Il Caffè Dario: L’Isola Non Trovata
An unfiltered response to American pathologies
by Ricardo

The sun is rising on the martens and fox as they mingle among the jonquils and gentians. In the distance the faggio is being exploited again for firewood, and — as always, before any other caffè is open — the doors of Dario’s place welcome the early birds. Most of the descendants of ancient Etruria who enter bring the countryside with them; it is in their blood.

Some foreigners come because they’ve heard Dario might show, though he rarely drops by these days. Neighbors drift in lazily, a few students picking up one of the many foreign-language publications on hand. Below the incessantly changing artwork there are serious exchanges taking place. Ferenc Máté, hands on a rough-hewn sailboat, stares down from an autographed black and white photo. “To Dario Castagno, authentic author” reads the inscription.

This morning there’s some talk about the rumor that Dario might conduct a singular writing workshop in the winter. For friends of Marlena de Blasi’s from New Orleans, they say. No one knows for sure at this point. One of the hopefuls notes — fingering the centrally located Upcoming Events green/yellow/blue board — that a talk on Sacco and Vanzetti is scheduled for that very evening, to be followed by a documentary on Operation Gladio. “Maybe he’ll come to that!”

At Noon it becomes somewhat boisterous with bicyclists from the Cinghiale Tour group, but a live melodic strain — blues played low — keeps the atmosphere quite attractive. Music lovers are still talking about the powder-smeared and frowzled demeanor of the lead singer who caused quite an uproar when jazz last hit the premises. And one “Dariolino lover” wonders out loud if her favorite ciclista could be among the riders, wandering among them, forcing her girlfriends into the crowd. Laughter emanates easily from the corners.

“Prosecco for everyone,” screams a visiting sports figure who bursts in in a sudden celebratory appearance, “on me!” Arguments break out about who the hell he might be, as an operatic recording kicks in. “No, that’s not Puccini,” the diminutive, elderly Caterpillar man informs the omniscient young German.

“Congratulazioni! Sono felice di sapere che stai aspettando un maschietto,” shouts out the old parrucchiere, as the waitress — the prettiest girl in town — blossoms a smile from ear to ear. Applause rings out.

Outside, underneath the rainbow umbrellas, sheltered from too much Tuscan sun, one lover whispers to another: “Mostrami quello che hai scritto.”

Inside, way in the back, washing dishes, and happily humming a Francesco Guccini melody, is Il Straniero. Still recovering from the previous night’s grappa bout, he pauses to sip his caffè corretto intermittently. Glancing at the calendar, he notices that there are only a few more days before he has to cross the border again.

Every ninety days or so, Il Straniero takes a trip… so that he can return after a night or two with a new stamp on his U.S. passport. With his wife and eight-year-old Marcello. Sometimes to Switzerland, sometimes to France. Once in awhile he journeys to North Africa or Croatia for a few days. Ad infinitum.

But all of that off-the-books effort/tension is worth it to him in spades. His wife recovering from the challenge of cancer stays healthy, he believes, by simply being blended into a culture which nurtures her true nature.

She seems to thrive on helping Dario with this and that, marketing his occasional stints as a teacher and guide, updating the various websites (re-designing upon request), making sure that there’s optimal outreach for his olive oil and other projects… which seem to flow these days like wine in the Chianti region.

Il Straniero, in requisite (?) low profile, works behind the scenes too, tending to whatever his wife doesn’t handle, taking great pleasure in contributing to his new community — a healthy community he was never able to find in fouled America once the sixties passed — quietly, teaching ESL, sharing his great collection of foreign films, and guaranteeing that Il Caffè Dario has myriad materials on hand which… aren’t found elsewhere very often. Mopping up after others.

Now the sun shines on Marcello. And Dario keeps a special eye on him, remembering how he relocated as a youngster at about the same age. He laughs within every time the little one calls him his sweet chestnut.

Yes, now the sun shines on Marcello.

BELOW IS AN “UPDATE” WHICH I JUST WROTE TO ADD TO THE ARTICLE WHICH (IS CONNECTED TO AND) FOLLOWS THIS.
UPDATED NOTE (July 11, 2008): Came across an article in Italianicious: Essence of Italy which was titled “Cheeky Chestnuts.” A description below the title now — since Mr. Castangno (means “chestnut” in Italian) let me down, became unreachable — seems worth pondering. It reads “Hidden behind a spiky casing, a shell and a very thick skin, chestnuts are difficult to access, to say the least. So why bother cooking with them? Because now there’s an easier way….” The much easier way for me at the moment is to do without either* “disappointing” author. One doesn’t know how to grade one’s fantasies or one’s ratings of others… unless some kind of life test is created. That’s what I do best.
*The article which follows this one references another author too.