The afternoon in the south of Italy is spent napping. The heat is so unbearable that the stores, banks, gas stations and post offices close their doors. The entire town pauses, eats and sleeps.
The first time I went back to Castellaneta with my husband and my children we rented a villa near the beach. One day, more family decided to stay for lunch. Worried that we did not have enough pasta to feed the hungry crowd, my husband decided to find somewhere open for business. My loud and animated Italian famiglia told him he was crazy, his mission bound to fail.
But determined to beat the odds, he got into our rental car and ventured out onto the hot, deserted streets. He drove around astounded that indeed everything was closed. The ritual of the afternoon siesta made its presence known. Monetary gain and customer service was worthless to the people of the town. Then he noticed from the corner of his eye, a half-opened garage door to one of the local restaurants.
“Hello, Hello?” my husband called as he pulled up the heavy metal garage door. The three men sitting on crates looked up, cold beer and Panini in hand, “Si, cosa succede?” Miming his story to the young Italian men, he made them understand that he had run out of pasta with a house full of guests—every Italian’s worst nightmare! Sympathizing with the foreigner, they offered him a large portion of homemade pasta from their restaurant and sent him on his way. My husband signalled “how much?”—but it was no charge, of course.
From Awakening the Imagination (M.Ed. capstone), 2014