Paestum and Mozzarella di Bufala

11/13 - Torre Kernot to Paestum - 8.78 miles

After running for the only morning bus to my destination, I boarded with the whole cast and crew of yesterday evening (much less animated this rainy morning), and in 45 minutes was back where I had left off. From here it was more beautiful pine tree reserves along the dunes of a never ending stretch of empty beach (forgot to mention that about the previous day's walk) and when that ended, I set my sights for the ruins at Paestum. The temples there are certainly among my favorite ruins, and i was happy to pay the 4€ to get in. I wandered around in the driving rain for an hour, marvelling at the Greek ruins that were older than the Parthenon, and arguably in better condition, and took various pictures under the shelter of trees, so as not to destroy a second camera. When it was time for me to get moving, I asked the ticket office employees where I could get a good mozzarella sandwich (remember, three ingredients tops in any sandwich!), and when they suggested I visit the bars and restaurants along the main tourist drag, I knew I was getting some horrible advice.

This area of Italy, this zone of Campania, this particular portion of the province of Salerno, is the world capital of mozzarella di bufala, the highest quality mozzarella in the world, arguably. There was no way I was going to screw around with some plastic trash industrially shoved onto decorative plates for 5€. So, leaving the temples, I walked onto a farm with direct sales of mozzarella di bufala, passing the actual water buffaloes as I entered the sales office / restaurant.

At the same time, a family of three pulled up, and held the door open for me as I trudged in, sopping wet. It was clear that they knew the owner, since the wife and three year old child walked directly into the kitchen. The husband stayed behind, and asked me about the poles, though in a polite and genuinely curious way (as opposed to the skiing question, or as I more recently heard "here in Italy it's the handicapped that use canes."). We began to talk, and I figured out he was the son-in-law of the owner. He asked what I wanted, I felt too embarrassed to say 200 grams of bufala to go, please (I wanted to buy bread and tomatoes and make my own sandwich), and sensing my embarrassment, he ordered for me, a plate of bufala, tomato, bread, and prosciutto. We sat down to talk, my food was served, and he sat down nearby with his family to eat lunch.

We kept talking, however, and soon he brought over a glass of wine, from the house vines. Then his wife offered a plate of pasta, the owner and father-in-law grew more curious about my story, and soon demanded that I bring my plates over to sit with them. They piled on the secondo and contorno, a beef steak with stewed broccoli leaves, another glass was poured, and the conversation grew livelier. When I asked the owner, who wakes up at 4 each morning to personally supervise the milking, how the process worked, he offered me a deal: you sleep here on me, and I'll show you tomorrow morning. We shook hands, more wine was poured ("you're not walking anymore, so drink up"), and when the owner got up from the table for his post-prandial snooze, he emphatically gestured that "this one doesn't pay."

Raffaele, the son-in-law, took me on a tour, and in the process explained that this was one of the largest and most successful bufala farms in the region. Then, as we got into his car, he explained that his farm, a wedding and banquet facility, was one of the most prized pieces of real estate in the area, and was where I would be sleeping.

Situated on the site of a natural spring which has been constantly producing water for over a thousand years, Tenuta Capodifiume (literally, head of the river) was indeed a precious piece of real estate, a combination of fertile farmland and manicured Tuscan-style estate underneath two imposing peaks to the East. Raffaele took me on a tour of the facilities, offered me a post-lunch digestive grappa of the highest quality, and showed me to me guest house. With my head spinning, and not from the grappa, I took a few minutes to let this all sink in, and took up Raffaele on his offer to wander the grounds. I muddied my shoes walking the fertile soil, saw the bubbles from the constantly surging springs, chatted with the friendly ducks, saw the hydroelectric installations which powered the site and generated revenue, and felt like a landowner, if only vicariously, and for a breathtaking afternoon.

After a nap in the luxuriously comfortable bed and a multi-jet massage/shower, I headed to the restaurant for dinner, where I found Raffaele and a buddy playing cards, watched by five full-time kitchen staff. I was immediately brought an aperitivo, the staff politely heard my story, and we headed into the kitchen in order to pick out the fish we would eat that evening. After seeing that indeed all the mollusks and prawns were still alive, and the fish caught that same morning, I got a full kitchen tour, talked technique and knives with the chef, and sat down for a first class meal, one of three guests in an absolutely beautiful locale.

The dessert was a mouth-gratifying chocolate lava cake, of which I ate two, as Raffaele passed his along to me. Then we had some first class grappa, played a local Neapolitan card game called Scopa, and went to our rooms, at which point I, tittering like a school girl, called my family to share my continued great fortune.