Italy: Pescara, Terremoto, etc.

Monday, April 6, 2009. “In the middle of the night” is a phrase often used with a sense of dread. Not for nothing did Thomas Jefferson write that the question of slavery "like a fire bell in the night, awakened and filled me with terror.” When bad things happen, the worst time for them to happen is in the middle of the night…

Stone thought Jake was having some sort of epileptic fit; Jake thought Stone was rudely remaking the bed because he had stolen all the covers. When we both realized that we were both still in bed, motionless, but that the room was in motion, we were at once puzzled and frightened. When we saw the frame of the double doorway to the terrace moving side to side we seemed to realize, even in our just-awakened fog, that the building was moving. After a while (who can say how long?) it stopped. “Was that an earthquake?” we asked. Jake looked in the living room to see Figlia miraculously still asleep. Stone went out onto the terrace; lights were going on the other buildings in our condo development. In a few minutes a few knots of people gathered in the streetlights below, but there was no panic or running about. It was about 3:45 AM – the middle of the middle of the night. After a bit, and another check on Figlia, we tried to go back to sleep, and sooner or later did.

That morning our apartment’s TV was still not working perfectly, and on the stations that we could receive there seemed to be little information about the “terremoto,” as the Italians term an earthquake. We went about our business, wanting to leave fairly early for the weekly Pescara outdoor market. Just before we were ready to leave there came a report that indeed it seemed likely that some people were killed in an earthquake that happened in the mountains about 50 miles from Pescara. We decided to wait and watch the TV for more news. The terremoto news trickled in, agonizingly slowly. Then came the first report of confirmed deaths – at least 9 people. Realizing then that the story would indeed be news in America, we called family and friends, telling them it was a beautiful, sunny day and that we were in no danger. We now know of the horrible effects of what turned out to be a devastating terremoto, but on that morning, at that time, it seemed of no such consequence so we went shopping.

The Pescara weekly outdoor market takes place every Monday in Figlia’s neighborhood, on the Strada of Several Names, here called Viale Guglielmo Marconi, quite close to Stadio Adriatico, Pescara’s soccer stadium. We are here to buy food for tonight’s planned party, when we will meet the four other study-abroad students from Figlia’s college. The market scene is large and crowded – crowded with people and with food of all sorts. There are wizened mom-and-pop farmers selling their vegetables out of tiny pickup trucks, there are fish mongers, there is one guy with an almost operatic voice hawking “the best melons in Abuzzo,” (translation thanks to Figlia), there are professional purveyors of meats of all sorts and cheeses we’ve never heard of. There is much hand gesturing and much inspection of the goods – a carrot is broken in half and then the whole bunch taken, an eggplant is finger thumped and put back, a cheese tasted and refused with a stately shaking of the head, still chewing.

Stone buys some spinach and zucchini from a wizened mom-and-pop, and mom stuffs some arugula in Stone’s bag and asks a higher price than previously agreed. Negotiation needed. Finally an agreement, but mom gives Stone a hurt face that might make the pope feel guilty. We also buy some soft pecorino cheese ( a perfect appetizer when dipped in honey says Figlia), a big scoop of various olives of various hues, and an odd looking sausage thing packaged in vacuumed plastic pieces tied together with string that turns out to be a “sopressata” -- which was fabulously delicious.

The market also includes people selling everything you might expect to see at any large flea market – from clothes to shoes to curtains to jewelry -- and Jake finds a sharp looking pair of reading glasses for only 5 Euro. Figlia, who has been despondent since a friend sat on her “perfect Italian sunglasses,” finally finds a pair worthy of her glamorous face just before she has to hurry off to school. Stone and Jake wander around the market a bit more, then head back to the apartment, stopping to buy some wine and Italian bubbly on the way.

Thanks to Stone’s usual wonderful cooking, the party for the American kids is a big hit. We all swap stories about the “terremoto” shaking, but most of the evening is passed with stories of how crazy the kids’ Italian roommates are, how good the food always is, this or that gelato to die for, how scary it can be to ride on a scooter in the mountains, how the Italian buses seems to run more systematically than the Italian trains, and how beautiful was their trip for five to (properly enough) Cinque Terre. The party goes so long that the city buses are no longer running (about 10-10:30 most nights), so Stone drives them all home to their respective apartments, while Jake dutifully cleans things up -- especially the bubbly.