[notes from fig season, italy]

In Italian, Fico means both fig and cool. Just back from two-weeks in this other world where something rad is described by a sultry fruit. I melted into Carol and Sol Lewitt’s lovely place in Praiano on the Amalfi Coast, a town where people plant and harvest by lunar cycles, eat only what their grandmothers cooked (with veggies from the front yard),where fishermen catch red calamari by moonlight in rowboats, and where figs come into season Aug/Sept. Black, green, slightly yellow ones too...

An early morning  sketch by the author

The author at work next to one of Sol Lewitt's wall paitings

Any resident of a climate that supports fig cultivation is lucky: Ficus carica L. has the branching pattern of modern dancers, provides lush shade, works as a good border tree, and seems to hold you from underneath with its large paw-shaped leaves. 

Chess players in Rome under a fig tree at hip Bar del Fico, ink wash by the author

On my last night, up 600 stone steps into the Lattari mountains along the Sentiero dei Dei--the Path of the Gods--lying on a carpet with friends in the middle of the square at the San Domenico Monastery, I watched the full moon slide between fig leaves to the sound of classical guitars. Che fico.

Convento di San Domenico, Photo Gaetano Astarita

The week before Praiano, I came across an antique/heirloom fruit tree seller at Florence's Piazza della Santissima Annunziata Sunday market. Imagine your own fruit orchard with just heirloom varieties that can never be found at any grocery (to be eaten with a set of hand-hammered silver flatware found at the same market by Pennabilli). Check out the finds: