9/10/11 My Driving: Cause for Concern

We left Gerace through its narrow streets; pay attention to your side mirrors!  In one word, our descent to Lidia and Pasquale’s house was “spirited”.  I sped past a sign, but not fast enough for dad not to notice that it paid homage to a motorcyclist who met his demise on these very curves.  He probably wouldn’t have noticed the sign were it not for the fact that the dead motorcyclist (new word! Morto-cyclist – a dead Italian motorcyclist) shared my mother’s maiden name.  What followed was an extended lecture on how I’m not invincible, how risks eventually catch up with everyone, why I should get rid of my motorcycle, how I should watch the way I drive; on and on the lecture went.  Predictably, this only gave me a reason to drive faster so I could get to Lidia’s and end the verbal assault.

My parents know that these lectures are pointless; they see the smile on my face after I return from a track day on the motorcycle.  For me, a day at the track is more enjoyable than a week on the beach; seriously, it’s even better than Christmas.  When I go to the track baby Jesus cries because he knows that he’s loves by one person less.

We arrived at Lidia’s house and the lecture promptly ended; a lecture that was started by a dead guy that I never even knew.

Johnny smiles, baby Jesus cries

Smiling undeneath my helmet

9/10/11 Gerace: It’s a Small World

We left Lidia’s house and drove as short distance to Gerace, a picturesque town perched on a hilltop.  The town is a beacon, visible throughout the area.  During the times before cars were in widespread use, Gerace was a mirage, beautiful to see from a distance, but not easy to get to.  One would wonder if it was actually real.  The idea still resonates with the older generation who would say “You went all the way to Gerace?” even though it’s only a fifteen minute drive.



Gerace in the distance.  In reality, not that far away



Mom was a little disoriented and didn’t know where to find her cousin Silvana, who really isn’t a cousin, but the sister of my mother’s cousin’s wife, which makes Silvana practically a stranger as far a relatives go; but not here, where family is everything and everybody is family.  After a couple of wrong turns down the narrow twisting alleys, mom stopped to ask someone if he knew where to find Silvana the hairdresser.  “Certo signora” (of course madam) he said before offering us some imprecise directions to the town square.  Becoming disoriented on the streets yet again, my mother asked a second person if they knew where to find Silvana.  Of course they did; and five minutes later my mom walked into Parruchiera (Hairdresser) Silvana’s shop; people here tend to be known primarily by their profession.  Recognition was instant and the same scene played out one more time: a prolonged hug, tears of joy…you’d have to be a heartless bastard to not enjoy this.



Parruchiera Silvana’s shop is located right next door to her husband’s shop: Barbiere Michele “Michael the barber).  Cute, no?  Mom wondered aloud if Silvana and Michele could knock the wall and join their two establishments.  Obviously, my mother’s joy had caused her to lose here senses because anybody who knows anything about knows that women complain to their hairdressers about their husbands and men complain to their barbers about women.  With scissors readily at hand, combining the two in a small town could be a dangerous proposition.  Hairdressers and barbers, never the two shall meet.  My preference has always been barbershop largely owing to my persistent suspicion of men who have a hairstylist.



Barbiere Michele



Silvana and Michele invited us for a drink at the bar in the main piazza, their also invited their daughter in law to join us, she simply walked away from her dry cleaning business leaving the door open.  She said that everybody knows everybody in this town and she wasn’t worried.  Then again, who’s going to steal used clothing.  Judging by the contents of the shop, she does big business in preserving baptism gowns.



Parruchiera Silvana



Turning a corner, I saw both my parents jump at exactly the same moment.  Thankfully, someone from my mother’s past wasn’t coming to settle an old family dispute; it was her cousin Peter from Indiana along with his wife Teresa and son Joe.  We had no idea they would be travelling here and to run into them was a surprise to say the least.  With loud greetings and shouts of happiness alternating between English and Italian, the locals in the piazza were understandably curious.  Apparently nobody is allowed to have fun in their town without prior approval.  Running into cousins by chance across an ocean and in the middle of nowhere…proof that the world is smaller than you think.



L to R Top: me, mom, dad, Silvana, the daughter-in-law (I didnt write her name down!)
L to R bottom: Peter, Teresa, Michele, Joe

 



Local who was unimpressed with fun loving foreigners

9/10/11 Emilia and Lidia: Tears of Joy

Our stay in Calabria was going to be a hectic one; in Locri, everyone is a “cousin” or at the very least a “paesana” (friend by virtue of being from the same place).  While not obligatory, my mother would have to visit as many people as possible to avoid the sin of the “brutta figura” (bad impression).  This meant that my father and I would have to join her in order to avoid making a similar bad impression.  The plan was to visit three families on my mom’s “most liked/essential” list and then let everything else fall into place.

And so we found ourselves visiting with Emilia and Lidia.  Emilia is my mother’s cousin, Lidia is Emilia’s daughter.  If you dropped me in the middle of a strange town anywhere in the world and placed Emilia nearby, I’d know she was a relative at first glance; her resemblance to her sister Cristina who lives in Canada is that strong.

An emotional hello for mom and Emilia

They were so happy to see each other, Emilia and my mom; I would have loved to have taken a picture but my family here doesn’t know me at all and are not familiar with my favourite photography subjects: pure emotion, often expressed through tears.  Pure emotion, it’s for that reason that I like taking pictures of crying children.  Initially my family thought it was cruel, but then they began to recognize the purity of the emotions and they started to enjoy the photos.  It’s gotten to the point that my sisters-in-law will ask me to get my camera if the children are crying.

The moment for Emilia and my mother was even more special since Emilia has entered the early stages of alzheimer’s disease.  When I introduced myself, she greeted me as “Palma”, one of her alter egos, which she sometimes does when meeting strangers,  But mom is no stranger to Emilia, her wide smile and close contact with mom was the stuff of recognition, comfort and care.

Lidia invited us back for lunch when the rest of her family would be there.  We accepted, but first mom wanted to go to Gerace, a small town in the hills, to visit another “cousin”…I would have to get used to this.

Lidia

***
Update from mom: "Emilia, just like me, has two names although we never knew about it.  On her passport and birth certificate she goes by Palma; a name she has never used"

9/09/11 Arrival at Maria’s

I had become used to not finding our destinations on the first or second try.  In the true Italian way many addresses are incomplete to say the least.  Mom and dad were insistent that we’d be able to find most places by memory.  This resulted in many u-turns on narrow roads where the driving style is more kamikaze than Young Drivers of Italia.

Maria, my mother’s cousin, gave us a royal welcome and proceeded to force feed us just as my mom said she would.  Maria is a big woman with a big heart, a big voice, big gestures and big love for my mother.  They grew up under similar difficult circumstances and the attachment remains.  After taking our bags from the car and getting settled into one of the apartments that Maria and her husband Rocco rent out for the summer, we took a tour of the property where I picked pomegranates, prickly pears (fichi d’India), blackberries, and the odd cucumber since the ones in my garden back home are most certainly finished.  Ah, cucumbers.  I hardly knew thee (two years in a row).  I could get used to this picking and grazing.  For a guy who loves his garden, Maria’s back yard was a paradise.  Yet it was in stark contrast to the rest of Locri; more on that later.

Speaking of stark contrasts, our arrival in Calabria signalled the switch to a different dialect.  It’s difficult to appreciate how different they are until you experience them.  And while both my parents speak Italian, they are both more comfortable with their regional dialects; Furlan for my father, Calabrese for my mother.  However; the advantage goes to my mother since she also speaks my father’s dialect quite well, a skill which has helped her over the years when northerners attempt to keep secrets or gossip in her presence.  Silly Friulani, mom has you in the palm of her hand.

Example of the differences in dialects:

Verb – prendere (to take)

Second person singular (you take)

Italian – Prendi – pronounced “pren-dee”
Calabrese – Pigghi – pronounced “pid-yee”
Furlan – Chappis – pronounced “cha-piece”

9/09/11 Mom sees the sea, but remembers it from a distance

Mom caught a glimpse of the sea from the highway, a bright blue sea that looked so inviting.  Then she made a shocking admission, even though she had lived a stone’s throw from it, she very rarely went to the beach because she was told that that’s where bad people hung out…people with loose morals.  Mom’s brothers, who probably did their fair share of hanging out at the beach, would only permit and her cousins to go to the area of the sea where it met the river since it wasn’t technically “the beach”.

“Wait a second” I said.  “We have pictures of dad at the beach when he was younger.  What’s so immoral about the beach?”  Mom only said that her brothers forbade it, and back then she was in no position to challenge them.  She remembers going there with them and seeing women who, in an attempt to be modest, would go into the water with their white sundresses on completely oblivious to the fact that you could see “everything” when they got out; a 1950’s version of a wet t-shirt contest.

Dad had his own memory of the beach.  He was about eighteen and he and some friends had driven to Lignano on the Adriatic coast to spend the day full of sun, sand and surf.  Dad caught the eye of some older German woman who approached his and asked him if he could teach her daughter to swim.  Dad claims that he didn’t indulge the woman’s request for fear of two things: dad doesn’t exactly know how to swim and probably would have drowned the poor girl; and, dad was not keen on teaching a teenage girl how to swim in front of her mother.  What would happen if dad touched the girl in the wrong place…he didn’t want to experience the fury of a German mother.

9/09/11 Touching 165

I had my first solid night of sleep in that hotel room in Aquila.  I didn’t have to deal with ancient mattresses, creaking bed frames, vicious mosquitoes, whirring fans, ticking clocks, highway noise, tractor sounds; or loud neighbours.  It was six hours of pure air-conditioned bliss.

We left Aquila at 8:00 AM with a long drive ahead of us to the south; Locri, Reggio Calabria to be precise.  With stops, we figured it would be nine hours.  Pedal to the floor, I tried to maintain 135 km/h just to keep it interesting.   Mom wanted to take a route that hugged the coast, but dad and I settled on a different route; one that avoided the hated city of Napoli (Naples) and was more efficient.  To be clear and honest, Napoli is the armpit of Italy.  Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise has either never been there or is blind.  Case in point: my mom.  She loves Napoli and insists that it is a beautiful city.  Fact #1: my mom is not blind.  Fact #2: my mom has never been to Napoli.  Mom’s love of Napoli comes from the scenes depicted in movies and described in music from the fifties that spoke of a kinder gentler city, a centre of art and culture.

Unfortunately, the Napoli of today is a crime ridden cesspool; a mafia controlled ghetto, certain parts of which can terrify you when the sun goes down.  We’re talking about a city that is so mismanaged that the residents routinely burn garbage in the streets because nobody comes to pick it up.  Years ago when for six months I lived on an Island off the coast of Napoli, we spent the day with my ex’s cousin who was studying on the mainland.  As we prepared to take the ferry back to the island, he asked us if we would walk him back to his apartment.  Although Raffaele was a tough guy who was built like a tank…correction…built like a fuckin’ tank, even he had his reservations about his safety there.  In the ten years that has passed since then, it could have only gotten worse.

Even though we managed to avoid Napoli, the change in the atmosphere as you headed any point south of there was palpable.  Garbage littered the streets; graffiti coloured the overpasses.  Spray paint seems to be the only way that youth from these parts know how to express their love.  Love immortalized on a highway overpass… a far cry from the poetry mom seems to think every young man here writes for the object of his affection.  Some areas we passed though could best be summed up in a word: neglected.

The South is also where the aggressive street side vendors begin to appear.   There must have been a lockdown on these guys because I remember them being worse.  Socks, ties, tissues, counterfeit CDs and DVDs, key chains.  If it’s easy to carry, they sell it.

"Distrust abusive retailers..."
The sign says it all.

At our last rest stop on the busy highway the building’s wall was covered with graffiti.  “Cosenza merda” (Cosenza is shit); the regional rivalries are strong; emblazoned on the side of a highway rest stop for all to see.

COSENZA MERDA

The drive was wearing on me; the drone of the engine was pure monotony.  It was time to spice things up.  On an impossibly long and straight stretch of road (for here anyway), two Alfa Romeos passed me at a pretty good clip.  I gave chase.  The needle climbed, all 1600 CCs of Ford Motors engineering were summoned to duty.  As we passed 160 km/h mom became visibly nervous: “Carlo…control your son!”  I let off as we hit 165 km/h, and as I glanced to my right I could see a little bit of a smile on dad.  He probably would have liked to have seen 170.

9/08/11 Random Photos and Video #12





The iconic Fiat 500 (Cinquecento)

Video - "Eye of the Tiger" in Aquila: it's going to take more than a motivational song to rebuild this city

Hot pepper bouquet for Aurora



The female Spock
Oddly attractive




Cigarette machine line up



Window bracing



First Person Shooter



Almost 3 years after the quake, the National Guard remains on site

9/08/11 – Party in the Ghost Town

I saw my parents to their hotel room, dropped off my stuff and quickly made my way back into the centre of the destruction, camera in hand.  In one of the town squares a crowd had gathered, a large crowd.  They seemed to be mostly students, but on closer inspection, there was really a cross section of ages.  Open air drinking has a way of making any street party seem good and people were consuming in abundance.  I got a few good pictures but the crowd was simply too thick to make a serious go of it.  Finishing my double gin and tonic, a drink which isn’t quite as enjoyable as it used to be since I created passion fruit ginses and tonicses, I began to explore the most heavily damaged parts of the city.  The narrow streets and alleys were completely abandoned with chains and padlocks on each door to keep the unwanted out.  No wonder this has become a party town, there were no neighbours left to complain about the noise; it was like living next to a cemetery.

Returning back to the action, I met Aurora after she asked me to send her the picture I had taken of her and her friend.  She said it wasn’t always as wild as this, but school was starting on Monday and this was essentially the last weekend of the summer.  She and her family lived on the outskirts of the city and weren’t affected personally by the quake; but many of her friends and family had moved away.

I took one final walk down some narrow streets with only silence and moonlight to guide my way.  I was truly in a ghost town.

9/08/11 Seeing for Ourselves

We left Renzo to his business for a few hours to walk through the city, grab a bite to eat and find a place to stay for the evening.  Walking through the narrow streets you wouldn’t know there was a problem as long as you kept your head down.  Raise your gaze just slightly and you immediately realize that although the streets are clear of rubble, there are hardly any people about and the vast majority of the buildings are heavily braced to keep them from falling in on themselves.  Look through the large cracks in the walls and the level of destruction becomes even clearer; roofs and floors have collapsed leaving only cracked and weakened outside walls.

We arrived at what remained of Renzo’s church…sometimes you need to see it for yourself.



Renzo's home days after the earthquake
Photo by Emanuele Chiocchio



I was last here twenty three years ago.  My father had taken my brother David and me to Italy for a couple of weeks; our first trip there.  I don’t remember a lot about that trip, only that we visited many churches and that my brother and I played a lot of basketball at my zia Luciana’s house while dad caught up with his sisters and his mother.  Oh, and then there’s the part about me almost crashing our rental car in my zia’s driveway when I thought it was a good idea to move it.  I could have used that “hill holder” feature they now offer to people who have no clue how to drive a manual transmission.

We took a break from the cornfields of Friuli to visit Renzo in Aquila, spending three or four days in the church’s residence.  I remember the food being very good since all the old ladies in town wanted to feed Renzo and his guests.  I was thirteen years old and it was the first time I bought alcohol on my own; a beer and a glass of wine to drink while my brother and I watched a movie projected on an outdoor screen in the town square.  Dad and Renzo were at the church; my brother and I were with Renzo’s nephew.  I can’t recall his name, but I do know that he was a true shit disturber.  He convinced my brother to ask my dad what “figa” was (a feline description of a woman’s parts).  I can’t remember what dad’s answer was or if there even was an answer, but both dad and Renzo knew who the instigator was.

I remember serving mass as an altar boy on the Sunday of our visit, not really understanding the words and taking visual cues from Renzo.  I remember sneaking into the upper levels of the church, the long forgotten dusty rooms near the dome that were just begging to be explored by a curious young boy.  I don’t recall seeing any bodies.

All of these memories came rushing back all at once when I saw what remained of the church, what remained of Renzo’s life.  Saddening to say the very least.  But what I remembered most was a leather bound journal that Renzo gave to me the day we left back in ’89.  He explained to me how important it was to capture my thoughts, to record my observations.  Even though I only followed through for a short time back then, it was a philosophy that stuck with me.  The gift that Renzo gave me that day was more than a book, much more.  In a small way it’s why I’m writing today longhand in my quasi legible scrawl under shade of a walnut tree in the sun of Calabria.

The scaffolding and tarps mask the damage

While walking away from the church we heard “Carlo! Graziella!” from behind us and turned to see don Stefano, Renzo’s assistant.  He asked if we’d like to take a look inside.  Unlocking a padlock that any two bit criminal could knock off the door with one of the stones readily at hand, don Stefano opened the doors to reveal a complicated lattice of polycarbonate beams that braced what remained of the structure.  Wind swept through and the tarps covering the scaffolding fluttered.  My parents talked with don Stefano while I walked around and took photos.  But the sun had already set and the light was fading fast.  We took our leave.

No confessions shall be heard here

Only a sliver remains of the dome

The seats behind what used to be the altar



The organ has seen better days

 Returning to Renzo’s apartment later on to say our farewells we found him sitting alone in the kitchen, don Stefano having retired to his room for the night.  He didn’t want us to go, it was clear that he appreciated the company, even if it was just to sit in silence.  In some way, merely being in the presence of those close to you (past or present) has a soothing effect.

We exited using the dark staircase.  The elevator had previously proven to be a shaky nerve racking experience.