Blog by Kristina Kasparian Veni Etiam Photography

What's in a name: Gli Olivi di Armando

20/12/2016

There are some days in life that gain a special status -- days you just know, even while you are still in the midst of living them, will stand out as one of your core memories. Some of these days can be tied to major life milestones, while others can truly take you by surprise.

Two years ago, I traveled to Italy’s heel – Puglia and its Salento. I took my time discovering the gems of the region – the whitewashed old towns and cliffs lining the seas, fishing villages and beaches that were each worthy of time and attention, the countryside dotted with ancient olive trees, the hills and valleys and conical “Trulli” houses, fresh fish and pasta and conversations with locals that left you longing to stay… Each day was filled to the brim with exhilaration and inspiration, with my senses overloaded, heart overflowing, and stomach in a giddy knot (not to mention full of orecchiette).

Alberobello by Veni Etiam Photography

I don’t know if you can relate to this when you travel, but in dreaming up your itinerary, you sometimes find expectations emerging out of thin air about a place or another. There is often a “shining star” on your list – a place you can’t wait to see, a place you’re already somehow convinced you won’t want to leave. Whether this expectation was born out of intuition or out of reading and googling, it can be quite strong, and I think it is amusing how it can be validated or overturned once your feet and passport finally arrive there.

There were three towns that I was aching to see, and those three towns did steal my heart. But one place – a place that I can only roughly point to on a map, a place that is more between two towns than in a town itself, a place that wasn’t even in that “top three” of mine – unexpectedly filled me with life, dreams, peace and quietude in a way that had me speechless and moved to tears.

Gli Olivi di Armando by Veni Etiam Photography

It was a “masseria” – a manor farm – between Ostuni and Fasano. “Masserie” are typical in that region. When you drive along the state road in that stretch of the countryside, you see vast lands of olive trees interspersed with tall gates. Masserie are working farms that are still functional, but whose estates and stables have also been transformed into small restaurants or hotels run by the family who owns the land.

What was special about my time in the masseria was not about tourism, but rather, the exact opposite.

When I arrived at the masseria, I experienced the odd contradiction of feeling my senses completely flooded, while as a whole, I became tranquil and slow. The air smelled like earth – dry, hot earth. The sound of thousands of crickets was deafening. Under my feet, the earth crunched and cracked as I walked towards the main gate, small and insignificant next to giant olive trees, whose unmoving silver leaves cast the only spots of shade on the deep red land. They stood in rows, their trunks gnarled and bottling time, their silence almost audible.

I checked in and made my way to my refreshingly simple room. It was dark and cool; the shutters and curtains had done a fine job at hiding the room away from the sun’s reach. On the wall, familiar eyes looked back at me – a man in one of the photographs looked eerily similar to my grandfather. I smiled at the idea of feeling like I was in a family home. Through its details, the manor definitely told a beautiful story, but a visitor like me could only grasp a fraction of its history while slowly walking through, my fingers sliding along old books and white lace, my vocabulary falling dramatically short of names of all the iron tools that hung on the walls. Silence reigned over each of the rooms, though it did not dissuade you from going from one to the other.

I walked through the green fringe that separated the inside from the outside and sat in the courtyard for a while. A gardener was working. A cat was napping lazily. Marina came to see whether I wanted a small snack and a drink. We talked for a little while, our voices low against the backdrop of crickets, although there was no one to disturb. “Everyone is out at the sea or the nearby towns,” she said, “at dinner time it will be more lively”.

I spent the afternoon with nature. There were different spaces to explore, similar to the rooms in the house. I felt both blessed and envious that there was so much meaning around me – so much I didn’t know. I didn’t know about the olive trees, how long they’d stood there, what this place would be like at harvest time. I only noticed that the trees had names – like people – and that some of them seemed to have a more troubled past than others, their trunk split into two or bent almost to the ground. I didn’t know a thing about the earth – I only noticed that you could almost choke on its scent and that my shoes were dusted with red. I wasn’t sure in which direction the sea was, or whether the crickets would ever fall quiet. But knowing didn’t matter – only noticing and feeling did. I felt like a little girl, traipsing about, occasionally lifting my head to see a gardener’s kind eyes on mine, over a wall or through the trees.

Olive Groves by Veni Etiam Photography

Il Frantoio by Veni Etiam Photography

Before supper, I met some of the other guests. They told me about their days, in Lecce, in Alberobello, by the sea. While we talked, the tables were being set in the courtyard. The staff worked in the background as though they were mounting a theatre set between two acts. Before the curtains closed on Day and re-opened on Night, there was a gorgeous dusk to remember forever.

I saw the old Fiat pull up. A man in a white hat and a jacket stood next to it, chatting, the sun hitting him with the same golden rays as him olive kingdom. I joined the small circle. We all spoke Italian. Armando was about to give us a small tour. We walked around the land that I had explored alone earlier. Armando explained a few things about the earth, the trees, the air, the sea, the house, the family, the oil and the food. And like that, I knew what I hadn’t known earlier. To be honest, what I remember the most was still the feeling - especially when Armando said that this estate came to him and his wife during a time where they were searching for their path in life. “We travelled long and far,” he said with an amused smile at the corner of his lips, “and the treasure we found was in our own backyard”. He told us about their dream, the risks, the challenges and the blessing of that journey. Armando’s passion and commitment to his homeland shone through his storytelling. It was not about tourism, but rather, the exact opposite. It was about home, one’s native land, and roots that go as deep as those of the ancient olive trees.

When we came back to the courtyard, the light had changed and the stage was set. I peered over one of the tables and saw my last name handwritten on a name card.

How does your food and wine taste under the night sky, when you are feeling deeply connected to the place and the people who produce what you are eating and drinking?

You feel as though you want to savor every bite and every sip, for as long as you can. You feel your mind tell you that this day surely ranks among your top three in life so far. You feel your heart tell you to listen carefully. You feel inspired to have big dreams and to go where they may lead. You just feel.

And so, Gli Olivi di Armando is named after a man who inspired me and his olive trees.