Snakes were nowhere to be found on the menus, but figure large in tradition here, as I discovered in Cocullo, where locals had gathered them from the nearby forests in preparation for the Procession of the San Domenico Snake Handlers. When a yellow-toothed signor handed me a five-foot long gold and black mottled snake from the bundle he held in his arms (assuring me it was defanged), I let the slithery creature wind around my arm. My only experience feeling snakeskin before this was running my hands over wallets and shoes in fancy department stores. But this creature was warm and smooth, and as it slowly moved over me, I got a strange calm sense of connection to the mysterious nature of this animal that’s been the center of ritual here since pagan times.
Over the years, Cocullo’s ceremony that protects against snakebites has been transformed to a Catholic rite, with thousands flocking here in May to see a statue of San Domenico covered with live snakes paraded through the town.
Abruzzo’s musical legacy is multi-layered, from zampognari performing pastoral tunes played on bagpipes made of sheep’s bladders, to classical opera, which I found in Ortona, home to the Istituo Nazionale Tostiano, one of the world’s most famous music schools. At the town’s Renaissance Palazzo Corvo, I wasn’t the only woman in the audience getting weak in the knees as a handsome soloist sang, “A Vucchella,” with lyrics that translate to: “Give me a little kiss, Give it to me, Cannetella! Give it to me or I will take it!”
“The people here have a good balance—the warmth of the south and the reserve of the north,” my traveling pal Giovanni said, as we poked around stores in Castelli, where the craft of ceramic making that’s been around since the 17th century is still going strong. Shopkeepers displaying impressive wares of painted plates, vases, and plaques gave us simple buon giornos, were helpful, but never pushy—allowing us to browse without pouncing to make sales.
In Castelli’s piazza, surrounded by the snow-capped Gran Sasso, a kiln burning beech wood scented the mountain air with a warm spicy aroma. I looked over the shoulder of a signorina seated near the fire, painting a plate. With delicate brushstrokes, she transformed a white dish into a landscape of sage grass, pale blue sky, and a golden farmhouse. Gracefully following tradition, she was, in her own way, expressing the quiet magic of Abruzzo.
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