Urbino Project 2011

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Once Urbino was a city with a university but in recent decades it has evolved into a university with a city. Now the last natives of this beautiful Renaissance town wonder what their future holds.

URBINO, Italy — Antonio Bisciari looks over this famous Renaissance city that has been his family’s home for 150 years and sees what the tourists see: a picture-perfect postcard town of unforgettable beauty. But he also sees something else.

“The people I grew up with are no longer here,” Antonio said. “So, staying in Urbino, a beautiful city, a marvelous city, but alone and with no friends is not worth it.”

“If you stay here for too long, Urbino becomes a jail; it’s not as good as one would think,” Antonio said.

To the thousands of tourists who flock to this scenic city each year, Urbino seems as lively and prosperous as it must have looked when the Duke of Urbino made it the hub of the art world in the 14^th century. But beneath the facade of robust health lurks a different story.

According to city authorities, of the 5,000 people living inside the walls of this ancient town, 4,000 are now students. Although the exact figure isn’t known, some local experts, including University of Urbino professor Eduardo Fichera, estimate that the actual number of families living fulltime within the walls of Urbino is less than two dozen.

A reflection of the three generations of the Bisciari family, one of the last families of Urbino; Felice (grandfather), Antonio (son), and Paolo (grandson), enjoy each other’s company during a family dinner.

The Bisciaris are one of these last families. Felice Bisciari is Antonio’s father, and also the grandfather of Anna and Paolo. Though their family’s existence in Urbino dates back more than 150 years, the lingering question is, “How much longer will their ancestral name will be carried within this little city?”

The Stacciolis are another one of these remaining families of Urbino. Lamberto Staccioli, a life-long resident who raised his family in Urbino, is Giorgio Staccioli’s father, and two-year-old Eduardo Staccioli’s grandfather. He said he believes that “it is necessary to always remember where your family roots lie, and [he wants] to make sure [he] can give [his] family the feeling and sense of belonging with which [he] was also raised.”

Today the Stacciolis all live within the same fortress walls but the manner in which Eduardo is being raised is very different from his father’s. The atmosphere of the town has created a dramatic cultural shift.

Giorgio Staccioli grew up with nine of his closest friends. He left town to attend college, came back and opened his own bar, and built a family here in Urbino. But upon his return, eight of those ten families had moved on, leaving Giorgio and only one of his childhood friends to continue their lives together in their hometown. This trend had become prevalent, as Urbino transformed from a small city with a university to a university with a small city.

The younger generation of Urbino residents are conflicted on whether to stay within the historical walls they’ve grown to love or to leave in search of bigger opportunities elsewhere. They say that the choice is between different hurts: The feeling of missing your hometown, or the feeling of being alone in your hometown.

“You have to stay in Urbino on the 24^th of December, the day before Christmas, when there are no students around, to notice how small Urbino is and how alone you really are,” says Antontello.

Carmen Staccioli, Girogio’s wife, is also struck with the same feeling around July each summer.

“Once the students have left this town becomes so empty. It becomes really sad and difficult to come to work,” she said.

Lamberto, head of the Staccioli family, takes a moment to reminisce about the beautiful city of Urbino, a place where both he and his ancestors have called home.

Antonio believes Urbino is a beautiful and magical city, but that “it’s a town from fables, and when you’re 20 years old it’s perfect, it’s the right town, there are no dangers around and nothing bad ever happens. But when you are a grown-up man and you want to have a family it gets difficult.”

Those difficulties revolve around finding work, and places to live. The job market mostly has two options: working for the university, or running a shop. And real estate is expensive because student rents drive prices up.

So Antonio deals with a 90-minute daily commute to work. But he feels the commute is worth it, because he wants to raise his family here, close to their roots. However, the saddening feeling of seclusion still tears him.

“Living within the walls of the city is expensive and Urbino doesn’t offer a lot of work,” Carmen Staccioli said. “The opportunities are very limited.”

Though she only moved here a short seven years ago, she claims it is still evident to see the distinct evolution that the city has experienced through this brief window of time.

This evolution has been especially evident to the older generations.

“The way of living is really different now,” Felice Staccioli said “Fate allowed the exterior part to remain as it was, luckily, but the relationships between people have really changed. Now everyone just ‘harvests their own fields’ and there is more individualism; in the past there was much more solidarity and brotherhood.”

In Lamberto and Felice’s youth, the streets resonated with the laughter of children and piazzas were places where families and friends gathered. But now, the sounds of partying students drinking from open beer and wine bottles echoes down the narrow cobblestone streets from early afternoon until three in the morning, making it hard for children and residents to sleep.

But while the last residents of Urbino see the students changing the quality of the life they cherish, they also know that their livelihoods and futures are tied to these same students.

“The youth help boost the town’s economy because they are constantly buying drinks, shopping, and keeping the town alive,” Lamberto said.

Antonio’s brother’s family has already moved away to Bolzano, leaving Anna and Paolo as the only future Bisciari descendants within Urbino.

“I belong to a generation that just wants to move away and look for something out of these walls,” said 17-year-old Anna.

She and her brother are torn with the tough decision of whether to raise their own families here, or search for better opportunities. Though it would make their family happy to see them stay and continue their legacy within the walls of this extraordinary city, they would rather see their children choose for themselves.

Antonio said he feels, “I can only help them to choose, but it’s their call. I’d like them to stay here and have children here; I’d be happy. But it’s their happiness, not mine.”

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University graduations in this old city are all about the individual student. In one fell swoop they take a final exam, graduate wearing a corona of live laurel and are doused in Champagne.

URBINO, Italy – The piazza was already pulsing with energy from newly graduated students as Pasquale Massaro’s brother and closest friends got off the bus and began the walk to the college of languages where Massaro would be taking his final test in the University of Urbino.

Pasquale Massaro and his closest friends after he received his diploma.

They arrived in the waiting room where Massaro and the rest of his family and friends were already waiting.  The atmosphere was excited, as if “Paky” Massaro had already passed his exam.  Despite the high stakes of the exam, only a few short minutes away, Massaro showed little, if any fear.  He radiated confidence and pride.  After a little while, they were led into the testing room where Massaro took center stage in front of a panel of professors while his entourage sat in chairs set up in the back of the room to watch the exam.

Graduations ceremonies in Italy are quite different from those in the States.  Instead of a painfully long and scripted procession with the entire class lined up to receive diplomas, the students schedule individual times with the commissioner of their department when they will take their final exam,  delivered orally, then if they pass, will be awarded their diplomas on the spot and are free to leave without having to listen to any longwinded speeches.

To receive his degree in language and foreign literature, Massaro was to engage two of the professors in a discussion concerning the differences between the type of Spanish spoken in Argentina and that which is spoken in Spain.  He was undoubtedly well prepared as he dominated the discussion and any trepidation he may have had quickly vanished. His voice grew stronger with every word, aided by the constant nods of agreement from the professors.

Pasquale poses for a picture as he is showered with confetti.

After about 10 minutes, the professors seemed satisfied and asked Massaro and company to leave the room as they reviewed their notes.  A few minutes later, the company was ushered back in and Massaro was presented with his diploma as he shook the commissioner’s hand.  His family and friends erupted into applause and everyone offered their congratulations.

The celebrations quickly spilled out onto Via Veneto, bottles of champagne were popped and Paky was showered in confetti as he donned his laurel crown.  He ripped off individual leaves and gave them to all present, symbolizing good luck.  The party began making its way down the street towards the town square, with Massaro’s friends yelling the lyrics to the unofficial graduation song at the top of their lungs, “Dottore, dottore, dottore del buco del eu culo, vaffancu, vaffancu,” which is not a very old tradition here in Urbino. The younger crowds seemed to have created its vulgar lyrics.

“I feel like you have no more problems,” exclaimed Massaro, “so, so happy! But I feel also quite strange because I’ve finished the university. I should find a job and you know, it’s difficult here in Italy.”

As they arrived in the town square, Massaro’s group did a great job of making the biggest scene possible, yelling and spraying champagne everywhere and finally throwing the newly graduated Paky into the fountain, a traditional practice here in Urbino until the mayor had it banned. But Paky’s friends were far too caught up in the moment to recognize the rules.

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Pierluigi Nieddu has been into cheese since his childhood in Sardinia. Now, he has found fulfillment making organic Pecorino cheese on his 170-sheep farm outside Urbino.

URBINO, Italy – Imagine you are visiting Italy, and there are millions of boutiques with beautiful clothes. Somehow you have to quit eating this great Italian food to fit in them, especially goodies like Capocollo, a ham rolled around some kind of cheese. Cheese is such a big deal in the Italian people’s life, nothing seems more important than the happiness it brings.

So you think: Why quit eating? It makes you so happy, this cheese.

Pierluigi Nieddu, an Italian cheese maker, runs his cheese business in Urbino.

Pierluigi Nieddu, a local cheese maker here, understands the dilemmas of cheese as well as anyone. He has been in cheese all his life, through ups and downs.

Nieddu, keeps 170 sheep to make high quality, organic Pecorino cheese, a traditional cheese made of 100 percent sheep’s milk.

He was born in Sardinia, the third largest island west of mainland Italy. Nieddu spent his childhood and teenage years there, where his father ran a small cheese business.

When Nieddu was 6, his father taught him how to make cheese. The boy had so much fun mixing milk in the pot that he forgot about time, and the cheese overcooked. “My first experience with making cheese was miserable,” he said.

In 1976, Nieddu decided to move to the mainland of Italy with his cousins for a better life. He worked for a cheese factory in Piemonte. Then with the experience that he gained in the factory after two years, Nieddu made up his mind to start his own cheese business in Tuscany. The business didn’t turn out as well as he expected because he didn’t understand business management and marketing nearly as well as he understood making cheese. Nieddu and his relatives fell on hard times. From 1982 to 1984, they had to sell all their sheep in order to survive.

Nieddu’s cousins thought about going back to Sardinia. Nieddu had a different thought. He was determined to stay. It was the biggest decision in his life.

Pierluigi Nieddu makes Pecorino cheese, which is a traditional cheese of 100 percent sheep’s milk.

In 1988, Nieddu moved to Urbino, where a local farm was available at a low cost because the owner was having to leave for a job in a big city. That’s when Nieddu’s cheese career got back on track, and the life in Urbino seemed to bring good fortune.

Nieddu got married and had two daughters. Now he sells his cheese not only in Urbino, but also in Gadana and Montesoffio.

Many local shops love to sell his cheeses because they are organic and of high quality. Those qualities are exactly why Renato Radici says he sells Nieddu’s cheeses in his specialty shop in the Galleria Raffaello, Galleria Dell’Altra Economia..

Nieddu has continued to make cheese not because of the money he makes, but because he enjoys the work that he does each day. Cheese is more like a friend than a food, or job.

“Cheese makes me happy,” says Nieddu.

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From the outside there are no clues diners inside Osteria D’Angelo Divino  are being served Renaissance cuisine. Its light pink color and subtle appeal hint at a contemporary restaurant experience.

But one glance at the menu corrects that impression. Chef Claudio Amati, it turns out, is on a mission to bring back the flavors that helped make Urbino a capitol of cuisine as well as art during the Renaissance.

Claudio Amati is the only chef in Urbino that studies Italian Renaissance cuisine. ”Each restaurant (in Urbino) has a Renaissance menu that has the same ingredients revisited with modern techniques and modern ingredients of the season.”

And Claudio isn’t alone . . .

Daniella Storoni is also interested in bringing back Renaissance food cuisine. . (insert quote here).

Claudio is one of the chefs that are in the presentations of food in the Piatta Del Duca, a festival dedicated to demonstating the influence of the Duke of Montefeltro over Renaissance cuisine in the cities around Urbino over the summer months of June through September.

Walking into (get shop name) there is an ensemble of organic and biological ingredients and products. Talking to Daniella Storoni is both informative and intriguing. Her interest in Renaissance cooking strikes you in a way that leaves you wanting to find out more and more, even if its very simple. She describes renaissance cooking in descriptive ways that enable you to create a visual image in your head of what it should have looked like. Renaissance food is a combination of meats, pasta, fruits and vegetables on hot and cold plates, seasoned with oriental spices, and presented to those of higher social classes and standards.

She talked about the Renaissance cooking atmosphere as a (quote here) and a demonstration of the Duke’s power. The banquet halls were great, and the tables long, Urbino grew to its peak of power under the Duke of Montefeltro during the Renaissance era. Today, it’s considered one of the greatest representations of architecture from that period, and the cuisine follows it.

Storoni stated that the largest influence on Renaissance cuisine during this time was the Duke of Montefeltro. In order for the Duke to show his power he would present large banquets in order to feed his friends and guests. These banquets lasted many hours, whether for wedding parties or for simply eating and sharing food. Sometimes the Duke would instruct the chef to kill a female calf, proving his wealth because “if you killed the girl that meant that you were very powerful, you were giving up having other calves, it was highly symbolic” Storoni mentioned. As the main power figure in Urbino, the Duke of Montefeltro became the main force behind the development of Renaissance cuisine.

As Amati stated, the ingredients today are the same as the ones that were used in the Renaissance, they have different tastes and are used differently. Through the natural evolution of animals, meats taste different now than they did in the Renaissance era. Many of the meats in the renaissance were caught wild and then cooked while most of the meats today are cooked on farms and fed special diets. At certain times of the year, Catholics were not allowed to eat red meats, and so the diets of the people who lived in those years changed with it. Instead of red meat they were able to eat fish, and they caught it themselves, and over time it became a primary food source in the Renaissance era.

All of the elements in the Renaissance period were presented differently as well. They were on plates that were decorated with plants not meant for eating. “There are blends of meat and food, meat and fruit, and smells that are interesting but you need to find the equilibrium”, Claudio Amati states about the mixes of foods. Pastas and meats were served alongside fruits instead of as separate dishes. All of the elements on the dish, even the fruits and vegetables, were seasoned with the same spices. The combination of spices that was predominately used was “cinnamon, sugars, ginger, and pepper” and according to Daniella Storoni, “they came from the oriental east and this made him (the Duke) very powerful because not everyone could afford to have spices and sugars because they came from very far.”

The generic Renaissance banquet was centered around friendship and community. There were two courses, the credenza and the chochina. The credenza was the cold plates and then the cochina was the hot plates. The plates were often centered on the body, appealing to senses and making the meats match each other according to age principles of dry and wet. The older animals were considered dry so their meat was boiled, while younger animals were considered moist and they were roasted. The dry meats were served with wet foods and the wet meats were served with dry foods. This made for easier pairings and cohesion amongst the dishes.

Community was important in the Renaissance, and people would get together and share conversation over meals on long tables in banquet halls. The guests shared no tension with each other and it is said that banquets were, according to Storoni, “a sign of unity and cohesion and sharing food, culture, friendship, and community”. The guests and the host were able to share a common ground and talk around the table for hours.

Even though all of the guests were on common grounds they were not on them physically. Depending on the social status of the guests they were on lower physical levels than the Duke himself. You were also organized on where you set by your social status or your importance, if you were a close friend of the Duke you sat closer to him rather than far away on a lower physical level. There were also several times also that people were allowed to stand outside of the building that the banquet was in, and all of the leftover foods were thrown to them so that they were able to taste the food.

Daniella Storoni is on the executive board for the Le Piatto del Duca festival that runs through the summer months of June to September. The festival was formed 5 years ago to honor the Duke and everything that he did for the Renaissance food and the era. The Duke is the one that was known for making everything happen and they wanted to honor him. The 5 towns in the Pesaro – Urbino area put together a several month long festival that demonstrates the influence of Renaissance food on the Marche region. There are festivals that are put on and demonstrations that are shown at several restaurants and shops in the areas.

For the past two years, during this time the entire city has begun to make the various restaurant menus’ focus on the cooking styles that were used in the Renaissance. They prepare summer menu’s that follow the general style while updating the cooking methods. In order to keep the methods of Renaissance cooking alive Storoni “created a line of cookies that were based on the renaissance menu’s and the recipes were taken from renaissance recipes using biological ingredients” that she sells in her shop, (name of shop).

Claudio Amati’s restaurant focuses on the elements of Renaissance cuisine and through his studies he has helped to keep the Renaissance cuisine evident in today’s daily life. The demonstrations and efforts made by food historians and experts are important in connecting Urbino to the glory that it held during the Renaissance era.

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Urbino’s neighborhoods use the centuries-old tradition of kite-making to engage in a fierce but friendly battle each September.

URBINO, Italy – Sirto Sorini, 78, and Mauro Patarchi, 44, huddle intently over a table filled with objects that resemble an arts and crafts project in the same manner two men in America might analyze the engine of a 1960’s muscle car.

The pair makes gestures to each other as they speak rapidly and begin working with the materials in front of them.

They are preparing for the annul kite festival known as the “Festa dell’aquilone”  which has taken place annually in this small Italian town since 1944.  Every September, the ten neighborhoods that comprise Urbino engage in a   competition with a fierceness at odds with the vision of graceful kites.

Sir proudly displays the trophy he won in the competition last year in his front window.  A passerby sees the old man through the window and shouts, “The king of the kites!”

This king of kites has been began making kites at the age of six, and has been teaching the people of his neighborhood his skills for over half a century.

He says that the people of Urbino had been building kites for centuries but it was not until 1952, eight years after the first competition, that the trophy and event were made official.

“Every neighborhood has their own ancient origin which we decorate our kites with,” he said, speaking through an interpreter.

Sirto and Mauro’s neighborhood is the team of “San Paulo” and accordingly many of their kites display the saint holding his sword vertically.

After decades of experience, kite makers become compulsive about the quality of their work for the festival, Sirto said.  It is not unheard of for one person to construct between one thousand and twelve hundred kites in the two months leading up to event.  When an experienced kite maker is finally content with a design construction can last between fifteen and twenty days and one hundred hours of craftsmanship, the two explained.

The festival is a source of neighborhood rivalry that follows kite makers their entire lives.  Mauro, for example, began learning the art of kite building from Sirto when he was eight years old.  He now lives in a different neighborhood in Urbino, but still identifies himself with and competes for the San Paulo team. Sirto laughs as Mauro says one of his neighbors calls him a traitor in the weeks leading up to the festival.

Mauro claims the purpose of the event originally was to unite the community by getting everyone to participate in an activity that was unique to the culture of the town.  He says the purpose of the event now is to preserve the town’s identity.

Speaking in a prideful tone he exclaims, “We are the only place in Italy with such an event.”

On the day of the festival, thousands of kites are flown in the air on a bald hilltop within sight of the old city’s walls.  A panel of 12 judges rates the kites in two categories, beauty and height of flight.  Mauro competes in the distance class and is known for making kites that are two meters in diameter and soar as high as two kilometers high while Sirto has always focused on the creativity and design of his kites.

During the heated competition, rivals try to steer their kites into each other and cut one another’s strings.  Sirto still speaks viciously about a man who one year destroyed both of his kites – then laughs stating he was the same way when he was younger.

However, Sirto and Mauro admit the competition actually brings the city together.  After seeing the sky covered with intricately constructed and beautiful kites of all shapes and sizes, all ten of the neighborhoods come together and share a feast.

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The best eyewitness to Urbino’s storied history is the Piazza Repubblica, which has witnessed the march of time from the Renaissance through Fascism, the Cultural Revolution and today’s army of partying students.

URBINO, Italy – Near midnight, a group of young men spills into the Piazza Repubblica, stumbling and shuffling over a cobblestone roadway. They gather near a fountain ringed with beer and wine bottles emptied over the last few hours. The leader pauses, then raises a vuvuzela—the infernal horn made famous by the World Cup in South Africa—and blasts staccato notes into the air. His ever-growing horde cheers wildly, as if his vuvuzela was spraying money, enough to make the college degrees many of them just earned moot.

Visitors who come to this piazza after 10 p.m. might think it only serves as a party platform for drunken University of Urbino students. But twelve hours before that, this square hosted middle-aged and elderly people calmly sipping espresso and nibbling croissants. Fifty years earlier, a burgeoning leftist student movement held protests here. Ten years before that residents gathered to watch the city’s first TV  together.  And two and a half centuries before that, this city’s heart began to beat.

For generations the Piazza Repubblica  has served as the social linchpin and historical stage of the city.

Though it’s a staple of present-day Urbino, the Piazza Repubblica has deep historical roots. It began to shift towards its current form in 1700, when Urbino-born Giovanni Albani became Pope Clement XI. The new Pope funneled resources towards the development of Urbino, concentrating on the Piazza Repubblica. His efforts worked, and the Piazza thrived. Decades later, in the 1800s, a pair of theatres further enhanced the area, and an arcade was built on the edge of the square to shelter visitors from the elements.

The Pope’s interest in the Piazza Repubblica is easy to explain, given the importance of piazzas in Italian culture. The Roman Empire, for instance, laid out its  towns where two main roads met, creating natural piazzas.  In Siena, the city wards have competed in Palio di Senia—a horse race—since 1656  using the Piazza del Campo as a staging ground to keep historic rivalries alive and the people paradoxically united through competition.

Similarly,  Urbino’s own Piazza Repubblica is located on a hill at a convergence of four roads, two going up and two going down. Bars and restaurants ring the area, sporting names like Caffé Degli Archi and Ristorante San Giovanni. The neon signs of some buildings provide a counterpoint to the ancient architecture. Other establishments favor a simpler approach: one below-street-level pizza joint is advertised by a painted black and white sign that simply reads, “PIZZA.” Anyone over six feet tall has to duck to enter the place, and it’s known to many American visitors as the “Pizza Hole.”

The Piazza wakes up early; cleanup crews and breakfast eaters are out by 7 a.m.. Trucks soon arrive, enough of them to obscure the fountain from view, and workers deliver food and drink to the restaurants. Buses and a tour-giving tram, which looks it belongs in a Disney park, use the Piazza as a drop-off and pickup area.  Cars and motorcycles also weave about. Any drivers who pass through must pick their way around tourists and residents.

To Urbino residents, the Piazza Repubblica’s importance is huge. Gamba Stefano, a middle-aged man who runs a shirt store just off the Piazza, said that for sixty years his family has relied on the Piazza to funnel customers in. The store targets students, who hang out in the Piazza, and tourists, who instinctively gravitate towards it.

The crowd goes through a slow but noticeable change over the course of the day: people of all ages are out from the morning until the evening, at which point the older crowd, which favors white wine and cappuccinos, gives way to students, who favor giant bottles of Peroni and Birra Moretti.

Opinions on the evening crowd vary. A gray-haired taxi driver said through an interpreter, “The students are loud and cause problems. It’s difficult to park, and broken glass is everywhere. And the bathrooms are closed, so there’s piss everywhere.”

But Carmen Staccioli, who works with her husband at their bar, Café Deggli Archi, recognizes the economic value of the nightlife. “We [cater to] the students,” she said. “Without them, we’d have less work.”

Come June, many of those students use the piazza for graduation celebrations. Once they take their last exam, each graduate dons a laurel crown, then heads out to the fountain for champagne and picture-taking. They tend to drink a little, talk a little, drink some more, talk some more, and then move to another area of the Piazza for more pictures and drinking.

Friends arrive. Groups blend together. The cycle repeats until nighttime, at which point the crowd becomes huge, amorphous and loud. The noise culminates when the vuvuzela-wielder arrives. Chants and dancing spontaneously break out, though the only dance move many of the young men display consists of hopping up and down with a fist in the air.

Despite all the drinking, the bars themselves are surprisingly empty. Instead of sitting inside with only a few people, the students celebrate outside with an entire city.
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Father Aurelio is a man of God, but several times each week he sits down with Satan.

FOSSOMBRONE, Italy – Father Aurelio Gino Pela is a man of God, a Roman Catholic priest who tends a flock of the still-devout in the central Italian province of Le Marche.

Father Aurelio Gino Pela

But a few times each month he sits down with Satan.

“The other day it happened that a person knocked me on the ground, and I was lucky that her husband and another lady held her because she would have jumped on me,” said Aurelio, 73, recalling a recent exorcism he conducted.

Aurelio isn’t a character from a Hollywood film, or a rogue priest straying into the bizarre. He’s a Vatican-appointed exorcist, one of hundreds in Italy. Commissioned by the Church in spiritual warfare, Aurelio and his colleagues extract demons from those plagued by unexplainable behavior.

Exorcism isn’t a hidden rite here, but an accepted part of spiritual life. The Vatican oversees an exorcism bureaucracy – a structured, organized system with official exorcists appointed by local bishops. And in a country where a study published by the Italian Catholic magazine Famiglia Cristiana and Jesus revealed  34 per cent of the residents believe in demonology, it’s not surprising exorcists like Aurelio stay busy.

Aurelio alone claims to perform an average of 15 exorcisms week, a rate that amounts to more than 2,000 during his three-year career.

It wasn’t a job he applied for — he was recruited by an old friend, the bishop of Fano, a city on the Adriatic Sea.

“I was appointed exorcist by the bishop of Fano because as a rule the exorcist of a diocese is the bishop, and then it’s the bishop that appoints someone to substitute him or aid him with this duty,” Aurelio explained.

“Initially I didn’t want to be an exorcist, because it’s a heavy sort of duty, it involves risks, even personal ones.”

But Aurelio accepted the responsibility, and today he goes about this most unusual calling with an almost business-like daily routine. Driving a purple car, he arrives every morning at the gates of the Beato Benvenuto monastery, a castle-like brick structure resting on a daunting hilltop overlooking Fossombrone. His mornings are set aside for prayer, but his evenings are reserved for Satan.

Like a highly sought-after therapist, Aurelio limits his exorcism appointments to hourly sessions, and always has a clinical physiologist at his side. His clients, he said, fall into three general categories – the mentally ill, those who fear they have been cursed by members of the occult and those truly possessed by demons.

To the first two groups, they offer prayers and advice.

“After listening to the person I decide if a prayer of liberation or an exorcism is to be done,” he said. “It depends on the necessities of the person.”

Some are simply mentally ill, he says.

“They need to be cured by a psychiatrist because many of them have problems of this sort,” he said. “So I tell them that a prayer of liberation is important but maybe it’s at least as important for them to be followed by a psychiatrist.”

Major exorcisms are for cases of true demonic possessions. “Diabolic possessions — these cases are really rare,” said Aurelio.

Aurelio claims to observe approximately two major exorcisms each month. The afflicted often react violently to holy objects, prayers or just his presence – all symptomatic of demonic intrusion.

Aurelio, citing privacy issues, refused to allow media at his exorcisms. However, the Church published The Rite of Exorcism which details exorcism rituals and, is available on the Internet.

He encourages the patient’s family or friends to attend — not only for his subject’s sake, but for his own.

“In some cases it has been necessary to hold a person still with more than a man, in some cases even three,” he said.

He recently observed a patient collapse to the floor and begin to slither about the room like a snake.

“He’s a good Catholic, a practitioner too, but he’s disturbed,” Aurelio said. “When I perform the exorcism on him he shakes on the floor like a snake and it’s impossible to hold him still. After the exorcism he’s exhausted — he lacks the strength even to get up.”

He has never witnessed a patient’s head do a complete 360, like the iconic scene from the movie The Exorcist, nor has he seen one break spontaneously into foreign tongue.

One of the discrepancies between Hollywood and Italian exorcist rituals lies in the use of water. Aurelio said he uses salt-water rather than holy water during an exorcism. This way, clients of Aurelio’s are able to bring back the salt-water to their house for future use. Holy water can only be used for blessings within the church.

“Exorcised salt is used to make the Enemy flee from an environment and the water does the same. I exorcise salt and water so that the people can use it around their homes in order to free them from this negative influence,” elaborated Aurelio.

Minor exorcisms comprise most of Aurelio’s work. These are less complex than major exorcisms. Aurelio recites a series of brief prayers — known as a prayer of liberation — to bring release to those subjects.

He says as “many are affected by psychological illnesses.” Aurelio also acknowledged an equal portion of people have an active interest in the occult in Italy and are under the influence of “Tarot readers, magi, witches and black masses.

“Witches use things like puppets with needles, chicken heads with needles,” he said. “They use particular cushions for curses and many other things. Those cases are pretty frequent. So they need to be freed.”

In an occupation defined by the unusual, Aurelio is always prepared for the surprises – such as when a recent client was referred to him by a witch.

“He said the reason was that ‘the witch I used to go to told me she cannot do anything more for my problem and she gave me your number.’” Aurelio recalled. “This is strange — really strange — but sometimes these people [witches, wizards, warlocks might feel powerless and this is what happens,” he said.

A grin spread across Aurelio’s face as he added:

“In fact I do ask them, ‘Why is a tarot reader sending you to me?’

“ Magic practitioners work for the Enemy, so for someone who works for the Enemy to send his customers to an exorcist is certainly weird.”

Pascucci supplies gourmet coffee around the world and to nearby Urbino.

MONTE CERIGNONE, Italy – In the rolling farmlands of the Marche region, amid cattle grazing on steep hills and farmers working their crops, sits the factory of the Pascucci company.

Pascucci is a worldwide supplier of organically grown and locally roasted coffee beans. Its only facility is here, in the heart of traditional, rural Italy.

The Pascucci family has owned and operated the company since 1883. “We combine modern technology with ancient traditions to produce the best quality product,” says Mario Rossi, the operator of the factory. “We roast the same way people roasted beans from the very beginning,”

Rossi, the highest authority below the Pascucci family, describes the importance of this singular location.  Humidity can influence the quality of the roast and thus, the final product.  Here, in tiny Monte Cerignone, the humidity is low nearly year-round, thanks to the location’s perfect balance of altitude above sea level and distance from the Adriatic sea. “If we were even 30 kilometers closer to the sea, the humidity would be all wrong,” he says.

The Pascucci emblem is proudly decorated on this almost 8 feet tall statue.

The Pascucci building stands out in contrast to the farmland surrounding it. This bright, green building stands stories tall with a mural of coffee bean plants scaling the walls. Through the front door, a quest is greeted by a nearly eight-foot tall sculpture of a coffee cup that proudly bears the Pascucci emblem.

The company’s roasting process hasn’t changed for years. There are three stages, any one which, if done incorrectly, can ruin the bean.  First, the beans are rotated in a bin under extreme heat, to remove the moisture.  Then, they are slowly roasted at lower temperatures, for an evenly browned bean. “It’s like when you cook a chicken,” Rossi said. “ f you cook it to fast, it will be burnt on the outside and pink in the middle.  [It’s the] same for coffee beans.”  Finally, they are rotated in a cooling bin, and allowed to “breathe,” as Rossi puts it.  Robust and enticing aromas fill the room.

Technology is used to maintain control of bean placement, before and after roasting, and to preserve the fresh quality through vacuum tight-containers.

But the coffee business does not end here.  Pascucci offers a variety of coffee blends. They start from 12 types of carefully selected green beans, which are then roasted and blended.  These beans are imported from all over the world, and grown by what Rossi refers to as “the best farmers of the best producing countries.”

The farmers are in Haiti, Colombia, India and other coffee-growing nations of the world.  Pascucci, along with purchasing its beans, has helped the Haitian farmer’s bean to become the first certified organic bean in the Pascucci company, through a international organization called FairTrade. “Not only does this certification allow Haitian farmers to send their children to school and get more profit for their crops, it also allows us to advertise our product appropriately [as certified organic],” Rossi says.

Mario Rossi is operator of the Pascucci roasting facility. He explains, in detail, the importance of the location, in Monte Cerignone.

It is clear that the Pascucci company is serious about how it does business. Its customers stay loyal. The company ships its coffee all over the world, but one place it is especially appreciated is in the historic Renaissance town of Urbino, barely an hour away.

Nestled in the narrow streets and steep hills of this city sits “Café Del Academia,” owned and operated by Fabio Gostoli. His café is softly lit by high windows and decorated in local artwork.  Upon entry, customers are quickly greeted by Gostoli’s animated voice, which can be heard from outdoors. He’ll proudly serve the Pascucci product at any time of day. In fact, it is the only coffee he serves.  “You don’t make an appointment with coffee,” he says. “Any time is a good time to drink and enjoy good company.”

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Keiichi Iwasaki bikes into a town, performs his magic tricks, then rides on to his next stop. He’s traveling around the entire globe on a 3-speed bicycle.

URBINO, Italy- Keiichi Iwasaki went to college and then earned a master’s degree in Chemistry. Like many other young Japanese, he longed to see the world. But not in the usual way.

“I thought that if I use airplane it’s too fast so I can’t see nothing,” he says in the broken English he learned growing up in his native Japan. “But bicycling is much better to see the world.”

So he set out on an unpretentious three-speed bike, with only two dollars in his pocket and “a dream to see the world.” Ten years later, at age 38, he arrived in the Renaissance hill town of Urbino.

Although he lives simply, carrying only what he can tie to the back of a small bicycle, no one would call Keiichi Iwasaki dull.  He departed from his home in Guma, Japan, in 2001 on what he thought would be a three-year journey. Now, a decade later, Iwasaki continues circumnavigating the globe, like a 21^st century Magellan with a monk-like contentment.

“There are so many kinds of people,” he says. “Different in culture, language, color of eyes, hair, skin. Different but in one point of view we’re still the same. We are human.”

Unlike most travelers, neither time nor direction dictates Iwasaki’s itinerary. His nomadic tendencies – in balance with an overall goal of circling the planet – have propelled him in zigzags across the map. But it’s within these imprecise, impulsive detours that Iwasaki has stumbled upon the most memorable experiences of his journey, including an unexpected romance in the city of love – Paris.

Before this expedition, Iwasaki was working for his father as an air conditioning engineer. Unsatisfied, Iwasaki grew restless with the small rural town he called home. “Life is so short and there are many things I want to see,” he said. With the support of his parents and older sister, Iwasaki spontaneously shoved a few belongings into a small backpack and hit the road.

After testing the waters for a year, he decided to leave Japan. In 2002 he took a ferry to South Korea and began pedaling his way across China.

His favorite memory? After a long pause he began to describe his adventures in the foothills of Nepal. “When I passed Nepal I saw the Mount Everest and I thought, is it possible?”

In Nepal, he eagerly put down his kickstand and set up a temporary home where he practiced mountaineering until qualified for the expedition team. After a yearlong diversion, Iwasaki’s adventure was stamped a success. On May 31, 2005, he reached the summit of Mount Everest.

“From the top of the world, well that is a beautiful place.”

From Nepal, Iwasaki made his was across India and Middle East, stopping in Pakistan, Iran, Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Turkey. By 2007 he crossed into Eastern Europe.

After arriving at any of his various destinations, Iwasaki sets up the small tent and stove he carries on the back of his bicycle and settles in for the night. His days are simple, but they are not ordinary. In the morning he leisurely makes a fire and a cup of coffee and sets out for work.

Each new place he visits could fear him as a swindler, a mysterious stranger in town, bemusing young children and dazzling the minds of strangers passing on the street for money. Magic has been a hobby since Iwasaki’s high school days, but has become the main funding for his travels. But he isn’t pushy about panhandling, and he obviously isn’t getting rich.

His presence brings an odd juxtaposition in the Piazza del Repubblica, as this Japanese cyclist has one of the few bicycles here in this city of steep cobblestone streets.

Using the same chopsticks he eats with and a small deck of cards, Iwasaki performs simple but captivating tricks in the main square of Urbino, hoping onlookers will spare a small contribution.

Aside from magic, Iwasaki has periodically taken a break from the road, working in various hostels throughout his trip. It was while working at a hostel in Budapest, Hungary, that his terrestrial navigation again veered off course when a strikingly beautiful Japanese woman walked in and asked for a room.

Here stood a man who had spontaneously bicycled half way across the globe and fearlessly scaled a nearly 30,000 foot ice covered cliff, but became utterly humbled by a slender, quiet woman who barely stood five feet tall.

Yuka Otsuka had also been cycling across Europe, making her way through Berlin, Amsterdam, and Holland and was on her way back to Japan when she met Iwasaki. Taken with this woman, Iwasaki immediately asked her to join him. Until this point, failure had been an experience unfamiliar to Iwasaki. Yuka declined the invitation.

The two strangers exchanged e-mails and stayed in contact throughout the years.

It was not until the summer of 2009, nearly three years later, that the two would again meet.  Yuka was traveling through Europe again and agreed to meet Iwasaki in Paris.

This time Iwasaki did not come unprepared.  “I gave Yuka a bicycle as her birthday gift and asked her, join me, and come together by bicycle.” This time, she agreed.

The two strangers set off to Berlin and have been traveling together ever since.

Time and planning are more a figure of speech than concrete ideas to Iwasaki, but his latest rendition of planning was to head south from Urbino to Perugia, loop around to Venice and eventually, somehow, make his way into South Africa and finally to North America. “This should be about five years.”

He has passed 43 countries in the past 10 years and has no intention of stopping. His next trick will be crossing Atlantic Ocean on his way to America.

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While the city of Urbino adapts to modern life, some of Urbino’s most important stories are slowly being forgotten by its youth.

URBINO, Italy – Lamberto Staccioli has a quiet way about him. His manner and dress give the word “gentleman” its oldest and best meaning. His soft words reverberate off the vaulted ceiling of his city’s ancient mausoleum as he describes its history.

A view of the old city from atop a nearby hill.

Staccioli speaks in his native Italian with scientific precision, reflecting his profession as a chemist and professor. At 66, his hair and beard are more grey than black, and crow’s feet bracket his eyes, which hint at good humor. His movements are measured and his words concise, but his eyes come alive with excitement when he talks about Urbino.

Staccioli is one of the elders in this small Renaissance city, and his family is one of only dozen or so original Urbino families left. He researched and discovered that his family has lived in Urbino since the 1400s. In those times, his ancestors were warriors for the dukes of Urbino and were sent to defend borders and patrol the once vast territory. Centuries passed, the dukes lost power and Staccioli’s family history was forgotten until he decided to delve into old family documents.

Lamberto Staccioli, who is from one of the last original families of Urbino, stresses the importance of maintaining Urbino's historical past during a time when everything is focused on the future.

Unfortunately, the loss of these family histories is all too common. As the resident population ages, much of the town’s history is slowly forgotten. The piazza is no longer filled with distinguished gentlemen, young families and aging couples, but with rowdy college students who imitate American culture, and embrace modern customs of their own.

On Thursday nights, the students come out to the piazza en masse. The square buzzes with youth eager to relieve the stresses of the week, enjoy time with friends and make new friends. But in the early morning, when the last student has stumbled home, the festivities of the night have left their mark. Broken glass is scattered across the cobblestones, beer bottles litter the piazza and a city that was once the pride of the Renaissance capital looks more like any other small college town.

Staccioli draws a diagram to explain the strategic positioning of the old city.

Located in the seldom toured Marche region (pronounced MAR-kay) of Italy, Urbino was founded in 41 A.D. by the Romans for its strategic hill placement and its large supply of fresh water; however, it wasn’t until the Renaissance that Urbino became one of the most well known cities in all of Europe. Urbino’s power once rivaled that of Rome and Florence and its history includes tales of conspiracy, bastard sons and politically strategic marriages.  It is Raphael’s birthplace and a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Despite this, Urbino is now mostly unknown in the world, even by Italian citizens. Urbino’s great achievements in art, culture, and history are being lost. While its place in early modern European history, especially art history, is well acknowledged in books, the more effervescent history of lore, legends and family stories could well vanish.

Staccioli, a historian by hobby, was born in Urbino in 1944. He attended the University of Urbino and studied what was then called the “classics,” which included Latin, Greek, Italian, and history. He was married in Urbino, started a family here and has recently become a grandfather. His two children still live within the fortress walls and his son owns a popular café in the center of town. When asked how he came to know so much about the town, he responds with one, simple phrase that is understood without the need of a translator. “Passione,” he says, “it’s my passion.”

Staccioli has dedicated countless hours poring over history books, attending conventions and exploring the city. The stories and legends he has assembled are not found in any history books. He has knit them together after collecting various facts from each of his sources. Many are filled with compelling tales, ripe with intrigue and conspiracy, such as whispers that Urbino’s most famous duke, Frederico III, may not be the legitimate son of the previous Duke of Montefeltro. Much of his knowledge is derived from a multitude of old documents, history conventions and books, but some of it comes simply from listening and absorbing the stories around him.

This oral history seems lost on the young, Staccioli said. The apathy of today’s generation is something that Staccioli seems to struggle with. Walking to the top of the fortress, a stage from a concert the night before that has yet to be taken down provides a clashing juxtaposition with the view of the ancient city below. The grass is littered with plastic cups and paper from the previous night. He stands atop the hill and surveys the view below with a slight shake to his head. Through a translator, he remarks: “I understand the life of a student. I understand that they are young and want to have fun.”

Staccioli recognizes that students make up the youth of Urbino. Many of the year-round residents are old men and women. The students bring life to the town, and the money spent stimulates the economy. Without the students, the cafés are quiet and the piazza empty. Staccioli also recognizes that the students are the future for Urbino and they are a vital factor in the survival of his hometown.

There was a time in Staccioli’s life that he too was a student at the University of Urbino and didn’t grasp the importance of maintaining the past.

He walks through the old city. “Most people don’t realize how important the story, the history is. They focus on the girls, the cars, the things. There are some people who live their whole lives and never get it.”

He smiles as he watches his grandson run up and down the cobblestone street in front of his son’s café. The piazza is filled with students and all of the café tables have only standing room. “A few, as they get older, realize how great it is. Those are the ones who remember.”

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URBINO, Italy – In the college town of Urbino, the new and old clash together everywhere you look – quaint grandparents and rowdy students gather together in the Piazza; modern construction cranes tower over centuries-old churches, and hybrid vehicles roll through cobblestone streets made for horses. In this eternal juxtaposition between youth and history, one man fights for the side of history with the best weapon he knows – art.

Duccio Marchi, born in Urbino in 1958, is one of the last speakers of Dialetto Urbinate, the historic language of the area. Though Italy’s many dialects were officially replaced by the literary Tuscan dialect after the national unification of Italy in the 1860s, local dialects were still used in everyday speech until the adoption of television in the 1960s. But Duccio doesn’t just speak Dialetto Urbinate – he writes his music in it.

“I’ve been writing songs in Italian for 30 years,” Duccio says from an outdoor table at the Bar Del Teatro, or Theater Bar, which is nestled in the side of Urbino’s main performance center. “And in dialect for 10 years.” At 53, his sunken eyes speak of experience, though it is easy to tell he is in excellent physical shape for his age.

Italian Dialects, or Regional Italian, are variations of the Italian language which were spoken until modern Italian gradually became the standard language throughout the nation in the mid-20th century. But a national standardized language also has its drawbacks.

“People find it hard to understand that in dialect, you can express more things than in Italian” Duccio says. “The schools, for a lot of years, especially in the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s, said that dialect wasn’t Italian language – it was something different. So they told people not to speak it.”

Duccio admits that dialect throughout the country won’t be around forever. “Yes, I think that it is going toward extinction simply because there are just a few people who speak it. I’m the only one to write songs in Dialetto Urbinate, though people write in dialect in Rome, Naples, Milan; big cities like that.” But he is also hopeful that his language will last longer than he will. “I think that my songs are everlasting. I think and I hope so” he says.

But Duccio’s songs are not simply written in the dialect of the area – they are intrinsically intertwined with Urbino itself. “My songs talk about the city, the streets, the places, but also the people” he says. As an example, Duccio mentions a song about selfish landlords here in the walled city, renting apartments to students at exorbitant prices. Though he speaks about his song with a lighthearted laugh, you can see the seriousness in his eyes. “I sing about things concerning these people and this place.”

Urbino, considered the worldwide center of cultural civilization during the renaissance period, has since morphed into a city of disposable youth. A majority of the citizens inside the city walls are students, studying at the University of Urbino, who take up residency until graduation – usually a mere 3 years. “Inside the actual city walls, there are maybe only 15 or 20 local families left,” said Dr. Eduardo Fischera, who has lived in Urbino for a majority of his life. “The rest are students who rent out apartments.”

Fabio Massaro, 19, studies language at the University of Urbino. “I don’t use dialect often, only sometimes when talking about home” he says. “But we do have cheers, or songs, that we still chant. We had a cheer in dialect that we yelled at my brother’s graduation last week.”

When asked about what the students think of his music, Duccio is convincingly optimistic. “Yes, I think they like this kind of music. They started using instruments again that they haven’t used for a long time. Music is becoming more appreciated by the young people.”

Duccio can claim undisputed credit for at least three young people’s love of music. “I have three sons, big sons, and I always sing in dialect to them,” he says with a smile on his face. “One studies in New York, and when we meet on Skype, we play something together in dialect.”

Duccio is somewhat of a local celebrity here in Urbino – most of the locals know his name, and many have seen him perform. But when asked about his fans, he is quick to mention that he isn’t in is for fame or money. “I don’t care if I become famous or not, I just like singing” he says.

The singer doesn’t have to worry about his music paying the bills, though. A man of many trades, he is a family doctor at the area’s hospital. Besides working and singing, Duccio still finds time to perform in the local theater – always in dialect, of course.

“Italian theater has it’s origin in dialect theater. We use the dialect to make people laugh. The dialect itself makes people laugh” Duccio says. He performs classic comedic musicals, complete with harpsichord accompaniment and renaissance-style outfits. The scripts talk about timeless Urbino landmarks, such as the piazza and basilica.

“Right now I’m working on a text from 1513. I’m translating it into dialect, and we will be performing it in a year.” The 500 year old production was performed in the Palazzo Ducale in the early 16th century, and now, half a millennia later, is being revived by Duccio. He offers me an invitation to some see the play – if I happen find myself in town next summer, that is.

In small cities and large, aficionados of Italian cuisine are taking steps to stop the slow disappearance of fresh pasta from the nation’s tables.

URBINO, Italy – Andrea Maioca begins his work day by laying out flour in a concave circle on a wooden board.  With the addition of only water and eggs he is prepared to carry on an Italian culinary tradition: making pasta.

“Pasta making is the first thing every Italian should know because it is in the Italian soul,” he said with conviction.

For more than a thousand years, Italian hands have mixed and molded these few simple ingredients into this primary staple of their cuisine.

25-year-old chef, Andrea Maioca, has been working at La Balestra restaurant professionally for about 1 year. He learned how to make pasta when he was a teen and has loved making it ever since. He loves his job and wants to be a chef for the rest of his life.

But over the last few years, a battle for the soul Italian cuisine has begun:  homemade pasta is getting harder to find.  For example, this famed Renaissance city lost its last pasta fresca (fresh pasta) shop this year.  Today, Urbino residents can only obtain fresh pasta by making it at home or from a restaurant that prepares its own.  Even that is becoming a rarity:  According to Elavil Sisti, co-owner of Urbino’s Antica Osteria “da la Stella” restaurant, an estimated 80 percent of in-town restaurants do not make their own pasta, but instead buy it from the market.

And experts on Italian cuisine, like Daniela Storoni, art director of a Renaissance cuisine organization here called Il Piatto del Duca, said the changes in Urbino reflect  a slow but growing trend across the country.

“Many young people don’t know how to make it,” she said, adding “È un arte! (It’s an art!). It is not possible to do without training.”  For this reason, she pointed out, Il Piatto del Duca has made food clinics available to the public hoping they will learn about the practice of pasta making, as well as its place in Italian history.

It’s a colorful history.  According to Burton Anderson, author of The Foods of Italy, Italians and pasta have been linked since Arab forces invaded Southern Italy in 652 AD.  That contradicts  the popular story that Marco Polo introduced pasta into Italy in 1296 on his return to Venice from China.  This misconception, food historians say, stems from the fact that “pasta” was developed in China and Italy independent of one another.

The authors of Pasta: the Story of a Universal Food explain that although noodles from both countries seem identical on a superficial level, they are fundamentally different.  Italian pasta, as most pasta is today, is made from durum wheat.  This grain is native to Italy, but it doesn’t grow naturally in China, where “pasta” is made from another cereal grass, millet.

In The Encyclopedia of Pasta, leading Italian food historian, Oretta Zanini De Vita, said that by the time Marco returned, people throughout Italy had been eating pasta for at least a century.

Gnocchi doe.

Storoni shared with participants of one of Il Piatto del Duca’s food laboratories that in the time of the Renaissance noblemen flaunted their wealth and power through elaborate food banquets that would last through the night and the following day.  In this era, the poor ate pasta only on Sundays in a soup and the wealthy – who made their pasta with eggs instead of water to show status – ate pasta every day.

Storoni said pasta is still important in Italian cuisine – “as necessary to Italian cooking as showering is necessary to get ready in the morning” – but more Italians today purchase their pasta from the supermarket.  Storoni tracks that trend to the societal changes that started in the 60s and 70s which have seen Italy’s women moving from the home to the workforce, leaving less time for home-cooking.

For decades, pasta fresca shops were as ubiquitous in Italy as pastry shops in France.  Customers ordered pasta in the morning, and picked it up on the way home from work before pranza – lunch – which is the main meal of their day.  But even then, many homemakers made pasta at home.

Both of these traditions, however, have begun a downhill slide in Urbino in the last few years.  Packaged prepared foods as a result of consumerism and prosperity have obscured these ancient roots of Italy’s gastronomic culture.  The tradition of pasta making by hand is still alive, but it is undoubtedly less common than it used to be.  Storoni was pleased to note that in recent years young people have become curious about rediscovering old traditions, including making pasta.

One of those young people is Andrea Maioca, a 25-year-old chef who prepares fresh pasta for a small restaurant, La Balestra, in Urbino.  Maioca learned how to make pasta from his mother and has been practicing since he was 15 years old.  He loves to cook and he wants to be a chef for the rest of his life. He tried to use all local ingredients in a menu that features traditional cuisine of the local region, le Marche (pronounced Mah-Kay).  He intends to teach his children how to prepare handmade pasta, as well as cuisine from around the world because, he says, “it will be good for them to know there are other cuisines out there”.

But he, too, has concerns about the future of Italian cuisine.

“We were the best chefs in the world, but now we are losing that label,” he said, while softly throwing his hands in the air.  “Other nations are rising above Italy in this art.”

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African immigrants find a niche as street vendors in Urbino. Although it’s a tourist town, it’s not an easy place to survive that way.

URBINO, Italy — Against the light-colored stone of the piazza and the almost entirely white population of Urbrino, Frank Sunday does not blend in well.

As he gets closer, his voice further separates him from the crowd with his African accent. He leans toward a group of students with a soft, “Ciao, ragazzi.”

They smile, shake their head and wave him off with a “no, grazie.”

Sunday is a 29-year-old Nigerian immigrant who first came to Italy four years ago. Every day, he sells merchandise on the streets of Urbino. He swings colorful bracelets, small books and socks in his outstretched arms as he saunters down the cobblestones in his worn Puma tennis shoes.

Frank Sunday catches the bus just outside the city walls back to Pesaro, where he lives with other Nigerian immigrants.

He is one of about half a dozen North African immigrants who live in Pesaro on the Adriatic and take buses daily to Urbino to sell merchandise. With a political science degree from University of Benin in Nigeria, he has a different story than most of the other sellers. But his struggle to make a little money is the same.

Sunday said most immigrants come to Italy to make money and send profits home to their families. He is earning money for himself, hoping to obtain a higher education degree and then re-enter the political world in Nigeria. Sunday, who lives off of the wages he earns by selling small items on the street, is a self-described politician and refugee.

He said the best chance to make a sale is in the late afternoon when most stores close and local activity slows for “pausa.” That’s when the most tourists will be in and around the piazza.

This small window of opportunity seems to be an unprofitable time for foreigners like Sunday to be hawking saint bracelets and brightly colored crafts in the main square.  Widely ignored by the locals and snubbed by the student population, these street sellers are admittedly reliant on sympathy in order to make a sale, Sunday said.  “I say maybe the people who buy this, they make no use of it, but they see me and they buy something out of the goodness of they heart, because they are a Christian people,” he said.

Mid-conversation, Sunday looks on warmly at a graduate celebrating with friends, wearing a laurel corona and cheering loudly. Sunday pauses and smiles to himself, taking in the scene. He says the spectacle reminds him of his days in Nigeria at school with his friends.

Some immigrants have their papers in order. But Sunday says he spent eight months in a Libyan prison after a failed attempt to cross the Mediterranean in a small boat. Now, he is on his way to being a legal citizen and has begun to pay taxes in Italy. Other street vendors refused to discuss their immigration status.

“Urbino is the same as every other city in Italy,” Sunday said. “I have lived many places and it is no different.”

While Sunday is ambivalent about the city he relies on, the citizens of Urbino are just as ambivalent toward the immigrants’ plight.

Urbino locals have observed a change in the street vendors’ presence over the past few years. The unemployment rate in Italy was 8.5 percent as of 2010, according to the U.S. Department of State Website.

But even with economic recession and the loss of jobs, Urbino Mayor’s office spokesperson Gabe Cavalera said the Africans do not compete for locals’ jobs.

The State Department Website agrees, saying that those of a lower social status, like the African immigrants, are forced into the jobs no one else will take, with minimal pay and without social benefits or protections.

Sunday’s future remain undetermined, but he is confident his political ambitions will one day lead him into public office back in Nigeria.  He hopes one day to change his home country for the better. He plans to be the President of Nigeria.

Until then, Sunday said he will continue to live wherever his Christian life leads him “by the grace of God.”

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When modern art meets the Renaissance in Urbino, Italy, it’s difficult to decide what to make of graffiti. It is vandalism, or art?

URBINO, Italy – As you walk the cobblestone streets of Urbino, you see stories everywhere, in the historic buildings, in marble sculpture – and in the graffiti.

Even the birthplace of 16^th century Renaissance painter Raphael Sanzio has been marked by the aerosol paint better know in the streets of big modern cities like Los Angeles, New York and Milan.

An Urbino resident poses beside one of the city’s best known art pieces next to Raphael’s Madonna Col Bambino.

Although these illicit icons of the spray can are a lot less evident here, art students and locals take notice,  and differ on whether it’s art of vandalism.

Michele Fosella, 27, is a graphic design major at the Industrial Art Institute in Urbino (ISIA), who believes that without graffiti, the city would lack character.

“Every city needs this type of intervention because cities are meant to change and evolve,” Fosella says.

Although unwelcome in an ancient environment that thrives off of art tours,  graffiti has deep European roots. Earliest examples date back to Ancient Greece and the Roman Empire, where the Latin term “graffito” describes an image or lettering scratched, painted or marked on property.

One of the most significant pieces in Urbino is of Argentina’s soccer player Diego Armando Maradona, posing with a smug smile and his number 10 jersey. A symbol of Naples, the team he played with for seven years, and a controversial figure in Italy due to failed drug tests that led to his expulsion from the 1994 World Cup in the United States.

The Maradona originally garnished three walls in Urbino, beginning in October 2006 on Via Porta Maia, a small boulevard leading to the home of a man known as his James Bond-inspired alias, “The Real Mister Q.”

The ancient city as an urban zoo, where Renaissance history contrasts with modern art.

In July 2010, Mayor Franco Corbucci had city officials conceal the image with a thin layer of plaster. On a late evening a month later, Mr. Q removed the plaster with warm water and a rough sponge, his friends across the street watching for police.

“People fear new things,” says Mr. Q, a chemistry major at the University of Urbino. Mr. Q asked that his identity not be disclosed because of his illegal salvaging of that Maradona graffiti. Residents didn’t see its “fresh and shiny” beauty, he says, “because it was on a clean wall.”

Mr. Q says that images like the Maradona “do not express rebellion, yet inspire people to think.”

Not every resident in Urbino appreciates ideas shared on walls. Stefania Bigarini, 42, a shopkeeper at an electronics store, considers the second Maradona a site of vandalism where it stands on the wall of her property. It is beside a small, secluded sidewalk residents call La Scaletta.

“I have seen it off of Via Rafaello and it is a great image, but not where it has been placed,” Bigarini says. She says she rarely sees tourists taking photos of it, as they do of the first Maradona.

It is illegal to paint graffiti in Italy on private and public property. In Urbino, the state allows a perpetrator who is caught the decision to remove the graffiti with support from personal funding, or to pay a bill for removal by city authorities.

In 2008, Italian Prime Minster Silvio Berlusconi proposed to strengthen laws against graffiti. Fines were raised more than 10-fold, to €30,000, plus prison sentences of 40 days, for defacing historic monuments and private property.

“This is my private property and I work hard to keep everything clean,” says Bigarini, who supports the stricter graffiti laws.

The art students of Urbino tend to have a different perspective. Jacopo Pietroni, an art history major at Beni Culturali, supports graffiti if it does not degrade ancient scenery.

“If the art is a form of expression from youth culture, graffiti should be done as long as it does not spoil the city,” Pietroni said through an interpreter.

In a way, graffiti pieces like the Maradona have become a part of the city. Tourists from around the world photograph the image of the soccer star dressed in Super Mario red and blue, an image Mr. Q says has become one of the most tagged with Urbino on Flickr, a photo sharing website.

“Urbino is so small and the artist was strategic in his decision,” he says of its magnetism. “People from over 30 countries have photographed the Maradona.”

The third Maradona stencil can no longer be seen, covered in grey plaster and replaced with simple black graffiti tags on a large wall behind a bar on Via San Domenico.

Accademia di Belle Arti student Elena Bartolucci, 20, labels graffiti as “beautiful” when it does not offend or express vulgarity in its imagery.

“It would be nice to have a designated area in Urbino, rather than having someone you don’t know paint your house,” Bartolucci says through an interpreter.  “As long as the graffiti is not painted on the Palazzo Ducale, it’s okay.”

Bartolucci believes that everything is potentially artistic if it improves aspects of life.

“At the end of the day, in regards to artistic expression, Raffaello and graffiti are all the same,” she says. “Being in a city of art, it is inevitable.”

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A look at a hog’s heaven near the mountain town of Cagli reveals one secret in the magic story of how salumi has become a star of Italy’s culinary culture.

CAGLI, Italy – Atop a flat plain nestled deep in the rolling hills near this old Roman town, pigs are going wild.

It is feeding time. Boars and sows of all colors, shapes and sizes scramble from their wallows, knock into fences and collide into a tangle of loin, belly and butt in the middle of the farm yard.

In the tumultuous center, amidst the babel of sniffing, snorting and squealing, stands pig farmer Sergio Lapico, clutching a handful of grass and herbs to the jostling mass of eager, upturned mouths.

Squealing and gesturing madly, he is beseeching the swine in pig-speak: Eat more, grow fat and be happy, my children. And the pigs reply with grunts of delight, perfectly ignorant of the meaning of the theatrics of this strange human figure. But they nod their snouts in agreement all the same.

“I want them to be happy, because a happy pig is a delicious pig,” said Sergio, clad in mud-splattered cover-alls and dusty wellingtons.  “This is how good salumi comes about.”

Organically-raised pigs like the ones on Sergio’s farm are perfect for the creation of the salumi, superstars of ham and one of Italy’s distinctive gastronomical inventions.

And one of its favorites. Offer an Italian a slice of salumi and see his face light up magically. It is a specialty dish that holds a unique place of affection for many Italians due to early childhood memories of hand-sliced treasures served up at dinner tables.

Diverse types and splendid names. Prosciutto, mortadella, capocollo, culatello, lardo, and salame. Royalty among pork products, they hang regally behind the glass windows of specialty shops and gourmet delicatessens all over Italy. These cured meats adorn the menus of world-renowned restaurants and are mainstays of the antipasto platter.

Salumi, known to most Americans as salami, encompasses a family of hams, salamis and bolognas from Italy. These preserved meats lend robust flavors to appetizers, soups and pastas. They start with whole cuts of meat from farm-raised hogs that are cured and then aged for months, maybe even years.

Although it lacks the universal appeal of pizza and pasta, Italy’s ubiquitous culinary exports, salumi is an indispensable food in this artisanal food culture. But the world is slowly waking up to what is possibly Italy’s best kept culinary secret. Within the past decade, restaurants like Eataly in New York and Salumi in Seattle have sprouted all over America and are famous for making the tastiest salumi outside of Italy.

But try as they may, nobody makes salumi with as much tradition, craft and flair as the Italians.

For Stefano Galli, owner of Salumi Galli, a renowned salumi making company in Fermingnano, preserving family traditions is much more than just sticking to every detail in the family recipe book. It is also an unstinting devotion to his family’s practices of using only the freshest locally grown meats and to make them using centuries-old artisanal methods of spicing and curing.

For the past 20 years, Galli has been selling his name and his products to a loyal clientele made up of housewives, restaurateurs and local connoisseurs who have developed a penchant for his intricately seasoned meats.

With short cropped hair, delicate features, shy demeanor and a nose as sharp as the knife he uses to slice his hams, Galli looks more like a shrewd scientist than a skilled curer of meats. Indeed, making salami is as much a science as it is an art. There are no magical elves in white aprons scurrying across kitchen floors hacking, slicing and dicing, conjuring up truckloads of sausages a day. Instead, modern equipment like table-top meat grinders turn pounds of cold loin and belly into mashed ribbons and sausage stuffers load the meat into sheaths of natural skin made from pig intestines.

“Seasoning and curing meat is an extremely precise and painstaking process,” said Galli, a tub of minced pork belly at his elbow. “Lean meat, fat and seasoning salt have to be in exact quantities; too much or too little will ruin the flavor.”

“Everything has to be perfecto. Everything”, he said while tying the loose end of a sausage casing, his voice suddenly edged with an impressive gravity. You never doubt a man when he speaks like that. Not when he is a salumi artisan, wholly immersed in his work.

Salumi making methods have changed very little since the time the very first salumi was made, says Galli. The raw meat is first varnished with a curing mixture of salt, sodium nitrate, and live culture. Salt prevents spoilage, sodium nitrate injects flavor and live culture aids fermentation.

Traditional salumi should be made adding as little artificial flavorings as possible. You can easily tell the difference, he says; a deep red hue means plenty of meat with little additives, while a brownish hue contains great amounts of additives.

Galli’s humidity controlled cellar or what he calls his “laboratory”, is where the salumi are stored, cured with suppleness and supercharged flavor, fostering a complexity only long aging can achieve.  In ancient days, salumi could only be made in musty cellars and grubby attics during winter. Now, with modern refrigeration techniques, they can be aged in an optimum temperature and humidity for   prolonged periods.

“In the past, without refrigeration, it is difficult to make quality meat like the culatello, which has to be aged for at least a year before it can be served,” said the cure-master, pointing to a row of pear-shaped ham braced with twine. “It’s the best salumi there is.”

Culatello, Italy’s rarest ham, is prized for its elegant, silky textures and nuanced flavors. Taste it and the best prosciutto or capocollo seem like mere bacon. Besides this legendary ham, Galli produces other stellar salumi like pancetta, lonzina, prosciutto, salame and guanciale, all made from various parts of the pig.

Although the curing and storage of pork is the most crucial stage in the salumi making process, the manner in which the pigs are reared decides the quality of their meat. Along with age-old Italian pastoral traditions, the highest quality, all-natural pork must be used to create the finest salumi.

“It is foolish to try to make good salumi from the meat of industrial pigs. The taste will be inferior,” said Sergio who makes a small amount of salumi such as the prized lardo and prosciutto at his farm, selling both raw and cured meat to nearby specialty shops and restaurants.

Factory-farmed hogs live crammed in drab confinement. They are castrated to reduce aggression and are stuffed with growth promoters and antibiotic-laden feed. So naturally, their meat will not be ideal for making salumi, says the charming 50-year-old bachelor.

Here on his organic farm, there are pigs of wide-ranging varieties: wild hogs, black pigs, large-whites, and cinta-senese.  They live in bucolic bliss, pasturing freely on wide open forest spaces and munching on a steady and plentiful diet of grass and herbs. The idyllic lifestyle gives rise to meat which tastes sweeter, and is far more tender than any supermarket cut.

This place may be hog heaven for Sergio’s pigs, but it is a slice of culinary paradise one experiences when sampling salumi made from the meat of these free-range porkers. Cut with his electric meat slicer, these parchment-thin slices of salumi look like petrified petals of a pale summer rose.

Tasting it, one is stunned by its mellow, delicate flavor and obscenely rich and creamy texture. It even tastes better than it looks. They are usually perfect on their own. Sergio likes to serve them with hard crusted bread and a glass of Verdicchio, a local white wine from the Le Marche region that had a freshness which paired perfectly with the saltiness of the cured meat.

Performing the pork-preserving craft is not without its sacrifices. Living a solitary life on a farm reaps loneliness as the only conversations he has here are those with his pigs.

But like the hogs on his farm, Sergio is happy.

“I live for my pigs and for my salumi,” he says. “To make really good salumi, you need real passion and dedication. Nothing less.”

With that, he turned to his pigs and started squealing again.

A collection of reports and articles about the salumi:

http://johnlehndorff.wordpress.com/2010/12/20/2011-food-trends-u-s-vs-italian-salumi-private-brands-rising-lamb-rice-and-peace

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Italy has long held the secret to creating a relaxed environment where guests can feel like family – agriturismo, farm-based vacations.

FOGLIO, Italy – Check in. Find room. Swipe key. Enter.

From arrival to checkout, the American hotel experience can seem impersonal. But Italy has long held the secret to creating a relaxed environment where guests can feel like family – agriturismo farm-based vacations.

The Renaissance Era church was restored into a restaurant.

Give guests more than a waffle maker and bad coffee for breakfast, and they’ll feel more at home. Give them the chance to ride in a tractor instead of a taxi cab, and they will start to think they’re part of your family.

Hidden amongst the scenic Italian countryside, they keep guests away from the hustle and bustle of city life, yet allow for convenient travel to nearby destinations. To be considered an official agriturismo, a facility must be certified as one by the government. They are subsidized to create a secondary income for farmers who aren’t making enough money from crop sales. Other agritourism vacations range from country homes to resorts, all surrounded by fully functioning farms.

“You cannot find this landscape anywhere else,” said Giorgia Stocchi, director of one of the Marche region’s most appealing country homes.

And she is right. The Urbino Resort is about eight miles from the historic city of Urbino and boasts a landscape of beautiful rolling hills pocked by fields of bright yellow sunflowers, an aromatic herb garden, grape vines, and pathways lined with vibrant flowers, giving you the chance to see it all.

Unlike an official agriturismo, The Urbino Resort’s main source of income is generated by the rooms they rent out to guests, services offered at their wellness center and the wine and meals served at the restaurant.

“What makes us so special is the history,” Stocchi said. “This resort was a village 300 years ago.”

The wellness center, which offers a number of different massages, bath and relaxation therapy sessions, was restored from an 18th century barn. The restaurant that serves food and wine from the resort’s 890-acre organic farm was once a church, while the beautifully restored bedroom originally housed Renaissance Era artisans and farmers.

“Si, si!” responds the head chef when asked about foods grown on the farm.

Fausto spends his morning at work on the farm.

He explains in rapid Italian that everything he used, the flour to the zucchini, came from the fields of grain, sunflowers, fruits and vegetables viewable from the restaurant’s kitchen window. Their wine comes straight from the vineyard adjacent to the reception foyer, and their honey comes from hives kept a safe distance from the guest rooms.

All of this can be seen by roaming freely through the expansive gardens or simply sitting beside the infinity pool to take in the view.

But a conventional agriturismo offers very different services than massage therapy and poolside cocktails. This more traditional option can be found at Fausto Folgietta’s “Casale nel Tufo” just three miles from Urbino.

As an official agriturismo, Folgietta decided to create apartment style accommodations to supplement his income as a farmer. He began by opening his home to guests for completely homegrown and prepared meals three years ago and eventually built five bedrooms from the finest crafted materials available.

When guests arrive, they will feel a completely different atmosphere than that of a typical hotel or bed and breakfast. Rather than travelers renting a room for the night, they are guests in Folgietta’s home.

Unlike the Urbino resort, the restaurant here is nothing more than a long, sturdy table beneath the vaulted wooden ceiling of the kitchen. The menu consists of seasonal foods prepared by the Folgietta family. And the spa and pool at the resort are replaced by his cattle and tractors.

But being a part of the farm is what makes guests feel at home, and gives them the chance to appreciate the simple life. The serenity achieved from a massage at a resort can be attained by simply experiencing the tranquility of nature at work.

Guests can follow Fausto on his daily activities. With warm hospitality he enthusiastically shows anyone interested around his farm. Regardless of whether you can keep up with his Italian, his smile is welcoming and communication is simple.

Agritourism is a growing industry, and one that is unmatched in giving guests a unique vacation. Leave the cell phone and stress of day-to-day life behind, but be sure to grab the kids. Agritourism provides an alternative get away for every traveler.

“It does not matter- age,” Stocchi said. “Anyone can come here and enjoy this kind of stay; it is beautiful and ideal.”

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The spirit of secularization has dramatically diminished Catholic practice in Italy. But some say a modernized faith can speak to life’s most important questions.

URBINO, Italy – As the priest sets the bread of the Eucharist on Carlos Mascio’s outstretched tongue, the sound of contemporary jazz blares from outside into the ancient walls of the San Francesco Church.

It is Friday night and the daily Mass is far from the minds of most of the residents of Urbino. Just outside the church walls, hundreds of people are drinking and dancing as a few faithful Catholics stand in procession to take communion.

As Mascio, 23, makes his way back towards the worn wooden pews a different type of music joins the commotion. The modern sound of guitar and electric keyboard begins to fill the room from near the altar.

For more than 200 years, in the late Middle Ages, Urbino was under direct rule of the papacy. Walking through its tiny cobblestone streets, you can distinguish Urbino’s time as a papal state in its dozens of churches bearing the crossed keys of St. Peter’s See.

But in a town where Catholicism reigned supreme, secularization, atheism and Bible-centered evangelism are now growing in dominance at a steady rate.

“Urbino is full of students who are politically oriented on the left,” said Laura Severi, a 21-year-old language student at the University of Urbino,  “In Italy, there is left and right politically speaking, and usually people belonging to the left don’t really believe in God.”

Both sides of the aisle tend to agree that in Urbino, religious practice has severely diminished and that the majority of Urbino residents are no longer religious.

“I think that religion has lost its traditions and young people cannot recognize themselves in its principles,” said Alessandro Merli, a 23-year-old philosophy student at University of Urbino. “The number of people going to church is already low and nothing suggests that it will rise again.”

Urbino is not the only place in Italy seeing a growth of secularism. A number of social measurements indicate a nationwide secularization over the last 20 years. For example, the number of Italians taking part in rites of passage consistently dropped from 1991 to 2004, according to Vatican statistics and a study by the Critica Liberale Foundation, an Italian political think tank. The study found a steady process of secularization in Italy as well as a  “diminishing appeal of Catholic ideas as regards family life and children’s education.”

While secularization continues to gain a footing in this ancient Renaissance town, there are some who are trying to reinvigorate the religiosity of the local youth.

Mascio, a political science student, is co-president of the Federazione Universitaria Cattolica Italiana (FUCI), a university-based Catholic group with about 700 members throughout Italy. The University of Urbino’s FUCI is the largest chapter in Italy, with more than 40 members, according to Mascio. He says their membership is actually much larger then that.

“We have 40 card-carrying members, but we have many more people who participate in our activities regularly,” Mascio said.

Unlike other Italian Catholic groups, FUCI is a university-oriented organization that focuses on communicating the message of the Bible with students. The Urbino group works directly with friars from the local San Francesco Convent to organize weekly meetings, youth-oriented Masses and street evangelization.

A FUCI Mass is a little different from a traditional Catholic Mass. For a FUCI Mass the pews, which are traditionally in two straight rows, are moved diagonally so that they face towards the aisle and are closer to the altar. A three-person band plays music on a drum set, keyboard and electric guitar throughout the service and an animated priest often gives a sermon which brings the students to laughter.

Andrea Cannuccia is the friar appointed to working with FUCI from the San Francesco Convent and also works for FUCI’s national management. Cannuccia said he believes these new types of services are vital for keeping and reinvigorating religious youth.

“We must be modern in what we do to keep young people interested. When we meet, we speak about one existential question and help the discussion with video, PowerPoints, images and group work,” Cannuccia said.

But FUCI is not trying to change Catholicism. FUCI believes the message of the New Testament is always new and very much important and relevant to today’s youth and world.

For Mascio and FUCI, the most important method for bringing people to the word of God and of Catholicism is to use modern language and methods as a means to introduce people to the timeless values and truth of the Bible.

For FUCI members, the group is simply a means to an end.

“We see FUCI as a way to turn people from vagabonds to pilgrims,” Mascio said. “Our goal is not to make FUCI grow. FUCI is an instrument to bring the Christian message to people.”

While statistics point to a secularizing population, Cannuccia said he does not believe these statistics are a realistic reflection of today’s population.

“If on one end it looks like religious practice is decreasing, actually from what we see and experience it is increasing. This year the number of FUCI members went up in Italy. Religious questions are now more important then before,” Cannuccia said.

For FUCI, the injection of modernity is just right. Melding the ancient message of the Bible with modern language and methods, members believe they hold the key to keeping Catholicism and the Bible well within the hearts and minds of Italy’s youth.

When asked about the future of Catholicism, Mascio turned the question to “the present.” “The present, because it is in the reality of the present that you find the truth.”

As Mascio takes his seat, a slight smirk appears on his boyish face as he listens to the music outside. For the religious youth of Italy, the echo of the streets is not at odds with the ancient communion rite. In some ways, in fact, it fits perfectly.

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A small group of vintners strive in the rugged mountains of Le Marche to keep the delicious tradition of wild cherry wine alive.

CANTIANO, ITALY – It’s a hot summer day on a mountainside near this central Italian town as Igor Lupatelli walks through his field of young trees and tries to explain the mission that has become his livelihood: Preserving the tradition of making Visciole – a sweet wine using the tiny, bitter wild cherries called viscioles that are indigenous to Italy’s le Marche region.

“Our firm was born six years ago, not in this building, but in a little workshop, one kilometer away from here,” Lupatelli said through a translator. “We have started Morello Austera for personal reasons and also because the market had started going well.”

It is almost guaranteed that any tree you look up into in June will be filled with ripe red viscioles.

Viscioles can be found across Italy, but they have been cultivated for wine only in the mountainous western half of le Marche (pronounced MAR-kay), one of Italy’s least visited regions. The area is dotted with small towns cradled between steep terrain that holds deep snow in the winter and can bake under extreme heat in the summer – rugged conditions that the wild cherries thrive in.

A tiny, deep-red fruit about half the size of the consumer cherries found in markets, viscioles are the products of the “Prunus cerasus” plant. Originally, farmers used the wild cherry bushes to divide the ground and as a source for sugar-rich syrup to give them a boost of energy before going to work in the fields.

About 100 years ago, Lupatelli said, farmers discovered they could mix fermented viscioles with traditional grape wine and produce a delicious dessert wine that was at once sweet and tart.

Igor, 36, joined that tradition in 2005 after 20 years in the catering business.  “The reason for this choice was plain: we were tired of working in the catering sector,” he admitted. “We wanted to stand out with a local produce.”

At first glance, the property clinging to the mountainside seems small, but Igor said it holds 480 wild cherry trees, enough to produce some 35,000 bottles of the wine each year, making their business one of the two largest of the estimated 30 Visciole producers in le Marche region.

In the valley shadowed by the Catria Moutains in Cantiano, Italy, you will find Morello Austera, a five-year-old cherry winery owned by the Lupatelli family.

Wine production is a year round job.  The Lupatellis harvest viscioles throughout June, and the fruit is then fermented in a stainless steel tank that holds 20 tons of wine for about 40 to 50 days, depending on the temperature. Morello Austera has two steel tanks on the property, one is for fermenting and the other is for resting the wine. Seventy kilos of viscioles are combined with sugar and 50 liters of Sangiovese wine from the Fano region to the south. The mixture then rests in the steel tank for another three to four months.

The wine is then bottled, labeled, corked, and sealed in Morello Austera’s small production room, which echoes to the sounds of modern machinery attended by a two-man crew. Following another six months of maturing in the bottles, the wine is shipped to stores and restaurants across le Marche. Little of the sweet wild cherry wine ever finds its way out of Italy.

Morello Austera owner Igor Lupatelli stands in front of the stainless steel tanks at the rear of the production building.

“It’s difficult to export the wine outside of Italy and even le Marche region,” Igor explained.  “Twenty years ago lots of countries wanted to buy only sweet wine and now they don’t want it because of the economic crisis.”

Although the wine never leaves Italy the Morello Austera label travels the world on other products. In August and September, the Lupatellis harvest strawberries, blackberries, and raspberries which are combined with a sweet syrup for a product similar to a preserve for export as far away as Australia, Japan, America, and the Czech Republic.

Despite the current economic conditions, the brothers have plans for improvements to their property, such as an irrigation system being installed in August, and they are confident that they have a promising future in wine production.

The passion Igor displays explains his plans for the future of his business and the wine tells a visitor this is not just a job, but also a calling.

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Eduardo and Carolyn Fichera returned to Italy, where their relationship blossomed, to raise their two children. Though at first adapting to Italian culture proved difficult, they’ now have found a comfortable life in Urbino.

URBINO, Italy — In 2006 Carolyn Fichera wondered if her move to Italy wasn’t a big mistake. Her infant son was crying, her neighbors in Nicosia offered her only criticism for her American ways – and she missed some basics of life in the states. Like a clothes dryer, and a babysitter. Living in Sicily, it turned out, was a lot more challenging than just visiting there.

“It’s one thing to talk about [moving to Italy], it’s another thing to live it,” she realized.

Today she looks back on that time during her first year here and can only smile.

It helped that she and her husband moved to this university town and it helped she has had more time to adjust to the new culture. But just as importantly the reasons that compelled their move in the first place have proven solid: A better life for their young and growing family.

“[Urbino] is a better environment for our family,” Carolyn said. “I’m more comfortable here and I think it’s because of the university, [which] attracts more foreigners, whereas in Sicily I felt like I was the only foreigner there. It’s not true, but I felt that way.

“I think it’s better here, it’s a little more open minded, a little more connection to other towns, to other cultures and to other ideas.”

For many Americans, the dream of moving to the Italian hill country is about putting a permanent claim on the romance found during vacations. For Carolyn Fichera and her husband Eduardo, it was about making a huge investment on the chance of securing a better quality of life for their children.

In 2006 Eduardo gave up a secure future in the form of a tenure-track position at Marquette University in the Milwaukee for a high school teaching position in Sicily, hoping the move would be a better life for raising a family.

The couple grew up half a world away from each other. Carolyn was born and raised in Philadelphia, while Eduardo spent his childhood with his father in Palermo, Italy. Upon graduating from the University of Urbino, Eduardo went to the U.S. to earn his PhD, where he remained to teach Italian courses at various American universities. In her time at Penn State, Carolyn traveled to Urbino for two summers for a language and a modern dance program. After her first trip, she took any opportunity she could to return.

In 1997, Eduardo and Carolyn found themselves in summer programs in Urbino, where they met through mutual friends. Three years later they were a married couple in  Providence, Rhode Island, with an infant daughter, Veronica.

But between the planning of play dates, cramming of daily activities and paranoia about safety, the Ficheras began looking for ways to give their daughter the childhoods they had enjoyed – something simpler, cultured and more laid back. Eventually the idea of moving to Italy became their reality.

“My mother was angry, my father said ‘Go for it.’” Carolyn said. “My mother said ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ – I only had Veronica then – ‘Veronica’s not going to know her family, and blah, blah, blah.’ My friends were sad that I was going to go away and other people were like ‘Oh, Italy, wonderful! I love Italy!’ I got the whole spectrum of reactions.”

The move to Italy provided the Ficheras with the simpler life they desired, but the transition to a small Italian town wasn’t easy for the family, especially Carolyn.

“It was more romanticized than practical, but now I’m content” Carolyn said. “It’s one thing to talk about [moving to Italy], it’s another thing to live it.”

The town’s small size and the people’s traditional mentality proved difficult for Carolyn to adjust to, especially when she gave birth to her son Saverio in 2007. Raising her two infant children without any friends or family took its toll on Carolyn.

“I really reached a low point there because at the same time everybody was telling me I’m not doing it right, [Saverio] just didn’t sleep at night and I was by myself, I had no help with the babies … and it was just too much for me,” Carolyn said.

Their move to Italy had surrounded them with the lifestyle they desired, but the size and inhabitants of Nicosia, Sicily wasn’t what they wanted. As soon as they were able, the Ficheras decided to move once again. This time the search for the best life for their two children brought them back to where they met years ago – Urbino. They quickly decided the  culture of the Renaissance college town offered the lifestyle they wanted for their children.

“It’s a very relaxed pace of life that allows … for some thinking about yourself, about your family, it’s allows you time to relax,” said Eduardo, professor of English and film studies at the University of Urbino. “You don’t feel like you’re … constantly pushed to achieve something. There’s not that idea that you have to run through life to get to whatever objective you have set for [yourself].”

None of this means they will never leave Urbino. Eduardo and Carolyn are adamant about raising their children in the best environment possible and they’re open to moving wherever that priority takes them. Each time they visit the states, their kids seem to grow more attached to that country. They  admit their family’s future might take place back in the U.S.

But for now, Urbino is their best place to live.

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“One Love” hidden in the hills of Renaissance Italy

URBINO, Italy – Alessandro Fusco is leaning over a railing surrounded by lavender flowers and clay-tile rooftops when he suddenly jumps, waving his arms in excitement.

Wow! Take the picture. . . Come, come, come. A humming bird… please, please you see it? Stay here, it’s there. Phew! That was great!

Fusco, 22, is about as unconventional as a Jamaican bobsled team.

Born and raised on the Italian Island of Sardinia, Fusco is a full-fledged Rastafarian, a follower of the faith and lifestyle borne of the anti-colonialism, poverty, spiritualism and marijuana of post-war Jamaica, a Caribbean island he has never seen.

Marco Mollona and Alessandro Fusco meeting for the first time.

His dark brown hair is woven into long thick dreadlocks. He has his own reggae album entitled “Prisoner in Babylon” under his stage-name, ShakaRoot. He speaks English in a Jamaican accent, having learned the language listening to Bob Marley and other English-speaking reggae artists.

He pronounces the word thing as “ting.”

Fusco is also a sociology student at the University of Urbino. During his off-time he enjoys being out in the rolling hills and sleeping under trees, despite having the option of a roof over his head. He appreciates nature so much he will at times stop in mid-conversation to acknowledge the presence of a scenic landscape, a humming bird or an interestingly coloured insect.

Respecting Mother Nature is an important value in the Rastafarian movement.

“Rasta is all about respect,” he says. “Water is a holy ting, a natural flow you have to respect. You have to give thanks to the water, to the air you breathe.”

Rastafarian faith is Fusco’s way of life despite being raised and now surrounded by Italy’s Roman Catholic traditions. Fusco says people need to choose their own roads, follow their own paths and the Rasta life, no matter how odd it may seem here in Urbino, is his path.

Fusco is not the typical Italian. But he isn’t the typical Rastafarian either.

“You become a Rasta in your own way, not in another way,” he says. “So every Rasta man is different, unique in this world because he has his own spirituality.”

Fusco is not ethnically African even though the Rastafarian faith was originally founded by blacks who were in the fight for freedom from white oppressors.

He says he also abstains from any kind of marijuana use. Some Rastafarians believe that marijuana grew on the tomb of King Solomon and that it is useful during prayer.

In 2008, The Italian Supreme Court ruled in one case that it was not a criminal offence but a religious act when a Rastafarian smokes or possesses marijuana, but since then there has been no similar court rulings and marijuana-use remains a crime in Italy.

There is a special irony to an Italian youth or any Italian embracing Rastafari.

During the 1930s, the same time period the Rastafari faith originated, Italian fascist dictator Benito Mussolini invaded Ethiopia, which is considered the sacred Promised Land among Rastafarians.

Italian Rastafarian communities, predominantly in southern regions like Sicily, did not begin to emerge until the 1980s.

“So the relation between Italy and Rastafari is that you put yourself against the brutality made by the fascist people,” Fusco says. “I was born in a place that Mussolini created, so I put myself against those actions, even though those actions in a certain way created me.”

Iyared Mihirete Sellassie is the first vice-president of the Federation of Rastafari Assemblies in Italy (F.A.R.I), an organization that was created in efforts to centralize and organize the movement. Iyared  is seen by many of the younger Italian Rastafarians as a spiritual leader or older brother in the faith.

Iyared writes, “It is [a] heavy and proud task to bring the word of Rastafari to this land, where [early Christian] fathers suffered martyrdom and persecution in the very early days of Christianity.”

In Urbino, the Rastafarians are relatively few, and not a cohesive group. They are not even acquainted with each other, for the most part.

Marco Mollona, 23, is also a Rastafarian and a language major at the local university. Until recently, he had never heard of Fusco.

Alessandro Fusco and his friend Rocco Salerno preparing for a jam session with the hills behind them.

On an overcast day, while walking down a narrow cobblestone street, Fusco turned and instantly recognized Mollona as a fellow Rasta. They introduced themselves, and then both whipped out their cell phones to exchange phone numbers and Facebook information.

The two Italian Rastafarians then parted ways. Finally, after three years of studying in the medieval city, Fusco had another Rasta friend.

Meeting Rastafarians is not a top priority for Fusco, who says he has no prejudice and smiles with just about everyone he meets.

“The message of One Love: we are all one. If you speak to a baby, an old man, it’s the same message,” he says.

***

Mollona, who was brought up the traditional way, found the Rastafarian faith two years ago.  He says at first some people were not sure how to accept his new lifestyle, but eventually they came around. His mother complains only about his dreadlocks, although she has been getting used to the look.

Fusco has a very close relationship with his mother — “great love from mama,” he says. She tells him he is “free to find spiritual divinity in all things.”

Fusco and Mollona listened to reggae, among other genres, at a young age and eventually began to soul-search and think deeply about their lives.

“The first time you hear Bob Marley you get shocked by his music,” Fusco says. “When I first heard ‘Redemption Song,’ it gave me a great emotion inside of me; it was like I was crying. I fell in love with life in that time.”

Fusco also says he sees a lot of strong ties between Marley and his late father, both victims of cancer. He says Marley is a father-figure.

***

The field of the Fortezza Albornoz Park is packed and the sky is dark. Fusco  swivels through the dense smoke-filled crowd of laughing, singing and swaying students. The Sound of Sun, a female-fronted reggae band, is already on stage, meaning Fusco is late. He hops over a fence and finds himself backstage, runs up the stairs and joins the band in the most fluid, discreet fashion.

After a few more cover songs, Fusco is centre stage as his performance persona, ShakaRoot the crowd erupts in cheers as he belts out his own original reggae songs.

Fusco’s decision to follow the Rastafarian faith has been a long evolving process.

“So I was 11, and it was gradual. First I listened to the songs, the songs gave me a lot of emotions, so step by step I heard Peter Tosh. Peter Tosh just taught me a lot of tings about Rastafari in his music and gradually I became a Rasta,” he says. “You open your heart to Rastafari.”

Something Fusco is the most passionate about besides his faith, music and nature, is children. After he graduates from University in February 2012 he plans to travel to South Africa where he will teach guitar and Italian to the local kids.

“Identity is the most important thing. That is what I want to bring with my music, starting from children because every child in this world is different from the other.”

Fusco believes children and youth are the cornerstones of the world, paying reference to Bob Marley’s song “Cornerstone.”

“They say that the stone the builder refuses will always be the head cornerstone. To me every youth is the head cornerstone of the future,” Fusco says. “So, what we need is to open the doors to creativity. Like one song of mine says, ‘life is mine, like sunrise, let me shine, you give to me wings and shine, I wanna rejoice, let me fly’ so that’s my message y’know?”

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It’s not easy making films in the land of legendary filmmakers.

URBINO, Italy – In the early 1960s, Italy was known throughout the world for cinema with such directors as Fellini and Rossellini. Now, on most nights, the smaller movie houses in Italy have projectors flickering Italian movies few people are watching. Much of the younger audience is looking to Hollywood blockbusters for entertainment rather than homegrown Italian films.

In Urbino, the story is no different. Many of the students in this college town would rather jump on a bus to satisfy their cinema fix, going to the bigger cities where there are more selections and bigger movie theaters. The two remaining cinemas in town, Nuova Luce and Cinema Ducale, both of which are on distribution contracts, are changing the type of movies they show to more America films and Italian blockbusters, in hopes of drawing more of an audience to keep from closing. Still, many nights the theatres remain empty. Part of the problem lies with bigger Italian film companies creating movies that mirror Hollywood because they believe it will bring in more box office revenue.

“The bigger production companies think that the only cinema we want to see is just entertainment where we can shut off our brains,” said Andrea Laquidara, an independent filmmaker in Urbino. “The bigger productions are much more Hollywood like. This is the big problem. We could imitate our quality of the past, but we are imitating Hollywood.”

Laquidara, who has lived in this ancient walled city for 13 years, has produced numerous documentaries, a feature length film, “The Bluff,” and several short films that run shorter than 40 minutes.

Laquidara started filmmaking at 17 after watching several classic Italian films, and realizing that it could be more than just entertainment. Laquidara bought a camera and searched for story ideas in Urbino, teaching himself as he went.

“Movies can speak as philosophy, psychology, and so many things,” said Laquidara.

Filmmakers like Laquidara face a number of obstacles getting their films produced. Like all independent cinema, breaking out of the cookie cutter style of Hollywood and still being a successful filmmaker is not easy. For every Fellini there are many who are never remembered.

It doesn’t matter if the filmmaker is Italian or American; one of the biggest obstacles independent filmmakers face is finding money to get their film off the ground, said Laquidara. Filmmakers have to use whatever money they can find to produce their films because there are few subsidies from the film companies. They also have to find their own actors and resources.

However, being an independent filmmaker means having more freedom because the film is based entirely on your own ideas and the project is completely your own. This allows for more creativity and flexibility in both the filming and editing process, he says.

Roberto Danese, a film critic and professor at the University of Urbino, agrees that money is one of the biggest obstacles for any filmmaker.

“The problem is the business behind film,” Danese said. “Good ideas don’t correspond to financial support. And in Italy this is a big problem, because the government and all the public institutions can’t sustain all the arts.”

In the United States, independent filmmakers have to compete with the bigger studios to get their films shown. For Italians, there is the added problem of trying to compete with American cinema as a whole.

Italy’s film production is different from that of many other countries. In France, for example, there is a screen quota on how many American films can be shown in ratio to national films. In Italy, there are no restrictions on American film imports.

American films dominate the Italian market. U.S film imports account for roughly 60 percent of all movies shown. Only 25 percent are national films, according to a study by Indiana University using ticket sales in 2006. (PDF LINK TO STUDY)

Laquiara explained that the majority of the films shown in Italy are imported from America because the Italian government and bigger production companies believe, inaccurately in his opinion, that Hollywood-style movies are the ones that Italians want to see.

According to an article in Italian Vogue in 2010, more than 60 percent of moviegoers have seen an American movie, 27 percent an Italian one and the remaining 10 percent films from other countries.

Laquidara argues that it is difficult for many of the top Italian independent directors such as Pietro Marcello and Alina Marazzi to get their movies to the Italian people.

Part of the problem in Italy, said Laquidara, comes from the government and its lack of subsides to the local filmmakers. Prime Minster, Silvio Berlusconi, is a businessman who owns the most powerful media companies, and is also the top elected official, with the power to regulate public media. Berlusconi has a lot of control of what films receive public funds. Much of the money goes to films that follow the Hollywood plot and have a better chance of making money.

“We had a good period of cinema with directors like Fellini, and now there are a lot of new filmmakers with potential, but the government doesn’t support the culture,” Laquidara said. “Even if the audience is interested the independent films, the films can’t reach them.”

Another problem stems from the movies themselves. Danese explained that the filmmakers of today try to recreate movies in the style of an art-film movement of Italy’s postwar decade called neorealism rather than come up with their own creative ideas.

But not all. Some directors are receiving positive criticism for creating new and unique ways of editing so that their movies stick out compared to the rest. Danese believes this type of editing could propel a new movement with Italian cinema, and stop filmmakers from recreating the past.

“I hope Italian cinema forgets its past, so to create new ideas and new innovations. Maybe this type of cinema could be the future. Italian cinema now is not bad, but it could be so much better,” said Danese.

One example of this editing is Peter Marcello film, “The Mouth of the Wolf,” which has won numerous awards including Caligari Film Award. Marcello never saw an Italian film but drew upon original ideas, with editing that uses both continuity editing and clips of scenes that don’t involve the characters, to help move the story along.

Danese explained that this editing was the “cinematic mark of the film” because the editing is so different from the Hollywood style, where the audience is not supposed to notice editing.

In order to help create the next generation of filmmakers with new ideas and innovations, both Laquidara and Danese helped set up workshops and conferences with the Marche region to discuss film history and to teach aspiring young filmmakers how to create compelling movies.

Each semester, the workshops draw about 20 to 25 students. The students meet once a week for three hours or longer depending on what aspect of filmmaking they are learning that day. The classes feature two components. The first is the actual filmmaking process, including filming and editing. The second is learning how to analyze films, such as why a director chose a particular lighting or angle for a shot. After learning the basics, the students go out and make their own films.

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URBINO, Italy – As important as food is, most of us know little about where it comes from.

A family of organic farmers outside this Renaissance city is trying to change that.

“Children think that when you take milk of the cow, it is cold, not hot, because they always take cold milk from the fridge,” says Monserrat Podgornik, the mother of the family. She believes children should understand that when a calf drinks milk, “it has to be hot in the natural way like your mama, no?”

Concerned about this disconnect in today’s culture, the Podgornik family has created La Fattoria Dei Cantori, or “The Farm of the Singers,” an eclectic 15-acre operation that is not just a producer of quality food and art, but a center of learning.

La Fattoria Dei Cantori has two cows to produce milk and cheese, as well as two donkeys and one horse.

Dedicated to what they call “a simple life” centered on the philosophy of  spiritual leader Mohandas Gandhi, the farm teaches classes for children, hosts “WWOOFers” and holds a long list of activities not covered by the description “agriturism, beekeeping, farm classroom, and oven goods” in its brochure.

Roberto and Montserrat Podgornik began this farm 30 years ago with just one cow, a leaky old farmhouse, and a bicycle for transportation. Neither came from farming families, but were each deeply moved by books they read about Gandhi.

“When I was 19, I was looking for something important,” Monserrat says. After living in a farming community started by one of Gandhi’s disciples in France, her quest was over—she knew she wanted that simple life for herself.

Montserrat insists the decision to start La Fattoria Dei Cantori wasn’t courageous, but that she and her husband were simply “unconscious” of the magnitude of their task. A broken roof that made the house so cold a glass of water “became gelato” was just one of their earliest challenges. But by taking those challenges day by day, Montserrat says, they were able to overcome everything.

“You have to believe in what you are doing,” she says of the difficulties of organic farming.

The Podgorniks want to teach children from the beginning about natural processes.

They feel it is important to try to take part in the entire process of everything they produce. They were one of the first farms in the region to grow their own wheat as well as bake bread from the flour obtained.

“One of our favorite things is to teach the children, [because] we can change society from the beginning,” says Montserrat’s daughter Agnese, 24, who works on the farm full time.

Classes offered to children range from beekeeping to bookbinding to simply “walking in the woods.” To educate children on the origins of food and have them participate in the farm’s manual chores, the Podgorniks built a classroom separate from the house. There the children can safely observe bees through its large windows and take part in the bread making process.

The Podgorniks believe their “didactic farm” approach is increasingly important to teach children that, as Agnese said, “food doesn’t just come from the grocery store.”

The farm is a flurry of activity all day with the coming and going of family, friends and customers of all ages. “We never know how many plates to put on the table,” said Montserrat as she cut tomatoes for lunch.

Nobody seems to come without being fed, but also, as Agnese said, “Nobody comes to this farm without doing some work,” such as packaging crackers for the market. The family believes that through this work, people gain valuable knowledge.

There is a nonstop rhythm of creation on the farm, whether a family brings empty bottles to fill with milk from the two cows or Agnese and her sister, Irene, working together in the oven room to bake three types of bread.

In the small, hot space, through clouds of flour, the sisters’ fingers work quickly and nimbly with the dough, graceful from years of practice. They work hard for hours at a time, pausing to wipe sweat from their brows and drink a glass of their homemade apple juice.

Montserrat, right, and her two daughters, Agnese, left, and Irene, not shown, do most of the bread making.

To run smoothly the farm depends on volunteers to help out with this hard labor, some from organizations like Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF).

“I know I want this way of life, but I don’t have the courage to begin,” said Serena Vegna, one of the two WWOOF volunteers. Vegna and her husband want to start their own small organic farm for her 3-year-old daughter to grow up on. Learning on La Fattoria Dei Cantori is a first step toward their demanding dream, the same one that Roberto and Montserrat had 30 years ago.

Today, La Fattoria Dei Cantori is one of many organic farms in the Urbino- Pesaro area. A co-op of 20 of these farms and local crafters banded together to sell their products directly to customers in Galleria Dell’Altra Economia in Urbino.

This shop is one of many methods these small farms must use to survive on the small amount of product they produce.

Renato Radici works at the shop’s storefront and acts as a spokesman for these local producers, chatting enthusiastically with customers while slicing fresh salami on an automatic blade.

“It’s a hard fight against the big companies—they all have help from the government, but the little farms have a lot of difficulty,” he said. He harped on these “big companies,” suggesting cheaply made food is partly to blame for health problems such as obesity, celiac disease, and digestion problems.

Radici is optimistic, though, because of the rising demand for organic, high quality food. “The big companies see that people like this, and they are afraid of the damage,” he said.

Evidently, Radici believes that even large-scale food companies are learning something from small farms like La Fattoria Dei Cantori, if simply, he mentions, to repackage their food with “greener” looking labels.

In response to this “hard fight,” Montserrat says she prefers the small-scale method of change through teaching others. “I want to fight against something of myself that I don’t like, but not against others,” she says. “Yes, those words are important, but the example is more important.”

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A group of University of Urbino students effectively took over a classroom that they now use as their base of operation for political action. Instead of using social media, they prefer to communicate in the old Italian way – face-to-face over coffee or a slow meal.

URBINO, Italy – Eight university students cram into an apartment here to prepare a pasta dinner. Nearly four hours pass as they engage in boisterous conversation over drinks and smokes. Their demeanor is playful, as are some of the issues being discussed. They debate whose region of Italy has the best food, wine and dialect. Other subjects are political, and more serious. They are interested in what their American visitors think about President Obama, the occupation in Gaza and the war in Libya.

Throughout the evening, everyone is engaged in conversation. Not once was anyone called away to tweet, update a status, or refresh a smart phone. This may seem odd in the twenty-first century, but it reflects the Italian lifestyle. Social media just can’t do justice to a good Italian conversation.

These students, along with some 50 others, constitute an activist group known as the “Assemblea Permanente.” The group also calls itself C1, after the university classroom the students defiantly occupied and gained possession of five years ago. Due to their efforts, student activism is still very much alive in Urbino, as it has been since the tumultuous 1960s.

But in one important way, their movement differs from the new style of student activism that is emerging around the world. The advent of technology and social media has revolutionized the way youth movements organize and disseminate information. Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube are believed to have played a significant role in the protests throughout North Africa and the Middle East (NY Times: Social Media in Saudi Arabia). However, this is not the Urbino style of interaction, nor does it find much favor with the members of C1.

Mattia Trusso, a senior member of the student movement in Urbino, says the group avoids electronic communication at all costs. “I prefer to discuss for an hour with a single person and try to influence our points of view, than reach 5,000 people just by clicking a button,” he explains. “This kind of exchange of information is cold; you’ve got only a screen. When you talk about something – especially Italians – you don’t just talk with the voice but with the whole body.”

Trusso believes face-to-face conversations are vital to any social movement. “I mean if you have the same idea as me, and we want to reach a target, we have to stay close,” he says. “You’ve got a bedrock of ideas that can give you the possibility of building or setting up something of importance, as we are trying to do here.”

The student movement here occasionally holds formal assemblies in the C1 space. However, more often than not the decisions are reached over a cup of coffee, a meal, or a late night drink in the square. Some members say it’s difficult to separate their political and personal lives. Many of them are from other parts of the country, and live together while attending the University of Urbino. This creates a strong sense of family within the group. “If someone is not here for a long period you know that you have the influence of that person in your own decisions,” Trusso says.

This constant closeness can lead to conflicts within the group, but the students say their disagreements ultimately improve C1’s dynamic strength. “If you have an argument with people and the day after you are together with each point of view different from before because you have discussed about it – I mean I think it’s a great thing,” he says.

The local reliance on face-to-face conversations may be unique to small cities like Urbino. In fact, young people in other areas of Italy rely heavily on social media sites. In a country where traditional media outlets are largely controlled by Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, online forums allow people to share alternative information and opinions about the latest news.

Mary Wieder, an international-communications entrepreneur writing on the blog SocialMediaToday, argues that social media sites played a vital role in a national referendum a few weeks ago. An overwhelming majority of voters approved measures that countered the prime minister’s conservative position on privatization of water, nuclear power and an issue of law.

“These recent election results show how social media is one communication still controlled by the public sphere,” she wrote. “Regardless of how many media channels Berlusconi may own, the Italian people have been expressing their disgust and disappointment in Italy’s current state of affairs via social media.”

In contrast, Trusso credits the physical layout of Urbino, and the central piazza in particular, as the source of a rich public discourse. “I’m sure in another place this would be very difficult to set up,” he says. “That’s one of the powers of this place, that it can give you the opportunity to be strictly connected with other people.”

Regardless of the issue at hand, Trusso says to create change any movement must work along two paths. First, you work with the rules and representatives of democracy. Secondly, with the streets. “Everything is born and grows in the streets,” he says. “If you don’t know the street you lose the contact with reality and the world.”

Students have been at the helm of social and political activism here since the 1960s, mostly around educational issues. In 1968, the Minister of Education called for a reform of the university system. His proposal resulted in increased fees and restricted enrollment.

In response, young people organized occupations throughout the major cities. On March 1, some 4,000 students clashed with police officers at the Piazza di Spagna in Rome. Hundreds were injured on both sides, and the students were ultimately forced to retreat. This would become known as the Battle of Valle Giulia (Worker and Student Protests in Italy).

In recent years, the movement in Urbino has grown significantly. Even as it expands, the group maintains its reverence for personal interaction. “If you don’t work with the society and talk with the people every day, you can be ruled in an easy way like every King has done in the past,” Trusso concludes. “You don’t have to be ruled, you have to rule.”

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URBINO, Italy – An elderly yet energetic woman backs through the curtain of wooden beads separating Machelleria Ubaldi, a butcher shop, from the sunny afternoon bustle of Via Rafaello near the center of town, still immersed in a loud and lively conversation with someone outside.  Ending that exchange with a sharp laugh, she  issues a quick buona sera while moving  into an equally dynamic conversation with the young man behind the counter.

Buying meat in Italy is not a pre-packaged affair.  Picking up steak, salami or prosciutto isn’t a case of reaching into refrigerated case and grabbing an anonymously shrink-wrapped package. It’s a trip to visit an old friend – the person who selects and cuts your dinner – as well as the line of local farmers he represents.

Davide Ubaldi in his shop, the Machelleria Ubaldi.

“In grocery stores it is cheaper but can be unsafe because it is often imported from somewhere like France,” said Davide Ubaldi as he slices meats behind the counter, “Butchers follow their animals from the farm to the shop, so they know where it comes from.”

For nearly a decade the Ubaldi family – Davide, with his parents and younger sister – has operated the only family-owned butcher shop inside Urbino’s city walls, the Machelleria Ubaldi. Standing behind the counter, Davide slices meats and making sausages to order with customers who are considered part of the family.

Still chatting with Davide, the older woman points to a certain cut of beef in the glass meat case, “no not that one the one in front of it,” and asks for it thinly sliced- “but not too thin like last time.”  But this isn’t just about business. She also asks the butcher slicing her meat various questions about his day and family. They share a rapport deeper than taking a number would allow. The niceties continue until the not-too thin slices have been paid for and carried out through the wooden curtain.

Like this lady, the vast majority of customers that come through Ubaldi’s beaded curtain door are regulars. Most come in around the same time and day every week, often crowding the store on Saturdays. Their purchases are the end result of a hand-on production line that finds Davide following his products from the start.

One of the farms Ubaldi follows his animals from is that of Paolo Ugolini. Ugolini raises his 15 head of cattle in a family-run ranch near Urbino. He makes sure each one of them ends up in a near by shop.

Ubaldi selects a cut of meat for a customer.

“They go to local butchers that I am friends with and have personal relations with,” Ugolini said through an interpreter, ”I have no economical agreements–just relationships. Being a farmer is not a good job because people don’t give me good prices, like my friends will do.”

Ugolini and Ubaldi both noted how many butchers in Italy are ceasing to personally buy meat from their farmers, but are instead turning to the cheaper and more anonymous alternative of buying imported meats.

Signs posted around the store verify the origins of the meat Ubaldi sells. He says all of the farms distributing to him are in Italy, and are all very small. One framed paper lists one of these farms as Ugolini’s.

“The difference between us [and the super markets] is not in the type of meat we sell,” said Ubaldi, “but that the meat we have is a better quality.”

Ugolini agrees. Although he it is not recognized by the Italian Bureau of Agriculture, he said he does not feed his cows anything non-organic.

“It makes a difference,” Ugolini said of the diet, “Otherwise I would feed them the cheap stuff.  But its more natural not to.”

Ubaldi points to another paper displayed on the wall with his farm verifications. It shows another difference between the family butcher and the meat counter. Ubaldi is certified to handle and sell his meats properly. This is a precaution not taken by the super market meat counter down the street.

This personal touch may be fading in Italy Food Network Channel and even the New York Times have all made note of the growing trend of “old-school butchers” in the U.S. Davide, however, has seen the opposite happen since his parents started their store roughly twenty years ago.

Rarely, he said, do any new customers even enter, a trend that has taken a toll on local butcher shops.  He gestures toward the storefront of a former poultry and meat shop across the street, the most recent to close.

“People can find meats in the super markets,” Ubaldi says through an interpreter, “so now real butchers are disappearing.”

But in the meantime, buying meat for many Italians remains a social affair.

In the Le Marche region, tucked in the hills and mountains between Tuscany and the Adriatic, lies Urbino. It is not a commonly known city, but it was one of the most influential during the Renaissance, thanks to Frederico da Montefeltro, nicknamed “The Light of Italy.”  Beginning his career as one of the most successful condottieri, or mercenary leaders, of the time, Frederico eventually turned his success from war to peace and enlightenment.  He ruled Urbino from 1444 to his death in 1482 by promoting humanist principles, as well as creating one of the largest libraries outside of the Vatican through his scriptorium. He was also a patron of the fine arts, laying the foundation for the development of artists such as Giovanni Santi and later, after Frederico’s death, Raphael Santi. Frederico’s contributions to the Renaissance helped propel Italian art to become the most influential of the period.

Luca Catani, 37, a professor of information technology at the University of Urbino, is currently helping to change the face of art in Italy through his website Artevista.

“Artevista is a network where I try to promote cultural events, museums, artists, especially here in Italy,” says Catani, who started the website four years ago.

Many artists, including students as well as professors in Urbino, use the website to network and get their artwork out in the open.

“Urbino being such a small place, being out of the mainstream of things, this is a way for people to know more about it,” says the director of the Academy, Sebastiano Guerrera. “It’s not easy to get over those limits that are geographical.  Italy is separated by mountains and a lot of places are isolated and out of the mainstream.  Being that Artevista focuses on local artists, it opens them to the world.”

Users can search for museums, galleries, and individual artist profiles by geographical region. Those artists can upload profiles as well as examples of their work.

But Artevista isn’t limited to Urbino.  Its artists and those interested in their works come from all over Italy and have begun to expand further.

“A few months ago I started to promote also some exhibitions from Spain and England,” Catani says.

Artevista’s biggest roadblock is Italy’s own government.  Led by Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi and Finance Minister Giulio Tremonti, Italy has instituted numerous budget cuts from its cultural support over the past few years. “You can’t eat culture,” Tremonti was quoted as saying. The cuts, and this comment, have upset many and hampered artistic growth and education.

“The money that’s allotted for [art] materials doesn’t exist anymore. So each student is responsible for buying everything, anything,” says Marie Calajoe, an American who came to Urbino in 1985 to work with art conservation and restoration and currently teaches technical language at the Academy di Belle Arti and the University of Urbino. “You can’t get a [public] loan like you can in the states. There used to be grants and scholarships that were really limited. There are almost no grants anymore. That makes it very difficult.”

“I think the main problem is that here in Italy it’s really hard to find money for culture,” says Catani, who is forced to rely on donations to keep his Artevista project running. “I try to help artists from Urbino to be famous.  And it’s necessary that someone help Artevista to do it.”

In the city known as the “Jewel of the Renaissance,” young artists find inspiration, but little support.

The setting sun gleams off Raphael’s face. He stands 14 feet tall in bronze on a huge granite pedestal at the top of Via del Raffaello, the steepest street in the small Renaissance town of Urbino, his birthplace.  World-renowned as one of the most important painters of the Renaissance, he still influences the city and its current artistic culture.

Down the cobblestone street in Raphael’s restored childhood home, Elvis Spadoni wears a wrinkled shirt and khakis that complement his shaggy hair and gruff beard. It is his first art show, and the house is packed with viewers captivated by this new artist’s traditional charcoal works. Each piece contains an aspect of Spadoni, as well as traces of Raphael and Michelangelo.

Elvis Spadoni – 31

Four years ago, Elvis had never painted or sculpted. But thanks to the local fine arts academy, L’Academia di Belle Arti he has begun to master classical art. He is becoming increasingly well-known in Urbino, but it has been a struggle.

Spadoni was born in Urbino in 1979 and grew up in Casinina, a rural town close by. He was named after the King of Rock and Roll; his father wanted his child to have a unique name and his mother was a Presley fan. Elvis grew up drawing and sketching, but only as a hobby. He studied at a specialized school in Remini that concentrated on the humanities.

“We studied Greek, Latin, philosophy. . .nothing about art, very little,” he says. “But I found this background very, very useful.”

After high school, at 18, Spadoni attended seminary. For the next nine years he studied and served the Catholic Church in Remini and Bologna.

During his time in seminary, he was bombarded by ideas, thoughts that would eventually find themselves on paper.

“I felt that it was my best way to communicate, but only sketch,” he says.

Many of these sketches weren’t serious, but occasionally he produced a drawing that hinted at more than just lead on a page.

By the time Spadoni was 27, he realized he was not happy. Something was missing.

“My fear inside, fear to live life free, make me think that my way was to become priest, to serve the Church,” he says.

Within the course of two days of intense reflection, Spadoni left the seminary.

Elvis tries to include a self-portrait of some kind in all his works.

“We have to be what we are,” he says, referring to the inner turmoil he confronted at the end of his seminary days.  With that realized, he returned to Urbino to start anew.

After passing an application exam, Spadoni began his studies at L’Academia di Belle Arti. The fine arts academy, build around a renovated convent, focuses on traditional arts as well as new and evolving media like video. Students of the academy, who range in age from 19 to more than 50, have close interaction with the professors.

“The contact with the professors is much more immediate, much more personal,” says Sebastiano Guerrera, who has been at the academy for 28 years, as a student, professor of paint, and now as the director.

“I can remember all my students by name. It’s a much more direct personal relationship than somewhere like Rome or another big city,” he says.

Walking around L’Academia di Belle Arti, Spadoni appears completely at home. The hallways boast an impressive array of student work, but around every corner is one of Spadoni’s creations.

“This is mine,” he says, motioning to a small bronze statue of Hercules as he walks down the main hall of the academy.  Hunched over, the mythical hero stares from underneath the mantle of the Nemean lion that he famously hunted and slayed. Spadoni points to Hercules’s right index finger, which is missing its tip. Spadoni’s own finger is cut off at the same point, the result of a childhood accident with the gears of a honey-making machine.

“My favorite subject is myself. I’ve done a lot of self-portraits and even when I paint someone else I give him my likeness,” Spadoni wrote in a short essay about his artwork. “I think my style is narrative. My ambition, my desire is to use the painting, the drawing, the sculpture, to tell something.”

Continuing through the halls of the academy, he points out many more featured pieces along the corridors, until coming to a large canvas.

“This is my first painting for the academy,” he remarks nonchalantly. The image depicts Spadoni waking in a simple modern bedroom, and behind him is a replication of Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam.” The work is titled “Faithful to the Earth” and reflects the simultaneous distance and intimacy of man and God as a simple, everyday reality.

“To be faithful to the earth means to be faithful to the heart,” he says calmly. Spadoni resonates a similar simplicity and humility, yet the passion in his eyes is unmistakable.

“He’s a very diligent student,” says Marie Calajoe, a professor of technical languages at the Academy and the University of Urbino. “Whatever he does, he does it with maximum dedication. It’s as if he was born again and he’s discovering everything for the first time. He’s so open and absorbent in everything that’s around him.”

That diligence won him a six-week scholarship in New York through the Columbus Citizens foundation. He will be studying at various art schools around the state.

“For me, everything happens in New York; it’s like Disneyland,” Spadoni says.

Even though he is beginning to see the fruits of his labor, the past four years at the academy have not been easy for Spadoni. He continually struggles with whether he should work while studying at the Academy. Spadoni relates the burden of having a second job to the biblical story of David receiving Saul’s armor; David could barely move and so decided he could fight better without it.

“Someone give me an armor, I often take this, but in time I understand that I fall if I keep this armor.”

After having several jobs over the years, Spadoni has decided that the best way for him to learn and grow as an artist is to focus solely on his studies.

“The struggle is to follow your path,” Spadoni says. He has begun to forge that path.

Despite leaving the Church four years ago, Elvis says that he feels even more religious now. He sums up his decision as a “faithful experience of salvation.”

“I think God’s will is according to your nature,” he said.

That nature seems to be one of great potential, one that is only beginning in the town of Raphael.

“Urbino is like a big painting,” Spadoni says, of the beauty of the landscape and architecture. Although he derives a lot of his influence from Michelangelo, Spadoni says that as he has gotten older his appreciation for Raphael has grown.  He says “the presence of Raphael” is always around and even though they are centuries apart, the two artists of Urbino have much in common.

“When I draw something like a face and an eye is crooked or the shading isn’t right and I have to do it over again, I think that centuries ago Raphael had the same problems.”

Spadoni is also beginning to see the same successes as his art style continues to evolve.

“I’m very interested in discovering a new way to relate to art languages, really like an old man observing a young man that is living his life.”

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See Grant’s Video “The Barber of Urbino”

The C-1 Autogestita is a student-run political group at the University of Urbino. They take action on a variety of problems, from national, local and University issues.

URBINO, Italy – On a warm Sunday afternoon pedestrians  crowded into the Piazza Repubblica scattered as a small car screeched across the cobblestones, its horn blaring while scruffy students hung from the windows waving flags and screaming slogans.

They were the cheering section for one side of a controversial national election that had citizens across the country deciding three volatile propositions: privatizing the water supply, approving nuclear power, and ending the immunity of politicians like Prime Minister Silvio Burlesconi from prosecution while in office. The issues generated a huge turnout, with the water and power ideas failing miserably, and the politicians being held accountable.

Mattia Trusso wears his C-1 Autogestita shirt for their event. The group hosted a Palestinian rap group to create debate among the guests.

But while it was a big weekend for Italy it was just another day on campus for the screaming students. They were all members of C-1 Autogestita, a student-run political activist group at the University of Urbino.  A close-knit band of 50 young men and women from across the country, they manage to squeeze in studies and parties between what seems to be their main interest: The political issues of the day.

“This lifestyle makes you crazy,” laughed Mattia Trusso, a 26-year-old sociology major, “I think it’s harder than a job sometimes.”

C1 began in 2006, members said, when about 15 politically-minded students boldly invaded the university’s Magistrar Building and squatted in classroom ‘C1’, claiming it as their headquarters.  After a brief eviction, they squatted again, eventually gaining official recognition from the university.

Since then C-1 has grown to about 50 students who make the room their second home. Its walls are covered with posters and banners that tell the group’s history of activism, as well as its current events such as a recent trip to Rome to protest financial cuts to universities. Amenities are utilitarian; in one corner students can rest on couches or take a study break, while in another a coat rack and shelves store belongings.

Andrea Grassia, a 22-year-old Italian language and literature student, said he “did everything” in the C1 room.

C-1 members live like a family, sharing apartments, food and free time. Outside of their political life, they stay close to each other.

“I had fun, I (smoked), I had discussions for hours and hours about politics, I reorganized lessons and every kind of art and showings of pictures and films,” Grassia said. “I also remember sometimes we spent all our nights drinking.”

But the C-1 members have never forgotten their mission. Urbino’s student body hails from across the nation and represents a variety of political opinions, so the room serves as a community space, a headquarters to plan events and a resource for local residents as well as students.

“Lots of people refer to this room to get information, to be informed,” Trusso said. “When that (began to happen) it was the symbol that this room started to be like a house for us.”

The growth in membership is important, Trusso said, because it has allowed C-1 to expand their involvement from just university issues to local and national topics.

A few weeks after the national referendum – a resounding victory for the C-1 positions – the group hosted a Palestinian rap group to publicize the story of Italian activist Vittorio Arrigoni, who was raped and killed in the Gaza Strip by Palestinians in April 2011.

“It was the first time a Palestinian people or organization has raped a person that was well known there to work and to help them,” Trusso said.

C1 members set up a stage for artists then manned stands to hand out information and to sell sausage and eggplant sandwiches to raise funds. But Trusso said the most important part of the evening was to create debate.

“If someone says ‘these crazy guys are bringing a group of terrorist singers,’ I will be happy, because it got them to listen for five minutes,” Trusso said.

And while the group doesn’t represent all opinions on the campus, as  24-year-old sociology student Mattia “Junior” Maurizi pointed out, they can unite the campus on  one burning issue issues:  a voice for the students in the community’s decision-making.

“The city … they don’t look at us as citizens, to have rights,” Maurizi said. “It’s a general trend of C1 — to try to let people understand that we are not a wallet to empty.”

One of C-1’s dreams, he said, is to convince Urbino’s city government to allow one student on the communal council.

“That way, this huge community of inhabitants and students starts to be connected,” Trusso said. “One of the effects of this no dialogue is the patrolling of (weekly) Thursday night with lots of police … because we’ve got five to six kinds of police.”

To the tourists that flock to this beautiful Renaissance city in the central Italian mountains, each day rolls by like a mirror image of the previous one, filled with beauty and art. But Trusso said those visitors don’t see the problems just beneath the surface, which is why these politically-minded students will continue to take a stand on the controversial issues and to inform the campus and community.

“If you don’t work with the society and talk with the people every day, you can be ruled in an easy way like every king has done in the past,” Trusso said. “You don’t have to be ruled, you have to rule.”

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