How did it all begin? I am not quite sure, but I will try to explain it correctly. About 50 meters from Acarbio, there lives a man named Isidoro. Isidoro used to be a pizzaiolo; he is the baker of the local bread but also a farmer, winemaker, and, most importantly, a singer. A stone’s throw away from Acarbio, another man named Raffaele resides. He owns a shop, used to be a pizzaiolo, and is also a singer. Together with other friends, they form a group called A’Paranza Ro’ Tramuntan. Apart from their shared love for music and food, they have something else in common: the sweetest souls.
Every Sunday, they prepare bread in Isidoro’s kitchen, which has a giant oven. The volunteers of Acarbio are welcome, as well as most of their activities. I regret it now because I feel like I didn’t go enough, but I still went more than the others at that time. You wake up early to make bread with two men who are speaking Neapolitan to you as if you understand it. You drink so much coffee while listening to music, and the dough needs to levitate, so every occupation is good: feeding the chickens, winning free eggs, “talking”…
On Tuesday night, they have an hour of dance class, and Friday night is the party! They play traditional music from the south of Italy, and the dances accompany it. So, every Friday, people come to eat, sing, and dance thanks to them. I think they saw or felt that I loved it so much. They observed that at least twice a week, I was here, as well as my friend and roommate Bogesz. One day, they just asked, “Do you have something planned for Sunday afternoon?” And this is when it started to get a bit crazy. This group is quite famous in the region, and they are often invited to sing at festivals, pubs, and markets.
Suddenly, we ended up quite far from the village, accompanying them everywhere from the smallest villages to Naples. It was a one-of-a-kind experience, and they became significant people to me. I consider myself really lucky because of all the time I spent with them. They constantly offer without expecting anything in return, except for their presence. I tried giving gifts when I came back from my Christmas break in France or when my mom was here for a week, but they don’t even seem to care. All they wanted was for me to be here.
So, for the coffee breaks at midnight in the gas station, the sandwiches in Naples, the homemade foods in the kitchen, the knowledge, the hours of driving and chit-chatting, the messages when I was sick and couldn’t come, the T-shirt of the band they offered when I left, the laughs, the hugs, the nickname, the feeling of being part of their family, and the broken voice when saying goodbye: thank you.
Written by Laura Clement