Orange you glad we came?

Salerno was my first and, as sometimes happens, fourth city on my mission. Nestled just south of Naples along the southern end of the Amalfi Coast, reputedly one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world. It was one of my favorite cities for several reasons.

The allies landed here during WWII and then slugged it up north where they had a major battle at Monte Casino where Germans had set up their stronghold in a Benedictine Monastery high on a hill overlooking the town of Casino. The battle was one of the bloodiest and most decisive battles in WWII and with the fall of Monte Casino, the road to Rome was open.

For some reason, I confused the old dilapidated ruins of a monastery high on a hill overlooking Salerno with the famed battle site located some 100 kilometers to the north.

In my defense, I blame a lack of interest in World History and that Italians actually believe that the grotto and manger wherein Christ was born was spirited away from Jerusalem by angels one medieval night and is now located in the town of Assisi Italy (Of St. Francis fame). Apparently the lead in the Italian water system causes these types of geographical delusions.

The fact that St. Francis' birthplace and the birthplace of our Lord is now located within a five minute walk of each other should be viewed as a bona fide miracle and we should not fall prey to the cynical assumption that this is just a thirteenth century marketing ploy. (On your way out, don't forget to take a look at our beautiful place mats which feature St. Francis' "Lord, make me an instrument of they peace" prayer in gold leaf on one side with the Holy Family manger scene recreated in stunning 3D reality on the other side....if you keep your left eye open while rapidly blinking your right, you'll see Baby Jesus wink at you)...now, back to our story.

Anyway, when I told my companion that I was certain that the run-down monastery on the highest hill overlooking Salerno was the famed WWII battle site, we made plans to climb the hill and visit it on the very next P-Day.

We started our climb about ten in the morning under a blazing August Mediterranean sun. It soon became apparent to both of us that the hill was a lot higher than we had anticipated,a lot steeper than we had anticipated, and that we should have brought along some water for the climb.

The road to the monastery wasn't anything you'd drive a car up....or even a jeep if it had a nice paint job. It was more of a goat path, complete with the occasional goat bleating out protests against out intrusion into their domain. Both my companion and I were tired, hot, thirsty, and sweaty and I suspect that if either of us hinted at wanting to go back without making it to the top, we'd have turned around immediately...but neither of us wanted to be the weenie and so we soldiered on.

About fifty yards from the top, we stopped to rest on a rock and catch our breath. That was when we discovered that the monastery which we had thought was abandoned was, in fact, inhabited. A party of three monks came down from the top of the hill towards us. They had witnessed our climb, which took the better part of an hour, saw that we had foolishly forgot to bring liquid refreshment, and were coming down to greet us with a couple of bottles of wine.

In Italy, EVERYONE drinks wine...and many Italians view a refusal of offered wine as an insult akin to spitting on their flag. It doesn't matter how much you protest that it is against your religion, they will try every ploy up to and including wrestling you to the ground, forcing open your mouth, and pouring the stuff down your throat.

The monks came up to us and introduced themselves. One of them told us that he was the prior of the small cell of monks that was living in and restoring the old monastery. When he offered us the wine he had brought to us, we politely refused, telling him that we were missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and that drinking wine was against our religion.

Given the Italian's sensitive feelings about their wine and the fact that we were Mormon missionaries on Italian soil, we fully expected to be shown the way back down the mountain. Instead, the prior inclined his head and whispered something to one of the other monks who went running back up to the monastery with the two bottles of wine.

The prior then invited us to lunch and asked us to sit and rest ourselves on a large rock overlooking the Bay of Salerno until we were refreshed and could continue our journey. After about two minutes, the monk that had left came hurrying back with a couple of cups and a pitcher of the coolest, sweetest spring water I had ever tasted.

When we got to the monastery, we saw that a table had been set up in the courtyard and the rest of the monks, about twenty in all, were busy setting up a simple, rustic meal of freshly baked bread, goat cheese, tomatoes, olives, vinegar, appricots and oranges, all made there in the monastery by the monks that now waited on us hand and foot. We were told several times how it was a pity that we could not drink wine which was also made there and, reportedly, quite wonderful.

Towards the end of the meal, the prior again bent his head and whispered something to the monk who had brought us the pitcher of water and sent him scurrying off on yet another errand. When he returned, he was holding two dusty bottles. We thought that we were, again, going to have to refuse an offering of wine when the dust was blown off and we discovered that what was being offered to us was aranciata...simple orange soda. Aranciata is the second favorite drink in Italy right after wine and coffee. When the rest of the monks at the table saw the bottles, they hastily drained the wine from their glasses in anticipation of the treat. There was just enough for a small glass of orange soda for each of us.

As we sat around the table and talked, there was no arguing over religion. Instead, we openly envied each other. My companion and I envied the amount of time afforded to the monks for study and prayer while they openly envied the fact that we were actively involved in bringing souls to Christ.

The hour was late and we had to be back and dressed in white shites and ties before 5:00 in the evening and so, after much hand-shaking, hugging, and a little more cheek-kissing than either my companion and I were comfortable with, we said our goodbyes.

As I related that story to our branch president, he told me that the monks on the hill were very poor and that they normally only ate very poor fare. "That meal they gave you was probably like their Christmas feast...and those two bottles of aranciata were probably donated and saved for a special occasion. They usually only eat what they grow or make and only come into town only twice a year and what little money they have is spent on building supplies"

The very next P-day, my companion and I and the two other missionaries that served in Salerno with us trudged up the hill to the monastery once more. The climb took a little longer this time because each of us were weighed down with shopping bags full of cheese, bread, olives, vinegar..and orange soda...lots of orange soda.

We probably could have brought one or two bottles more but we just had to have room in the bags for twenty bars of chocolate.