Part 2: La Lamparata: A Night to Remember in Cilento's Coastal Paradise
Anchovy Fishing and Southern Italian Hospitality in Marina di Camerota
You can find bliss hiking and swimming along the southern edge of Cilento, but the truly unforgettable experience is La Lamparata: witnessing the nighttime anchovy fishing tradition. It was conceived for tourists but is not as contrived as the “pizza and gelato” cooking classes in every Italian city. It’s an invitation to participate in the defining experience of the southern Italian coast, which will persist for hundreds of more years because there’s no reason for it ever to stop.
To do La Lamparata, staying in Marina di Camerota is best. Wandering around the village center, I noticed handwritten signs advertising rooms for rent in nearly every window. I thought this town must live only for the summer, but more interesting things revealed themselves.
Underneath archways in the village center are black-and-white photographs of women weaving ropey wild herbs into fish nets. These images offer a glimpse into the lives of those who made a pact with the sea to survive. Fishing nets were draped across a palazzo, and fresh anchovies were on every menu.
Then there’s the unusual fact that Spanish is the mother tongue of many locals. After World War II, many men left Marina di Camerota for Venezuela, then known as Saudi Venezuela, due to the oil boom. Many who left Marina di Camerota returned with their fortunes and built up the town. Streets have Spanish names, and there are several monuments to Simon Bolivar. When Venezuela tumbled into political chaos in 2014, the children and grandchildren of the emigrants began arriving in Marina di Camerota to start a new life in the old place.
Jessica and I met Felix early in the morning in his company's booth, Cilento Blu. We took their group boat tour through spectacular coves to the Baia degli Infreschi, with over a dozen Italian families enjoying the long weekend. Few wanted to swim in the cold water, but most of the non-Italians on board did.
“Tedeschi (Germans),” whispered a Calabrese woman, jutting her chin out toward the swimmers.
When the boat returned, we sat by the beach eating a mountain of razor clams that were so fresh they tasted like they had been doused in butter. I asked the waiter to be sure, and he looked at me like I had just asked if the Earth was flat. I remembered that parable about the millionaire who tries to convince a Mexican fisherman to make more money to buy a larger boat, then hire a crew, to make more money to build another boat…but really, the fisherman is already living the dream, playing his guitar all day by the sea. Swap the guitar for razor clams, and I’m in.
At 8:30 pm, we returned to the marina where Felix’s daughter, Sara, who might be an actual living mermaid, welcomed us onto the same boat along with 48 tourists from Modena. We surged into the wine-dark sea, my eyes slowly adjusting to the black, then widening to take in the stars undisturbed by skyglow. Then the small boat carrying the spotlight, la lampara, appeared. The fishing boat, Felix aboard, was five hundred or so meters away, ready to trap the light-dazzled anchovies with nets they managed by hand.
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Our boat circled and approached to see what was in the nets. Ernest Hemingway must have seen fishermen at work just like this when he stayed in Cilento. The sight of them working at night made them appear like figures from a Caravaggio canvas.
As our boat began to pull away, Sara advised us to roll up our pants, as we’d soon be anchoring in the Baia degli Infreschi, and the boat could not go right up to the beach. The northern Italians screamed as they stepped into the cold water, but the waft of food cooking quickly warmed us. Sara’s sister and other relatives and friends were stirring a tomato sauce with chunks of tuna and bright capers and adding the penne to pots of boiling salted water. A speaker played traditional Southern Italian music as we dried our feet and lined up at the buffet. Shortly after, the fishing boat came in, and the fisherman unloaded the anchovies and got straight to work cleaning them.
It’s hard to describe the rest of the night in any linear way: People dancing with their elbows linked, the northern Italians watching in horror when I ate a raw calamari that a fisherman handed me, the white and gray stones of the beach, squeezing lemon over the just-fried anchovies. I’ll call it a fever dream because the next time I have a fever, I will summon these scenes to cheer myself up and remember what it feels like to be fully alive and present.
American hospitality offers an experience of “Let me get you whatever you want as quickly as possible.” Instead, Italian hospitality says, “Let me share with you the best of how we do it here.” La Lamparata is the perfect illustration.
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I did this one summer in Cetara. It is such a wonderful experience!
H E A V E N ! ! ! ! !!!!!