Mercatino

“The trouble with eating Italian food is that five or six days later you’re hungry again.”

-George Miller


On Wednesday mornings, I walk past the cafes on the lungomare, past the intoxicating smells of strong espresso and sweet pastries, to the “mercatino”, a weekly outdoor market held in a seafront parking lot at the southern edge of town. Striped vendor tents are lined up in two long rows with a walkway down the middle. The merchants spread out their wares and park their trucks and vans behind them, ready to make a quick exit in the early afternoon.
By mid-morning the market is already crowded, with locals and tourists (all Italians). The tourists are generally better dressed, and tend to mill and wander, sometimes pointing or taking photographs. The locals are more businesslike, rolling their smart canvas shopping carts behind them.
I walk slowly along the hot, sunny walkway, because every few steps I’ll need to brake quickly, when Carloforte neighbors suddenly stop to greet one another. “Ciao, bella!” they shout with exuberance, like they haven’t seen each other for ages, like they didn’t just see each other at the festa the other night. Then there’s the inevitable kiss (sometimes left/right/left and sometimes right/left/right), the full body hug, big smile, then a laugh, followed by simultaneous talking and gesticulating.
I smile longingly and scoot around them, feeling a slight pang of jealousy at these friendly chance-meetings, and a little ache thinking about all my friends back in Portland, and the simple pleasure of seeing a familiar face at the local market, or dog park, or coffee shop..
In fact, we’re so accustomed to seeing friends everywhere we go, that we still inadvertently look for them here. So far we’ve seen the Italian twin of Corey, Dickey, Debbie, Diana, and several Johns…just to name a few.
I think about how many times I have actually seen someone I know at this weekly market and the answer is once – last week, when I saw the man who lives on the boat next to ours. We both smiled and greeted each other with a nod, smile and a “giorno” (the “buon” in “buongiorno” is often silent here).
I scan the first few tents, where vendors sell household goods, kitchen items, linens, clothing, bathing suits, towels, shoes, toys, plants. Usually, I need something in this section, whether it’s a dish towel or wooden spoon, a snorkel or parsley plant.
I generally avoid the clothing tents, where the merchants show off their “best” on hangers swinging from the roof supports--racks of house dresses, fancy men’s slacks, wispy see-through beach cover-ups, sequin-studded micro bikinis—they’re mostly overpriced unless I get lucky at the 5 Euro table. The smell Italian leather is strong as I pass tables of glossy purses and high-heeled pumps or my favorite Italian shoe: the OPEN-toed “boot”—is it a boot, or is it a shoe? Sometimes it’s flat, like a flip flop, sometimes high-heeled, like an open pump, but with a leather wrap around the ankle or lower leg—a sensible choice on those days when your toes are hot but your calves are cold.
At about the halfway mark, the tents change to food and the air fills with the pungent fragrance of cheese and the earthy smell of vegetables.
I’ve learned to go to the market with a very short grocery list, because the food options change constantly, according to what’s fresh and seasonal. Whether cherries or peaches, clams or tuna, I’ve learned to adapt my cooking, so that I buy what looks good and then spontaneously formulate a meal plan around it.
Interestingly our longing for Thai, Asian and Mexican dishes are starting to give way to the available, seasonal foods of Italy (certainly not limited to pasta)--as if our bodies are adapting to the natural environment. We still make ethnic dishes, but they’re modified with Italian ingredients.
It’s making me see things very differently, with regard to “eating locally”.
It seems so logical and right, yet I admit, I am accustomed to living in Portland, Oregon, where one can satisfy nearly any food whim at the local grocery store. Brought in from hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles away, I can find asparagus, artichokes and berries out of season, and fish that wouldn’t be caught dead in Pacific Northwest waters
It reassuring that, with few exceptions, the food in Carloforte is local – if not from Sardenia, then at least close by. The exceptions include pineapple, bananas and avocado which come from Africa (closer to Carloforte than mainland Italy).
I notice that vendors at the marketino often sell the same items, but I’ve learned to return to my favorites not only because they remember me, but because I like to think I’m getting better service being a “regular” customer. I stop at my favorite cheese tent, and in practiced Italian I ask for a slab of fresh soft pecorino, which tastes smooth and slightly sweet, nothing like the hard, aged, salty kind. Next I order a large wedge of Parmesano Reggiano, heavenly with a caramelized, buttery taste. Never have we tasted Parmesan this good. I usually buy salami here and sometimes olive oil that’s sold in used 1-1/2 liter plastic water bottles, still with their labels. The oil is a luminous, goldish-green color, with a velvety smooth taste and a peppery finish. The first time I bought it, I asked the cheese man, “Dove questo fare?” (where this make) and he pointed to himself, and said, “Da me, a Carbonia” (by me, in Carbonia) a town about 15 miles away, on Sardinia. It makes me ridiculously happy to know the man who is making my olive oil.
One vendor sells nuts, another sells olives swimming in tubs of brine. Many vendors sell fresh local eggs, with bright orange yolks and thin spotted shells, sometimes with feathers still clinging to them. No one refrigerates eggs in Italy.
I stop at one of the fruit and vegetable tents and grab several blue “boostas” (plastic bags) for my purchases, being careful not to mix my produce. They frown when you mix your fennel with your onions.
I grab a small bundle of the sweet, tiny carrots that Jenna loves, with their green plumy tops and thin, tapered ends, clumps of dirt still hanging on them like they were just dug up this morning. I get a cantaloupe that is so sweet I eat the whole thing for breakfast one day, wrapping the wedges with salty prosciutto and slipping them into my mouth, one by one. I buy fresh cherries and perfectly ripe peaches that Jenna and I slice and make into a “crisp” topped with crushed hard cookies mixed with melted butter. Once we even made a grilled peach appetizer. We brushed the peach slabs with olive oil and a sprinkling of salt and pepper, then slipped them onto a piping hot grill for a minute, and draped them with paper-thin slices of fresh pecorino and prosciutto.
I stand, shoulder to shoulder with the other customers, ready to hand my bags to the merchant. The window of personal space is smaller here—people stand closer together, often brushing up and bumping against each other, so close I can often guess who has left the house without brushing their teeth, or showering.
When it’s finally my turn, I hand my bags to the vendor, and sometimes ask for something else, like arugula or parsley, something that I think they might have (but that I don’t see), and they often reach into a hidden bag or their van to get it for me. How many other things are hidden behind the tables? They weigh my items and charge me what always seems like too little—usually just a few euro for loads of produce. I’m always prepared with plenty of coins, because vendors love getting exact change (they frown and look exasperated if they have to make change). Most of the time they give me a “Grazie, senora” afterward, but occasionally they call me “Madame” thinking I’m French. I’m not sure why.
At the far end of the market is the riotous fish counter, always my last stop so I can rush back home. The fish men (there are three) stand on a raised platform, with a long counter in front of them and the fish splayed out on the crushed ice below them. There’s always a huge fish up on the counter—tonno (tuna) in the earlier season, now pesce spada (swordfish)--with either an alarmingly large head or fin showing. The fish men hack away huge slabs of the meaty flesh, and then wrap it up delicately in paper.
I look to see what’s offered this week, stand on tiptoe, but it’s tricky because there are about twenty customers standing in front of the fish, yelling, pointing, anxious to place their orders. As usual, most of the fish is utterly unrecognizable to me, however I do see vongole (clams), gamberi (shrimp) and calamari.
One week, they were selling tiny live crabs. The crabs were stuffed into a large bag with airholes, but the crabs kept jabbing their tiny pinchers at the holes, making them bigger, and crawling out. One of the fish men was standing next to the bag, grabbing the errant mini-crabs and placing them into a high-sided crate nearby. But the number of escaping crabs far outweighed the quickness of one fish man. Jenna noticed tiny crabs crawling on the table, tiny crabs jumping off the table, tiny crabs making a break for it along the pavement, and tiny crabs slipping into the storm drain, so she jumped in to help, gently lifting up their little bodies with thumb and first finger and placing them into the crate.
The fish men are always yelling—at the customers, at each other. “Cozze, cozze!” yells one of them, and another man races to their van and comes back with more fresh mussels to throw onto the ice.
The customers are literally shoving each other to see what’s offered, yelling their orders to the fish men. But everyone is good-natured, happy.
I always get this nervous, excited feeling at the fish market. Heart pounding, chewing my lower lip, I practice my words—vongole, gamberi, calamari. Vongole, gamberi, calamari…
The calamari will require the most work. First I’ll have to cut off the head with the buggy eyes, cut off flaps and squirting ink sacks, reserve tentacles, remove long stringy things and reach inside to pull out the slimy guts and remove the thin flat bone. It’s a gruesome job to get it to look like the thin white fish I’m used to, but it’s worth it.
Finally, it’s my turn to order.
“DIGA!” (tell me) the fish man shouts, pointing at me.
“Vongole?” I say.
“EH?!” The fish man shouts at me, because my voice is ALWAYS too soft. I end up having to shout my order.
“VONGOLE!” I shout.
“GRANDE o PICCOLO!?” (large or small) the fish man yells. The clams are sold in various size bundles, held together by a black net.
“PICCOLO!” I shout. Then I order the shrimp.
“QUALE!?” (which kind) the fish man demands. I hate this part. There are about six different things that LOOK like shrimp, but may in fact be something else. I point and keep my fingers crossed. Then I order the calamari.
“QUANTI!?” (how many) the fish man yells.
I stand on tiptoe to see how big they are. This week they’re huge.
“DUE!” (two) I shout.
“ALTRO?!” (something else) the fish man yells.
“No, va bene” (no it’s good) I say with a shy smile.
Whew. It’s over. I pay for the fish which is, surprisingly, always MORE than I expected. The fish man hands me my bags, but as I reach for them I feel my stomach brush up against the slimy wet fish at the edge of the crushed ice. I’ll need to wash this shirt.

# #

The recipes…
- Grilled calamari tossed with olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, salt and pepper, served on a bed of fresh, nutty arugula.
- Creamy risotto, with fresh clams and shrimp, using a fish stock made from the shrimp peels.
- Spaghetti alla vongole with fresh clams, lemon, parsley, red pepper flakes.
- Seafood pasta salad, with fresh corkscrew pasta, basil puree, red pepper, red onion, olives, baby peas, shrimp and calamari

NEXT UP: Who knows…?

Sul Lungomare (on the waterfront): Festa del Pesce (Fish Festival)

“Fish recognize a bad leader”

- Conan O’Brien




We were happy in our quiet little house on the hill, with the terrace, kittens, distant sea view, and the privacy and freedom to wear minimal clothing and/or yell at each other if necessary.
It’s different down here in the marina. We have close neighbors. We are in the midst of things. The lungomare, the centro—this is where it all happens.
Carloforte is bustling in August, as the population swells from 6,000 to 20,000. The ferries are busy shuttling tourists in and out of the harbor. Some of the stores are shortening their siesta hours, or even staying open. Umbrellas at the beach are getting closer and closer together. Tables of people are spilling out onto the streets, speaking French, Italian and sometimes (rarely) English.
And every weekend there’s a different festival—“Festa del Tonno” (tuna festival), “Festa della Musica” (music festival), “Festa della Nonna’ (festival of the grandma), “Festa del Turista” (tourist festival)--festa festa festa. Everything from parades to carnivals, fireworks to fashion shows, singing contests to teenage dance ensembles—the Carlofortini like to dress up, get henna tattoos and party.
There’s always live music at the festa, and unfortunately it’s always seriously lacking in musical talent--but that doesn’t stop anyone from dancing. After a few glasses of wine, I’m out there doing the local “line dance” with dozens of other women. Sure, I’m stumbling through the moves, sometimes bumping into people, but I’m learning. My favorite tunes, though, are the waltzes, when all the Carlofortini elders show off the smooth, gliding steps they’ve been practicing for decades.
Last week we went to the “Festa del Pesce” (fish festival).
We arrived around 9 pm, and took our place in the long line of people extending from the “fish tent”. My mouth was watering in anticipation of a freshly caught, freshly fried fish dinner. After ten minutes in line, though, we hadn’t moved an inch, so of course I went to investigate.
At one end of the tent were two types of fish soaking in buckets of water: gamberi (shrimp) and the little unidentifiable fish we catch from the dock—the fish that our Italian neighbor girls call “bob” (it’s funny to listen to Italians say ‘bob’—with a hard “b” at the end). The shrimp and “bob” were drained, coated with a cornmeal/flour mixture, and then passed to the cooks, who poured the fish into sizzling oil-filled metal cookpots. The pots looked like huge woks set over an open flame. The cooked, golden fish were then lifted, drained and dumped into large metal pans and set on a table. The pans were brought, one at a time, to the prep table, where (theoretically) the plates were prepared for the customers. Each plate held a handful of both types of fish, along with a hunk of watermelon, a roll, and a sweet hard cake.
It seemed like all the elements were in place--there were plenty of staffed workers, tons of fish--so what was taking so long?
Since I didn’t understand most of the language, I decided to use my powers of observation and imagination to make up various scenarios.
A man stood in line, holding a 10 Euro bill, talking loudly to the cashier. (Was he angry?) The cashier had her cash drawer open, and was alternately looking at him with a bored expression, and looking at a woman at the prep table. (Was she waiting for a plate of food? Was her cash drawer out of change?) The woman at the prep table held a half-filled plate and was talking loudly, almost yelling at the man next to her. The man shrugged, threw up his hands, and yelled back at her at the same time. (This simultaneous yelling happens all the time here—it’s ever-present, like background music). A different woman at the prep table absently placed a piece of watermelon on a plate and then wandered off to talk to the fish cooks. Finally, the woman at the prep table picked up a handful of fish, put it squarely on the plate and walked over to the cash register. The plate was given to the customer. The cashier took his bill and gave the man 5 Euro change. Then they both yelled at each other for ten more seconds, and then they laughed (laughed!) and the man walked away with his plate of food.
This exchange took at least 2 minutes. For one plate of food. I continued to watch for a few more minutes, to see if this was an aberration, but discovered that on average, each plate of food took at least one minute to prepare (I counted to myself). I quickly calculated that it would be 100 minutes until we got our fish. Goodbye blood sugar.
From my observation, it seemed as though there was no specific “plan” in place with regard to actually getting the plates of food to the customers. It was as if this so-called “fish festival” caught the staff by surprise. Most of the time, the staff were either talking, yelling, laughing, walking around, drinking wine, or waving their hands.
No one was taking this seriously! Didn’t they know there were hundreds people in line? Didn’t they care about the hungry masses? Who was in charge, here? I desperately fought the urge to jump in and offer my assistance, since I could see it all so perfectly, and they so clearly needed my help. I had several good suggestions for improvement, several smart, insightful ideas as to how they could run this festival in a much more organized and efficient fashion, starting with an assembly line.
If only I were in charge…
I walked back to find Jeff and Jenna in line, a few inches closer than when I’d left. I relayed my observations, and we laughed at my obvious neurosis.
As has happened so many times in Italy, we were torn between the EXPERIENCE (eating fish at an Italian fish festival) and the need to maintain adequate blood sugar levels. Should we just grab a pizza and call it good? When I suggested the pizza idea, Jenna objected and said she wanted to wait for the fish, so we decided if she could wait, we could wait.
So we waited (and waited) and we watched. And then we noticed it: the subtle art of celebration Italian-style--a festa within a festa – the “line festa”. Multiple generations were simply celebrating being together to queue up for a good cause. The food seemed quite secondary to the primary act of celebration. It was all there--intimate conversations between couples young and old, groups of bantering teenagers, random outbursts of simultaneous yelling, laughing, kissing, waving of hands.
Wait a minute…
No one appeared to be the least bit upset that we were essentially at a standstill in line (except me). No one was dumbstruck at the lack of organization (except me).
Again, I am given a lesson in patience.
Why am I in such a hurry to achieve my goals? (Well, we were hungry.)
Time works differently here. Sure time moves on (in linear fashion), but it is frequently diverted into timeless loops of human experience. The evidence is everywhere—at the festa, at the market, at the post office, on the street. I’ve seen two cars going in opposite directions stop, in the middle of the road, to have a conversation, cars backed up in both directions, and everyone waits, nobody honks.
When am I going to get this?
When am I going to stop this inner honking?

NEXT UP: Mercatino (the weekly market)

Life Aboard

“It’s not the towering sail, but the unseen wind that moves the ship”

-Proverb


Living aboard a “barca a vela” (sailboat) is like camping in a place in where the earth is constantly moving and there’s barely enough floor space for the tent.
I’m the first to admit that I’m not a natural sailor like Jeff and Jenna, so spending the month of August on a boat will be a challenge for me, no doubt about it.
I love to be IN the water, but living ON the water taps my senses in surprising ways – motion, sound and light disorient and delight me all at once.
Just simply boarding the boat requires walking (teetering) across a narrow wood plank, slightly wider than a balance beam. It’s tricky if you’re carrying, say, a bag of heavy groceries, but I get wobbly just carrying my purse across. All the boats in the marina are moored “stern to”, meaning the back of the boat is tied to the dock (about 5’ away), with a line extending from the bow, anchored into the water to hold it in place. This way of mooring boats allows the marina to fit more boats with less dock.
The boat we’re living on is 36 feet long and about 12’ wide, in typical nautical colors of white and navy with a nicely finished teak trim (thanks to Jeff). Along with their boat “names”, each boat is identified by a flag flown from the stern (back). Ours is the Irish flag, since the boat is owned by our Irish friend Terry, with vertical stripes of green, white and orange. Our neighbors aren’t sure what to make of us, because we’re clearly not Irish.
Once onboard, after a shimmy around the large steering wheel in the cockpit, there’s a small al fresco seating area and fold-up table. I’ve brought my small planters of herbs (parsley, basil, mint and cilantro) which are getting windblown and scorched, but they help give this space a nice homey touch. Jeff has rigged up a sunshade overhead, made from a white king-size duvet cover, held in place with an inventive combination of knots, bungee cords, broom, mop, 2 big sponges, and I think a few of my hair ties. This is the epitome of “jury-rigging”, but shade is essential in this sun-baked location.
“Down below” four stair steps and into the cabin there’s a tiny L-shaped “galley” (kitchen) with sink, 2-burner gas stove and refrigerator. Forward from the kitchen is a dining table with u-shaped padded bench seat, and across from that is a desk with navigational equipment. Long narrow windows and several hatches (operable skylights) provide natural light and air. There are two tiny bedrooms called “berths”. Jeff and I are in the “V berth” at the bow, with two small closets, floor space for one, and a “V” shaped bed that’s wide at the head and shoulders and narrow at our feet like a mummy bag (adding to the “camping” feel). Getting out of bed requires either an elegant backward summersault or an ungraceful pinwheel “break dance” move, with my bare feet grazing Jeff’s cheek.
Jenna sleeps in the “quarter berth” at the other end of the boat. When I say “other end” I mean about 7 steps away. She has similar floorspace and closet, with a rectangular bed and limited head room (if she rolls over and sits up in bed she’ll bang her head on the ceiling).
There’s also a miniature head (bathroom), with an inoperable shower, tiny sink and a toilet that requires a complicated flush/pump/water/rinse procedure that continuously baffles me.
There are “cubbies” and shelves everywhere for storage, but trying to fit all our things in these tight quarters is challenging. I try to channel my mother-in-law Lucy, who manages to expertly pack and organize literally hundreds of items on their similarly-sized sailboat in preparation for their annual voyages up to Vancouver Island in Canada. From Dijon mustard to smoked oysters, she knows exactly where each item is stored. She’ll say, “Tracie, could you reach behind that seat cushion in back of you and grab the powdered sugar—it’s underneath the cornmeal”. A quick glance into their “V” berth and all her sweaters are rolled up tightly and lined up on the narrow shelves (they might even be organized by color). It’s an amazing talent that I, unfortunately, do not share. Our “V” berth shelves are spilling over with a jumbled combination of bags, sunglasses, hats, dresses, books, phones, Advil, bottles of water and wadded up pieces of paper.
I’m good at organizing, but I have an annoying habit of not putting things away where I found them. I know this about myself. I’ll misplace my passport or my wallet for the hundredth time and Jeff will roll his eyes and say, “How unusual”. I understand the importance of “a place for everything and everything in its place” especially on a boat where space is limited, but putting it into practice is a struggle.
It’s been 5 days aboard and I still feel dizzy. When I close my eyes I am rocking all the time, feeling the room spin like I’m constantly drunk. The other day I walked over to the marina showers and while I was shampooing my hair, I briefly closed my eyes and ran into the wall. I almost tipped over completely.
Combine the dizziness with a continuously rocking boat, factor in the low ceilings and narrow walkways of the cabin, and this is a recipe for injury. I bang my head on the low ceilings, bruise my hip running into the desk, ram my thigh into the table. I also trip over all the raised “lips” on the door thresholds. I assume experienced sailors get used to all these hazards at some point, but I have not reached that point. Jeff and Jenna appear to be bruise-free.
The mornings are beautiful. I usually wake up because I feel the boat swaying from side to side. I listen to the water slapping gently against the bow, the quiet creaking of boats nearby, and a tiny jingle of boat lines. If I get up early enough, I can catch the morning sun reflecting off the water, making wavy white patterns on the other boats. The buildings along the waterfront are bathed in sweet buttery light.
I’ve started taking morning walks again, because it’s cooler down here, next to the water, than back at our barraka on the hill. Sometimes I walk along the seafront and out to the jetty that juts out far into the bay, to watch the ferries come and go. But sometimes I just walk a few blocks to the panificio and buy fresh ciabatta before it runs out by mid-morning. The thin, crispy crust and chewy insides are delicioso with butter and orange marmalade.
The social life in the Marina Sifreidi is unique. There’s a comraderie among sailors, as they all have this sailing thing in common. Everyone is tanned and leathery, and quite friendly. It’s fun to wander along the dock and check out how people live on their boats. Some people are always there, out in the cockpit, eating, talking, laughing, playing cards, drinking wine. And others keep more to themselves. The really big yachts are all grouped in one area along the seafront, so all the passersby can gaze at the luxurious splendor and wealth. These yachts (which are sometimes as big as ferries) have uniformed staff who get up early and bustle around the ship, cleaning, cooking, setting the table, looking busy.
The other day, we met a family from Roma, moored 3 boats over. They have two young girls, Flavia (8) and Ariana (11). Outgoing Ariana spied Jenna and immediately recognized a kindred spirit. She began talking in animated, rapid Italian. When she discovered we were American, she barely missed a beat and immediately launched into her practiced English skills. What she lacks in vocabulary she makes up in enthusiasm.
We’re discovering that, while most children in Italy are taught SOME English in school, those from larger cities seem to have better skills and seem more at ease with it. Within minutes, the three girls were playing—such is the universal language of children.
We met the parents briefly that first day, and then the next morning they surprised us with an impromptu invitation to sail around the island on their boat. Knowing the boat was big and stable, we didn’t let our last go-around stop us from an adventure.
The girls were giggly and excited, and the parents, Sonya and Walter, greeted us warmly and apologized for speaking “only a little English”.
Sonya and Walter are a vibrant pair. Sonya is a young, buxom outgoing woman with a big smile and a quick laugh. In perfect Romanesque style, she wore big black sunglasses and an elegant thin white chiffon tunic with rich paisley trim over her tiny bathing suit. Sonya is warm and friendly and simply oozes sensuality. Jeff is completely smitten with her, and I think I am, too. Her husband, Walter (pronounced “Valtera”) is a handsome 50ish man, with grey hair and a stout hearty presence. He is an “accountant”, which means “lawyer” in Italy.
We sailed halfway around the island on their lovely 44’ boat, and as the day went on, Sonya and Walter’s English skills got better and better. It was as if they were uncovering words that had been long dormant. By mid-afternoon, they were cracking each other up with broken English banter.
“Sonya” Walter calls from the dinghy, “Get me photograph machine, please”
“Camera!” yells Sonya, laughing.
“Wife, get me CAMERA please” Walter repeats.
“We speak very good English by tonight” Sonya winks at us.
Jeff and I spoke as much Italian as we could, and only resorted to English when we had to.
This is the way it goes with the Italian friends we have made. As with our landlords Rafaella and Salvatore, who have taken us under their wing, we’ve gotten into a companionable presence with each other, while they speak as much English as they can, peppered with Italian, and we speak as much Italian as we can (until our heads hurt), peppered with English. It works! (With the occasional help of an Italian-English dictionary.)
We anchor halfway around the island off a small beach and loll away the afternoon talking, swimming, eating a delicious lunch that Sonya prepares of little “pizzas”, soft delicious rounds of oily focaccia with hints of rosemary and coarse salt, split open and filled with cotto (ham), local tonno (tuna) and formaggio (cheese).
We take the dinghy to the beach and Sonya and I sit at the water’s edge, scanning the small rocks and shells, looking for the “occhi di Santa Lucia” (“eyes of Saint Lucia”).
These precious, 1-2 cm. finds look like tiny rocks or flat shells, but are actually an “operculum” (the small plate that closes the opening of a mollusk’s shell when the animal retracts) of a small sea-snail called Astraea Rugosa, found in the Mediterranean waters of Corsica and Sardinia. The flat side has an amazing, swirling, butterscotch colored spiral, and the other side is white and brown, and slightly rounded.
When I find my first one, it feels like I’ve discovered an ancient artifact. The spiral reminds me of an ancient symbol, something that seems to resonate deep inside of me. Often bound in gold to form a pendant, the Eye of Santa Lucia, also known as Shiva eye, is considered to ward off “the evil eye” and bring luck and happiness, as well as good fortune. I scan the area thoroughly, because we need these things.
Saint Lucia (282-304), a Christian martyr, is the patron saint of the blind, who bestows the gifts of light, enlightenment and eyesight, especially as the opener of newborn eyes.
The legend of “Saint Lucy” is conflicting. One story says she gouged out her own eyes in response to a persistent, but undesirable pagan suitor. Apparently, she then sent her eyes to him on a platter and asked to be left in peace. Another version has her tortured by eye-gauging because she turned down that persistent suitor. And yet another story says that in order to stay true to her faith, she plucked out her eyes and threw them into the sea, then later the Virgin Mary gave her even more beautiful eyes in response to her devotion.
Saint Lucia is often depicted in paintings with her eyes gouged out and holding them on a plate, but Sonya tells me that the statues often show her holding her eyes in her hands.
The feast day for Saint Lucia is December 13, which, coincidentally is JENNA’S BIRTHDAY. In Italy, Saint Lucia Day is celebrated primarily by Christians, but oddly enough, it is also celebrated by Lutherans in Scandinavia. It is said that, in Sweden, to vividly celebrate St. Lucy's Day will help him/her live the long winter days with enough light.
After an hour, Sonya finds three and I find two.
We stay longer than we’d expected and end up motoring back to Carloforte in the crisp weather of twilight. Sunbaked and tired, we get off the boat, say Ciao and Grazie to our new friends, and walk back to our own little sailboat, 3 boats over.

NEXT UP: Sul Lungomare (On the Waterfront)