It's almost Carnevale. Tuesday, February 17, to be exact, will mark the last day before the Lenten season begins. In Italy, like in many other places around the world it is a time of frivolity,, fun and fantasy. The Carnival of Venice comes to mind: a moment in time when all the exhausting cares of
I wish I could wear high heels; I wish I knew how to walk in them. I never learned. I was one of those gauche teen-aged girls that found no pleasure in dreaming of my first high heeled pumps. Today, a pair of Laboutins, hold no fascination for me, and my head turns rather to admire
https://youtu.be/clzISfXUXz4?si=HVtx_lL-vHZtf5H0 Francis Ford Coppola had been coming here since he was 21. He first came in search of his grandfather’s roots: to know the place from where Agostino had emigrated. He found here in Bernalda, and in these parts, “the real Italy”. And now that he was familiar with this little mediaeval town on a hilltop,
The Cuisine of Basilicata reflects the region itself, and its people. It is steeped in tradition; it is the product of a rugged, mountainous land, and it is of a genuingly simple but earthy nature. Its many types of durum wheat pastas, some incorporating lentil flour or other bean flours make for many hearty savoury
A short distance from Matera, in the vast Basilicata landscape of rugged gullies, lies Pisticci. It is surrounded by a mantle of white clay earth, devoid of trees and grass, an open-air geological museum that has inspired writers and poets throughout the ages. ” ….e d’ogni intorno altra argilla bianca senz’alberi e senza erba, scavata
The Sassi of Matera, I read in the guide book, were developed by its inhabitants over the centuries in a manner that is now called "Spontaneous Architecture". It seems to conform to the natural environment, and yet in the mess of stone, it is wonderfully exciting to discover sophisticated and elegant styles of architecture in
The silence is interminable. Its echo, heavy and primordial, resounds throughout the valley. There is an absence of time and space here, in this “anthill” city, in this forgotten tombstone of another society. I stand mesmerized, on the parapet above the canyon where the old city lies. The view, or perhaps the idea that I’ve