San Martino: Fast. Not Strong.

Tranquillo, tranquillo.

It’s a word I’m hearing a lot recently. In Italian it means, essentially, to relax. Slow down. Although everything here seems to be done at this wild, frenetic pace, there’s always an underlying ease to things. One must never rush. It will all get done.

Tranquillo.

Carl Jung said, “All haste is of the devil.” I would agree. When we relax, life can flow. If I am in a rush, for example, I cannot write. To rush creates pressure, a squeezing of the creative canals, and words cannot pass through. When the mind and body relax, all can flow. When anything is constricted, flow ceases.

Flow is important to a small village. That’s what gives it its magic. That’s why people spend their whole lives here, or return in older age. I met a man at breakfast today, a former mathematics professor from Rome. His wife passed recently, leaving him a widow. He decided to return to this village, the place of his childhood, so he can relax. I asked his daughter, who accompanied him, what makes this village so special. “It’s every village in Italy,” she told me. “You will see. Each has its own subtle beauty.”

I’m in San Martino al Cimino, a small town of about 2,000 people. It’s an hour north of Rome. I had to rent a car to get here, a tiny Fiat that gets about 1000 miles to the gallon. As soon as I escaped the hot, crowded streets of Rome, I felt at ease.

San Martino al Cimino is a place of tranquility. It’s surrounded by nature and very close to a large, serene lake. The main center is situated as one oval street, which includes three restaurants, a pharmacy, a gelateria, and a sports bar. You can walk it in 15 minutes. At the top of the oval is the main attraction — Abazzia di San Martino, a magnificent Gothic cathedral constructed over 800 years ago and #1 of 2 attractions listed on Trip Advisor. The homes here are built in one long row, each connected and inseparable from the next, a fine metaphor for the community itself. There’s no crime in San Martino. No locked doors, no mistrust. The children play in the streets until midnight. Everyone knows everyone.

When I arrive, I take a walk around town and meet a man named Alfonse. He’s a short, older Italian man dressed in all denim. I ask where’s the best restaurant in town, and he takes me instead for a guided tour of the city. He shows me everything. Slow, measured, proud. When we walk into the cathedral, he throws his hands triumphantly into the air as if to say, “Voila! Look at what I’ve built!” I ask how long he’s lived here. Sixty-eight years, he tells me, his entire life. I asked why he likes it, why he chose to stay. “The history here is very hard, and strong,” he said. Then, he dragged his finger along the length of his wrist. “It’s part of who I am,” he said, and he got a little choked up. “It’s in my blood.”

I came here by recommendation of my friend Sebastian. He’s Italian and has lived in New York over 30 years. We play basketball together in the West Village. I told him of my travel plans and of my dream: To live in Italy for the summer and learn to cook. “Okay,” he said, “I might have a place for you.”

Sebastian’s friends own a restaurant in San Martino called Da Saverio. As I learn from my new friend Alfonse, it has the best food in town. The family also runs a B&B above the restaurant, where I’ve rented a room. The thing is, Sebastian tells me, Italy has very strict labor laws. If an official walks in and sees me in the kitchen, they could shut the place down. “So when you arrive,” he tells me, “don’t make it business-like. Be cool. My friend knows you’re coming, he knows why you’re there, so just go with the flow.”

That said, I’m a little nervous before arriving. This is a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, I’m here for five days, and I haven’t made any contact with these folks. I have no idea what to expect.

I arrive at the restaurant at about 3pm and a man comes to greet me. He has short red hair, tattoos all over his arms, and a large build. This is Giancarlo, the son of Saverio and, as I would later learn, the 2011 World Champion of Gluten-Free Pizza Making. “You are Sebastian’s friend, from New York,” he says in English. Yes, I tell him. I’m being careful to not come on too strong, which is not my strong suit. He shows me to my room above the restaurant. We chat for a little bit. Then, as he’s about to leave, he says, “Sebastian says you want to learn Italian cooking. I will learn you.” Then Giancarlo turns and shuts the door.

That was it. I didn’t know exactly what would come next. He gave me his number earlier and just said, “See you later.” Should I text and arrange a time? How would we do this? I sit in my room for hours, checking basketball scores, scrolling on apps, awaiting orders. Nada. Then I draw an Animal Card: the Prairie Dog. Retreat. Stop pushing and go with the flow.

It was 7pm and I was hungry so I went downstairs. Restaurants here don’t get busy until around 8 or 8:30, so I was early. When I arrive, the whole crew is there: Matteo, the server; Ricardo, the pizza man; Carla, a chef; Mariella, the mother; Giancarlo, and then of course Saverio, the father and namesake of the restaurant.

I immediately liked all of them, and especially Saverio. He’s from Naples originally and has lived in San Martino over 40 years. He is about 5’6”, bald with dark bushy eyebrows, and is remarkably spry for his age. He oozes pride, warmth, kindness. He has a deep, confident, calming voice. He’s 75 years old, though he moves like he’s 20.

We say our hellos and chat for a bit. Then, Giancarlo hands me an apron. “Okay. Tonight you will learn pizza.”

Okay.

Pizza making is simple, but it’s hard. You must be fast, but not strong. It’s a delicate balance, like many things I’m observing in Italian culture: Quick, yet relaxed; serious, yet light.

My teacher is Ricardo. He’s 35 and has been making pizza since he was 18. He’s well over 6 foot, speaks a bit of English, and wears a light sleeveless shirt to help keep cool as he bears the night-long heat of the pizza oven.

Ricardo is very patient with me. We pull, press, and stretch the dough, then do this flip-flopping thing where you quickly pass it back and forth between your hands to shake off the excess flour. I throw on my cheese and tomato sauce in barbaric fashion (“Not rough,” Ricardo says, “do like this,” who then spreads the sauce as if working with a paintbrush). We put my pizza in the oven and out it comes: Glistening, crunchy, delicious. Giancarlo has this ability, either by birth or by trade, to eat pizza directly out of the oven. He cuts a slice off my pie, folds and bites. “This is good pizza,” he says.

“Now, you will make one for this guy.”

Giancarlo points to the corner where a brave, innocent Italian man is dining alone. What?! I was not ready for this! Saverio sees my nerves kick up and puts his hand gently on my shoulder. “Tranquillo,” he says, in his calming voice. I relax, and with Ricardo’s help, we turn out a fine four-cheese pizza.

I get one more practice pie, during which I demolish this sweet fragile dough. The restaurant now starts getting busy and it’s time for me to move aside. Giancarlo brings me a bottle of delicious local white wine and the best looking pasta dish I’ve seen yet — fettuccine coated with porcini mushrooms and wild boar. It’s raining outside, and from my seat I see the water dripping off the deep green ivy that hangs along the stone walls. It’s a rustic Italian rainstorm, and I’m drinking sweet wine with rich pasta and I’m in pure traveller’s bliss.

Hours later, the restaurant clears out and I get one more whack at pizza. I’m pretty boozy by now. I’m forcing the dough to stretch. My movements feel tight and jerky. “Not so hard,” Giancarlo says. “Do it with love.” I took a breath and thought of my sister. My insides warmed. I felt relaxed. My motion seemed to flow, everything became much easier. We popped the pie in the oven and out it came — my best looking one yet. I know this because Mariella, the mother, offered the ultimate stamp of approval: She took not one slice, but two.

My masterpiece. The pizza with love.

I finish the night by talking with Giancarlo and Saverio. Saverio was very passionate about his children seeing the world. When they were in high school, he sent them both to the US to learn English and spend time with local families. Now, they all live in San Martino, three homes right next to each other. Giancarlo loves to travel, but most of all, he loves the kitchen. “When I cook, the world goes away,” he says. “It’s my dream to open a small restaurant, only 20 to 30 people. I pick the food or buy it at the market, and cook whatever I want. This is my dream.”

A dream is a most delicate and personal thing to share, almost like a deep secret. You must treat it with utmost gentleness, as they can be shattered easily. So when Giancarlo shared his, I saw the vision of his restaurant, held it in my mind, and thanked him for sharing. “It will come true,” I said.

The Family: Mariella, Valentina, Saverio, and Giancarlo — holding the trophy from the 2011 World Championship of Gluten-Free Pizza Making

The next morning, school’s back in session. I’ll be making pasta. But before we do, Saverio offers to show me his home. Actually, he just says, “Come,” and I follow him into his car.

He takes me to his home. It’s comfy and beautiful and overlooks the entire village. You can see for miles. Some days you can nearly see the sea. I’ve just had my morning coffee and croissant so I’m a little jittery — also a little under slept from drinking so much wine the night before. I’m talking and moving quickly. Saverio stops, holds his hands in a calming, Buddha-like gesture and says in that warm, deep voice, “Tranquillo, tranquillo.” Again, I relax. Then we continue our conversation.

We talk about travel, about life, about family, food, and philosophy. “In America, it’s always about business, always about work,” he says. “Here, we care about business too. But life is much more tranquil. Tranquility, family, community…it’s very, very important here.”

Saverio brings me back to the restaurant and it’s time to cook. I meet Mohammed, the head chef in the kitchen. He’ll be my teacher for today. Mohammed’s a large, jolly man originally from Tunisia with deep brown eyes and incredible personality. I can hardly understand his Italian, yet when he speaks, he insists I understand — he doesn’t move on until I’ve firmly grasped what he just said.

We’re making fettuccine. Mohammed does most of the rolling while I shake out the pasta and then cut it up. “Strong, but not fast,” he tells me. We create a whole tray within an hour. He smiles and laughs. “Fettuccine di Harris!” he says, beaming.

It’s a slow day, so I get to sit in the kitchen and watch him cook. So relaxed, so effortless, even when he’s cleaving a sheep. Each motion is precise and efficient. No fumbling, no thinking, no deliberating, like a Haruki Murakami character. At one point, he’s flipping pasta in the pan, steam rising in front, and he has a gigantic smile. “Harris, I am always happy,” he says over the kitchen noise. “It’s because I like it. I like to be happy. And so I am. This is how I choose to be.”

By the end of lunch, I’ve gotten to observe a few dishes — carbonara, cacio e pepe, and amatriciana. After, the whole staff shares a family meal. It looks better than what’s served to any customer. I walk out of the kitchen and Saverio is walking toward me. He has a staff shirt in his hands, he’s carrying it as if presenting the national flag. With warm, generous pride, he hands it to me. I put it on and I’m beaming too. I feel like a part of the family.

Michael Singer, a spiritual writer, was on Oprah’s podcast recently. He talked about the need for emotions to pass through us, to not get trapped and harbored. And how do we do this? he asks. We relax. We relax deeply. Pain, trauma, resentment are foreign substances — they arise naturally out of your system, like your skin pushing out a splinter. The problem, he says, is we don’t let this happen — with negative or unpleasant emotions, we trap them. When someone says something painful, we recoil — essentially trapping the emotion inside and repressing it into the body. This creates pain, anger, and after long, disease.

When I left San Martino, I was at the Rome train station on my way to Bologna. I asked a station employee about which platform to go to. He gave a short answer, I didn’t think he understood. So I asked again. He raised his voice at me in a way I haven’t heard since grade school. I felt the punch of pain. I looked up at him with a very hurt look. He softened a bit, but urged me again to move on.

I felt the pain inside. Like trapped energy, my body was digesting. Michael Singer’s advice came to me. I stepped behind a column, closed my eyes, and relaxed — allowing the emotion to arise. I replayed the scene, put myself there, and watched the man’s face, its contortion, his tone, and aggression. I felt the emotion it created in me, where it resided, how it felt. And without willing or forcing anything, I felt it rise though me and out of my head. Poof. It was gone. And with that, I could move on.

As I walked to my train, I heard a deep, warm, calming voice from within. I slowed my pace and felt at ease. Tranquillo, tranquillo, it said.

Tranquillo.