a day in Curon Venosta - the tale of a semi-submerged church

There are some places where photos do a better job of telling the story than words. Curon Venosta in Italy is perhaps one such location. In Lago di Resia, just a few kilometres from the border with Austria, there is a semi-submerged 14th century church. Above the waterline, only the bell tower is visible. I saw a photo of this curious place a year ago and promised myself that if ever I was driving by...

In 1920, the Italian government first proposed linking the two natural lagos of Mittersee and Reschensee by raising the level of each lake by five metres. This would join the lakes and allow a huge reservoir for power generation. 

However, in 1939 the fascist government decided to increase the level from five metres to twenty-two metres. This meant that the villages of Graun (the Austrian name of Curon Venosta) and Reschen as well as several hamlets would be drowned. One hundred and eighty-one houses and farms were destroyed and 70% of the villagers were forced to leave, without any compensation whatsoever.

The 14th Century Romanesque church tower was, perversely, left standing while all around was flooded. As the people of South Tyrol were not represented in government when the fascists had control, there was little they could do to stop this environmental vandalism.

While the Second World War delayed construction to some extent, the project continued after the war and in 1950 came into operation. In a further touch of hopeless irony, the first year’s profits all went to the Swiss financiers of this community disaster.

Cathie and I spent an hour walking around the lake’s edge, gazing in awe at the tower. It was like something from a child’s fairytale, so beautiful and magical with the enchanting backdrop of snow-capped mountains. We took endless photos, sat and stared at the changing light on the water and tried in vain to peer into the gaps at the top of the bell tower, perhaps hoping for the clanging of the bells. Sadly, they were removed many years ago. 

After we’d checked into our Gasthaus in the Austrian village across the border, I rode my bicycle Craig, back to the lake in the late afternoon. It required a climb over Passo di Resia, but I just wanted one more look at the tower. When I arrived, the sun came out for a few minutes and the tower’s shadow stretched towards shore, as if reaching for dry ground. 

In winter, visitors are able to walk on the frozen lake and touch the walls of the tower.

It’s a beautiful haunting sight, all the more so because of the tragedy of its past.

one afternoon in Frascineto... an Albanian-Italian village

Cathie and I are driving between Sicily and Germany. Quite a hike - 1,700 kilometres, give or take a diversion or two. On our first night in Calabria, we drive into a small town called Frascineto, just off the highway. The friendly man at the B&B welcomes us with slices of his Mother's chocolate cake and explains that the people of this area are descendants of Albanians who came to this region 600 years ago, after fleeing the Turkish invasion. The subsequent generations have steadfastly maintained some of their forebears language and customs throughout the years. Known as the Arberesche, they are a significant minority in various parts of Italy. 
Late on a Friday, he arranges for the Folk Museum to open, just for Cathie and he tells me of a village down the road that has a gorge and a famous bridge, 'within cycling distance.' 
How can we refuse. 
So, while Cathie is shown the museum by a woman who speaks no English, I set off in search of a hilltop village. It's a quick downhill ride for eight kilometres before I round a bend and see Civita on a rocky outcrop, with a sheer cliff wall towering above the houses. In town, a large gathering is taking place, men sitting in the square or standing around uncomfortably in groups of two or three outside the church. A funeral is about to begin.
I quietly ride through the main square and head towards the gorge, steering Craig down the steepest incline either of us has experienced. My fingers go numb applying the brakes. Craig whispers nervously about the return ascent. The road is a mix of narrow pavement and cobblestones and drops for one bone-jarring kilometre to near the valley floor. It's very late in the afternoon and no-one is around. 

We turn one last corner and see the Devil's Bridge, arching above the narrow gorge. It reminds me very much of the Old Bridge at Mostar in Bosnia - a narrow graceful arch with a hump in the middle, wide enough only for pedestrians. The Mostar Bridge was bombed in the Yugoslav War and replaced a few years later, using some of the original stones. For a reason I can't explain, it's one of the most memorable places I've ever visited.
The Devil's Bridge has also been through many reconstructions in its long existence. This latest effort looks like lasting for a few generations, as I imagine the only traffic is tourists and enterprising old men with walking sticks and pipes. 
Craig recovers from his descent, while I lean nervously over the bridge and look to the gorge below. Swirling water tumbles over large rocks into deep pools before flowing out to the Ionian Sea a few kilometres east of here. 
Eventually, with the sun setting behind the cliffs, Craig and I attempt to cycle up the hill. It's impossible to stay upright for longer than fifty metres, it's that steep. With a sigh, I dismount and walk behind Craig, both hands on his seat coaxing him forward, like a farmer would push a recalcitrant donkey. Craig obliges by steering straight. It takes me twenty minutes of plodding to reach the top. 
I pedal slowly through town as the crowd from the funeral is dispersing. A group of young men wave to me and shout, 'buon giorno.' I call back. A kilometre further, a goatherder yells incessantly to his stock, stopping briefly to nod hello to me as I cycle past. I feel honoured.
Back at the B&B, I'm offered more chocolate cake and Cathie tells me of her afternoon private tour through the history of the Arberesche. 
All this, just off the highway...

One afternoon in Trapani, Sicily.

At 4.40pm in Trapani, Sicily, my wife and I ride our bicycles down the wide main street. It's a quiet Sunday. An old lady walks her dog on the footpath, a few men sit outside one of the only bars open and a young boy kicks a soccer ball in an alley. 

Since the early morning, at every major intersection, we’ve noticed a series of makeshift stalls selling the scarves, shirts and caps of the local football team, Trapani Calcio. But there is no-one on the street to buy them. 

Earlier, Cathie and I had walked to the football stadium in the hope of seeing the team play, but I had got my details wrong. They were playing away from home in the north of Italy. Instead, we watched an Under 12 Grand Final, the trophy the boys were playing for was proudly displayed on a table on the sideline.

At 4.50pm, just as Cathie and I arrive back to our B&B, the town erupts in a cacophony of car horns and vuvuzelas. People crowd onto the street under our window, cheering and laughing. We rush back to the main boulevard which stretches for three kilometres from the old town up the hill. 

The road is jammed with cars, people hanging out of the windows waving flags. An open-deck truck with twelve young men aboard bounces up and down at the traffic lights. Normally staid middle-aged men wave red scarves above their heads. A woman, dressed in designer slacks and fitted jacket blows a vuvuzela non-stop, laughing like a teenager on her first date. Old ladies lean out of second-storey windows, smiling benignly. Thousands of people are walking beside the traffic jam, everyone wearing the same red scarf of Trapani Calcio. The stalls we had seen earlier are almost sold out of every item. 

We follow the crowd. Never before have I heard such incessant and prolonged noise. At the town square, the police are directing the traffic either left or right. The crowd of people throng into the square. As we follow the mass, I notice every gelati shop and cafe is empty. The whole town, perhaps the majority of the 70,000 population, are on the boulevard or in the town square.

Trapani Calcio have just won the Serie C football Championship, the third tier of Italian football. Next year, for the first time in their 108-year history they will play in Serie B. It is the cause of this once in a lifetime celebration. 

Even sweeter, their arch rivals, Palermo have been relegated from Serie A on the same afternoon. Which means, next year, the local derby will be the hottest ticket in town. It's as if the football Gods have smiled on this tiny Sicilian town for one sunny afternoon.

In Palermo, I imagine the streets are deserted, the cafes empty, the sadness palpable.

In Trapani, for three hours, Cathie and I watch the crowds walk back and forward along the boulevard, the flags waving non-stop, the car horns blowing, the vuvuzelas blaring, everyone smiling. It’s like football Mardi Gras. 

We finally head into a restaurant to eat dinner. We are the only customers. Two hours later, we are back on the street. The crowds are now in the bars and cafes that have opened for the celebration.  

The vuvuzelas echo down the street.

We don’t expect to get much sleep tonight.

This town, this country, the world measures its life through football.

Napoli - city of pizza

I don’t usually eat pizza at 11.30 in the morning, but in this restaurant, in this town, I’m prepared to make an exception. Cathie and I have caught the ferry across the bay from Sorrento to Napoli. After disembarking, we walked along perhaps the noisiest street I’ve ever encountered, to find L’Antica Pizzeria Da Michele located down a back alley. We were warned that there would be a queue, even this early, but thankfully we walked in and were told to share a table with a friendly pair of German senior citizens (ie: people five years older than me).

Naples is regarded as the home of pizza and Da Michele Pizzeria is commonly referred to as the best. There are only two choices - Margherita and Marinara. In fact, you have to specifically ask for the Marinara or you’ll be given the Margherita as the default. Cathie and I are both fine with that. 

Behind the counter is a balding stooped old man slowly putting the topping on the pizza, two other younger men work the wood-fired oven. On the wall next to us, there is a picture of the old man, thirty years younger, smiling next to a youthful Diego Maradona. I assume this was taken in the mid-1980’s when Maradona played for SSC Napoli, leading them to their first Serie A title and the Coppa Italia in 1986-87. Lower down the wall is a photo of Julia Roberts with all the staff. Another photo of Julia, eating a pizza, is beside the old man now as he spreads the topping onto what I hope will be our pizza. Fortunately, ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ has not turned this neighbourhood pizzeria into a tourist nightmare. Certainly, there are we tourists eating here. But many of the tables are filled with locals. Next to us, a old lady slowly eats her margherita. Beside her four women on an early lunch break eat marinaras. 

On the far wall is a large framed photo of the original Da Michele who founded this shop in 1930. He looks down fondly from his pride of place. His descendants still run the business. Near the door, behind a cash register, sits another old man, looking at his smartphone.

It’s midday and already there is a queue outside. We have just been served two very large pizzas. Did you really believe that, having come all this way, Cathie and I would share? At first sight the Margherita is a perfectly balanced mix of cheese, tomato sauce and oil. The outside crust has risen considerably in the oven and is flecked with scorch marks. It is deliciously chewy. The inner crust is impossibly thin, the tomato sauce sweet, the cheese creamy and the oil... juicy! It all comes together into something quite extraordinary. Yes, I know, I’m raving already.

And I honestly didn’t expect this pizza would be that much better than others I’ve eaten in Italy. But, it is. The secret must be in the dough, which is left to rest for at least twenty-four hours. The scorch marks give the pizza a remarkably subtle smoky flavour. Cathie comments that it’s like eating two pizzas in one - the crust is chewy and smoky, the inner section creamy and juicy. 

The German couple have finished eating their pizzas. They are smiling broadly. Does anyone share just one pizza in this restaurant? 

I almost consider ordering another Margherita, but stop myself. There’s no way I can consider ‘an afternoon snack’ at 12.15pm. Cathie and I reluctantly get up to pay the man at the cash register. The cost of two fantastic pizzas and a bottle of mineral water? An unbelievable 11 euros. That’s $14 for one of the best food experiences I’ve had in my life. As a town, Naples has many art galleries and palazzos, but there is one reason why it should be on everybody’s list of Italian places to visit. Buon appetito!