On my several trips to Italy, I can’t recall a sight that has put a lump in my throat as instantly as a simple road sign on the edge of the town of Altomonte. This was the village my grandmother’s mother left as a young girl. In all the time I spent with my grandmother, she didn’t speak much to me about her mother, but, even into her 90th year, she would grin a little girls’ grin when she remembered her grandfather. He came from Altomonte as an old man to live out his final years with his daughter and grandchildren (among them my young grandmother). Some time in the final years of her life, when we were at the cemetery caring for the family headstones, I remember her pausing in front of his gravestone, remaining silent for a short time, then uttering the simple, yet profoundly complimentary recollection: “I really loved that man.”
Years later, we passed the sign marking the border of town and drive into a 16th century hill town, pockmarked clearly with signs of modernity, but otherwise much the same town as our family left years ago.
Altomonte is nestled at the edge of a plateau rising up to the Pollino National Park, the largest park in Italy. A shallow gorge bisects the town’s old quarter--which rose to prominence as a Norman outpost beginning in the 11th Century and built up in the 14th and 15th centuries--with more the modern residential neighborhood, where we stayed. From our exceedingly well-managed and comfortable hotel, we were treated to a view of the old town worthy of a great master’s painting. After checking in, were enjoyed an incomparable meal inspired by local Calabrian produce and cuisine.
If I could manage the time, I could (and should) right a memoir just about our two days in Altomonte. The experience were worthy of an movie by Giuseppe Tornatore. All the time and money spent to get here was make worth it just to live these short days in Altomonte.
The full story is available to anyone willing to meet me for a cappuccino or cocktail. The short version is that Altomonte is a Southern Italian jewel that is tired of being hidden. It is a town with an impressive history, individuals of fiery but honorable character willing to welcome the world to share the secret--striking beauty, perfect climate and some of the best regional cuisine in Italy.
At the recommendation of several townspeople, we paid a visit to city hall before leaving and asked for the man (by name) who held position that would be equivalent to city manager in the USA. We found the city managers office and told him why we had come to town. (He already knew, having been told about us already by someone we had spoken to the day before.) After a short conversation, the manager disappeared into a lower level of the building. He came back holding a pair of old books. The books were the town’s records of births from the late 1800’s. Accustomed to reading the Italian script of the time, he thumbed through the pages until he found the record of our great-grandmother’s birth. He scribbled down and address and pointed to a general area on the map. He told us to just ask someone nearby to show us the building. We did just that, in a group of dwellings near St. Giacomo Church (which dates back to the 12th century). We eventually located the precise building (now owned by the town pharmacist) where our family lived before leaving for the US. An entire trip...worth it just for a picture of an old green door of a simple dwelling.
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