Italy: Day 6 - Sabbath Day Throwback

Our first Sunday in Italy began with checking on our still-drying clothes and then heading to the closest pastry shop. As a lover of breakfast cereal (especially Frosted Flakes, the true Breakfast of Champions), I loved having cream-filled Italian goodness to kick off each day. And this morning's purchased treats were more of the same.

Next up, we needed to find our way across town to church and we needed to track down a taxi to get there. But hey, it was Sunday morning so the streets were pretty quiet. Really quiet. I'm guessing all of Bari was out on the town deep into Saturday night and even Sunday morning, like we were. We didn't get to bed until 1 a.m. We asked someone at the pastry shop and they told us to leave Bari Vecchia and go to a particular piazza where a taxi was often found. We walked that way and sure enough, there sat a taxi driver with no clients in sight. Ah yes, the blessings of choosing to attend church when you're on vacation.

We drove through the city, including past what looked like a large-scale running race, until we eventually turned left onto a quiet street and there it was - Via Cancello Rotto 30. I knew it the second that I saw it. This was the same church in the same location where I attended my first sabbath day worship service in Italy as a fresh-from-the-U.S. missionary in the summer of 1982. The landscaping was different but it was the same building, previously a sports club later converted to a gathering place for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. 

Since we arrived about 45 minutes before services were to begin, we took a few photos and then I made an immediate beeline around to the back of the building. Back in the day, we used to invite people we were teaching to church. Once inside, we would talk about Jesus Christ and various gospel principles and then change into athletic apparel, grab some rackets and go out back to play tennis. The court was immediately behind the church and surrounded on the other three sides by apartment buildings. As we would play, even if we weren't very good, people would often come out on their balconies to watch and even cheer or taunt. While the paint had faded and the tennis court had been turned into a small soccer "field" surrounded on all sides and even above by netting, it was easy to tell this was the same place. 

Memories from four decades ago flooded back. Among them was playing against Anziano Richard Hopkins, my companion from the Missionary Training Center, whose first assigned Italian city was also Bari, although he lived across town in a different apartment. He was a tennis player in high school so when we played, he pretty much toyed with me but it was fun to try to win a point now and then.

And then there was Franco Agatiello. Franco was a teenager just a couple of years younger than me with a big heart and always sporting a smile on his face. He had great feet, as you'd expect a kid to have who was growing up in such a soccer-crazed nation. But as for his tennis skills, let's just say I had the advantage in this matchup. Off the court, Franco was searching for some direction in his life. We had many teaching/tennis dates and he chose to become baptized in the basement font of that church building. It was one of the highlights of my missionary service. 

I had found a Franco from Bari with the same last name on Facebook before the trip but never heard from him despite sending a couple of messages. After I got to Bari, I also tracked down a phone number from Ron's friends but he didn't respond there either. I'm not sure if both of those contained outdated contact information but I was a little sad it didn't work out.

Stepping into the building was like stepping back in time. It didn't look the same since it had received some attractive updates over the years but it was definitely a throwback. We went downstairs, checked out the classrooms and the font. 

The same font where I baptized Franco in 1982

Upstairs, the main room or chapel was as spacious as before. One by one, people greeted us as they arrived and soon there was a buzz. Ron shared photos with some long-standing members who attended when we were missionaries. Vito showed up and spread the news about some former missionaries who had returned. The young full-time sister missionaries were from California and Portugal, and were excited to learn we had once served in Bari. They brought headphones for Lori and April, sat a few rows in front of us and one of them translated words spoken over the pulpit so they could follow along.

The revamped chapel before everyone arrived

Just before the meeting started, I'd said a silent prayer asking that I would be able to understand what was said from the pulpit so I could better enjoy the service. The man who conducted welcomed all in attendance including "Anziano Smith and Anziano...," "Anziano Holyoak," said Vito from the congregation. He also welcomed our wives. 

It was wonderful to hear prayers in Italian and especially to sing hymns in Italian again. The words flowed surprisingly easy. Of course singing along with a congregation has that effect but it sure felt good. The first talk was given by a young woman who had previously served a mission. Either she spoke really clearly or I understood or both. She was followed by a young full-time American missionary. His address, too, was easy to understand. I found myself feeling emotional, in a happy kind of way, as we stood together as a congregation and sang "Onward Christian Soldiers."

It was just amazing to be back in Italy walking in the same footsteps I'd previously tread and with posterity and friends of those I knew 40 years earlier. When I was a missionary, there was one branch in the entire city as part of a district but now there were two Bari wards meeting in two different locations as part of  the Puglia Italy Stake. Toward the end of the meeting, Bishop Gallone, son of parents who attended church there when I was a missionary, shared a few words. He spoke about the importance of missionaries and missionary work as, unlike in America, Italian membership in the church only went back a few generations, if that. He emphasized the need for missionary work to continue. He pointed out how Marco, Vito, the stake patriarch who was from that ward but in attendance in a different ward that day, and others in current leadership positions were products of missionary work. He spoke glowingly about pioneer missionaries for their diligence, faith and good works, mentioning Ron and me by name. Then he read a couple of passages from the Doctrine & Covenants 18:15-16: And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentence unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father! And now, if you joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you bring many souls unto me.

By now, tears were flowing down my cheeks and weren't stopping. Honestly, I can't remember the last time that happened. It was so moving and such an uplifting spiritual experience. It's hard to express but I felt tremendous gratitude to be back with this Italian people that I loved so much. I glanced at Ron. With April on one side and Vito on the other, he, too, was teary-eyed. 

We spent the next hour attending Sunday School. Again, I was able to understand just about every word spoken, and even without my brain having to translate the words from Italian into English. It just came naturally, pretty much like back in my fluent days as a young missionary. 

After the meetings, we remained to talk with member after member. Ron showed more photos on his phone when he was a young missionary and even a few when we served together. The man who conducted the meeting asked me when I served in Bari. After answering him, he said, "Yes, I was here. I was a toddler running around in the chapel." Sure enough, I remembered the young children from back in the day. They were a loud and energetic bunch. I also had the opportunity to chat with Bishop Gallone. I thanked him for his kind words and feelings and gave him a big hug. What a wonderful sabbath day!

We stayed until most everyone left the church and then grabbed a taxi back to Bari Vecchia. Our next quest was to find a dry place to sit inside and enjoy lunch as the rain fell just outside. The Orecchietteria San Nicola Tipicita Pugliesi checked that box. We were welcomed inside for a multi-course lunch. We began with a couple of appetizers - ham and burrata cheese as well as stuffed muscles. I'd never choose muscles or really any seafood (except for clam chowder) but it wasn't bad. In fact, it was pretty good but really salty. I followed that up with orrichiette pasta and a meat roll. It was an enjoyable lunch and the four of us sharing it together made it even better. 

When the time came to head out, I motioned to our server that we wanted two separate bills by holding two fingers up - my index and little fingers. The woman immediately started to laugh. I didn't think about it beforehand but I knew immediately what I'd done. The Italian word for making such a symbol with your hand is "cornuto," or in other words, it's like saying, "Your spouse is cheating on you." I tried to explain that's the symbol you make when you're notifying your baseball teammates that you have two outs. Still, the damage was done. Well, not exactly damage since she laughingly rolled with the punches. I apologized a couple of times and she basically said, "I'm not cornuto. Not yet anyway." Wow, it's bad enough to have such an exchange but to do so just a few hours after attending church, and on a Sunday no less? NO NO MARCO! (Funny side note: to say Grandpa Mark in Italian, you'd say "Nono Marco." When Lori found that out, she must've said that to me dozens of times the rest of our time in Italy and even after we got home. I kinda like it.) And you know what? After all that hassle, our server still only brought us one combined bill.

Grabbing a photo with my favorite server

Now, we needed something sweet. We craved it but it was nowhere to be found since it was now between 1 p.m. and 4 p.m., when the country went into shutdown mode. We followed suit by returning to the apartment to take a nap. After we got up, we resumed the search by walking out of Bari Vecchia into the pedestrian shopping district. Sure enough, it wasn't very long until we found a great little pasticceria where we made up for lost time with stuffed pastries, cannoli and a small cheesecake made for four. 

Since it was also a gelateria, I had to get a (you know it's coming) my second cup of lemon gelato in Bari was just as good as the first the day before. It was a beautiful evening as we joined scores of Italians out for a stroll.  

Now a must-visit place on my list before we ever got to Italy was the Bari pizzeria where I was first introduced to panzerotti (deep-fried calzone). It was called Cosimo and located behind the prison. Google showed it was still there but it was really out of the way so we returned to Bari Vecchia to look for a place to eat. We made our way down a winding alley and popped out into a small piazza where we saw Pizzeria di Cosimo. What? Cosimo?! I asked a girl behind the counter if she and her family were the same or related to the business behind the prison. She said they had the same name but were not related. 

I ordered the perfect Italian meal - an arancino (rice ball), panzerotto and a Fanta aranciata. It was top notch. You know how you hear a song from your past and a memory immediately pops into your head? Well, same goes for taste. One bite into my panzerotto and the flavor from 40 years earlier came back. Now, I have made panzerotti (or what I call pizza bombs) a lot over the years and they 're good but these, the Italian originals, were oh so much better. No doubt about it, I was in my happy place.

After dinner, we walked it off in Bari Vecchia and along Lungomare. We returned to our apartment, purchased tickets for the next leg of our trip pon Monday, packed and hit the sack. Tomorrow would be another blast from the past as we would visit a village unlike any other anywhere in the world.