then Malmo, Sweden. Yet more wine events bekon. I’m glad dacapo are doing a brisk business in Scandinavia. I know it has been a challenging series of years for many small farmers whose wines we import. Dacapo is no exception. Their cellar and vineyard work have transformed the property, setting Renata and Giovanni up for reaching a new plateau of quality in years ahead. But all that hard work required cash, and the Covid weakened many wine markets in Italy.

La Casaccia: Margherita has a surprise

We’re meeting in a strange setting. Cold for such a warm person, whose place in my work life has become closer to a friend than a wine provider. We’ve gone running together, in Durham and in Cella Monte. We’ve shared too many meals to count, and spent hundreds of hours criss-crossing my home state selling wine. We’ve even picked grapes together.
It’s a strong bond, made in the spaces where we live and work. But today we are meeting in a vast conference center in the drab industrial outskirts of very beautiful Bologna. It’s the first-ever Slow Wine fair, and I’m happy to be catching the last few hours of a three-day event. Time enough to reconnect with a half-dozen winemakers whose bottles will be in our warehouse this spring.