9/12/11 Ensuring a Good Night's Sleep - Calabrese Style

Last night was another night with little to no sleep.  My mattress was thin and peaked in the middle so sleeping on either side of the peak brought on a sensation of falling off either side of the bed.  I used a diagonal technique which made it feel as though my legs and torso were being pulled in opposite directions.  I missed my bed; at least it has its lumps in the right places.

Worse still was that if I did manage to get some sleep it was disturbed by any number of loud noises, but mainly trucks driving on the pot holed street or the rooster crowing in the morning.  Or should I say roosters, since you could hear many of them all throughout the valley.

I must have looked rough this morning or at least rough enough for Maria to mention how exhausted I looked during breakfast.  “Were the roosters bothering you?” she asked.  I nodded slightly, saying nothing.  “Bello mio (sweetie), don’t worry.  I can kill them if it’ll let you sleep better.”

So that’s how they do it here!  I’d be careful to not disturb anyone’s sleep.

9/11/11 Random Photos #14



Pigeons: Rocco's catch of the day



Italian birds sleep in unique way

Bag 'o birds

Carmela



Old 500 in Antonimina
(note the trailer hitch...what can you tow with that?)





Roadside prickly pears



9/11/11 Giro D’Italia by Donkey

During dinner, Anna and Nicola suggested calling Maria’s sister by Skype.  Not in a million years would I have ever thought I would see my father talking into a computer and waving at the screen; he’s such a technophobe.  Since the laptop was out, we also took another look at the old family photos we’d brought.  Once again, nobody could identify the young man with the incredible head of hair.  We looked at the picture of mom with her doll and Maria felt it necessary to apologize again.  Nicola dryly suggested that he could take the photo with him to work and put out a missing person’s report.  Mom took the joke in stride.

Scanning through the pictures, we stopped to take a closer look at a photo of a man sitting on a donkey.  I can’t remember who he was but Maria insisted that he had completed a tour of Italy on that very donkey.  No matter how unbelievable the story was, Maria remained steadfast in her conviction.  That man or someone that looked like him had completed his very own Giro d’Italia by donkey.  Everyone in the room was incredulous, Nico even threatened to investigate.  But no matter what the facts are, the truth is this:  small towns and folklore…never shall the two be separated.

Giro d'Italia by donkey...could it be true?

****
My mother adds: "Another mystery is solved!  The man on the donkey is my uncle Angelo; father of Paolo, Carmela and Angela."

9/11/11 The Beach and La Bambola

Dad’s an active guy who doesn’t do so well when he has to sit around.  So, rather than have him be held captive by my mother and Maria as they spent the afternoon talking we went for a walk on Lungo Mare.  There wasn’t much to see or do there, the notable exception being the transvestite walking “her” dog who had done a poor “tucking” job.  The beach was essentially empty save for a handful of families and a number of labourers who were dismantling structures intended purely for the summer, which in the Italian culture ends precisely on August 31^st.  The end of summer: it’s a hard cut off over here no matter how hot it remained.  The children were back at school and the adults were back at work after taking quasi mandatory national holidays in August (“fer Agosto”).

Dad and I walked the strip and I noticed a few people turn their heads when they heard us speaking English.  A helicopter flew overhead making repeated trips to the sea every few minutes to pick up water to dump on a brush fire; the Devil’s work likely caused by a menefreghista tossing their cigarette butt onto the parched roadside.  The smell of smoke hangs heavy and often.

We returned a couple of hours later to find mom and Maria still talking.  The topic of mom’s "bambola" (doll) had come up.  When looking at the old family photos during our visit with mom’s cousin Paolo near Milano, mom got emotional over a picture of her with her porcelain-faced doll.  Looking back on it, I think it’s kind of scary, but to mom it was everything at a time when they had relatively little.  For years she carried that doll with her everywhere.  When it came time to move to Canada the doll was left behind because they only had space for the essentials.  They would get it the next time they came back.

Next time…next time.  Eventually, next time leads to never.  Lots of things were put away for ”next time”.  An oak chest with a dowry typical of the time was left behind, its contents to be given to my mother when she got married.  Towels, linens…biancheria as they call them here; all was left behind.

While dad and I were at the beach, Maria had made mention of a doll she and the other girls in the neighbourhood used to play with.  Mom probed deeper and after hearing a description realized that it was her doll; her bambola.  Maria was remorseful, apologizing over and over to my mom; she had no idea who the doll belonged to.

But Maria did have an idea of where my mom’s oak chest might be now.  If mom wanted, they could try and find it.  Mom thought about it for a moment and then said that she had no use for fifty year old biancherie.  But what about the oak chest?  It was hers and she should have it.  “Next time” she said, “next time”.

9/11/11 Fortunate Coincidences

Antonimina turned out to be a non-event, a bust.  We stopped briefly, but mom said we should go.  Better to take a picture from afar, the distance would hide the scars… and it did.  I took the photo from the top of a pile of construction materials that had been dumped by the side of the road (by no means unique to here, it happens at home all the time).

The distance hides the scars

On our way back mom asked me to slow down, she recognized the house on the left; it might be her cousin Carmela’s house.  As we passed my mom said she recognized the woman outside.  It was Carmela…maybe.  Mom crossed the street and reached through the gate to open it from the inside.  I turned to my dad and said “you know she’s going to get herself shot”.  Dad gave a slight nod, but he knows that mom is headstrong.  I heard my mom shout “’Mela!” in her familiar tone.  The woman exited the house, paused ever so briefly and then gave mom a big hug.  Turning to dad once again I said “I think we’re at the right place”.

It was pure coincidence that we found Carmela here, she moved out years ago to be closer to her children but comes back every now and then on weekends.  Even more of a coincidence was that mom’s other cousin, Carmela’s sister Angela, was also there.  Mom described Angela as her childhood partner in crime, a diavola (devil) and a shit disturber; family traits.  They got into all kinds of trouble together and although they didn’t mention anything specific I did catch a reference to some of their enemies going home missing handfuls of hair from the tops of their heads.

Video - Fortunate Coincidences

Angela doesn’t live in Locri anymore.  Like many others she moved her family to the North, Bergamo in her case, to find opportunities.  Angela lit a cigarette and offered one to my father.  Dad, who never took up the habit, declined the offer and mom asked Angela when she had started.  The shocking answer: “When I was pregnant with my first son”.  The story goes like this.  Angela was pregnant and found herself increasingly drawn to the scent of cigarette smoke.  An older gentleman who lived nearby was a heavy smoker and Angela would sit close to him whenever she could to take in the scent.  The man’s wife became suspicious of young Angela and pulled her aside to ask her about Angela’s sudden and quite obvious interest in her husband.  Angela was shocked by the insinuation; “I don’t want anything to do with your husband!  I’m pregnant and I have a craving for cigarettes”.  “Quick!” the woman said, “get her some cigarettes”.  In doing so she cemented the Italian notion that no matter how bad the habit, denying a pregnant woman her cravings could harm the baby more than any vice.

Nicola, Anna’s husband, told a similar story.  While pregnant with their second child Anna had a craving for cherries… in January.  Nicola pleaded with Anna; how was he supposed to get cherries in January in this small town?  But Anna’s cravings were strong and Nicola is a loving husband… he special ordered cherries from a local grocer who had to search high and low for a supplier.  Finally the cherries arrived in a case that looked like it held the Ark of the Covenant.  The price for this out of season fruit was exorbitant, about 45 dollars a kilogram.

Mom, Carmela and Angela spoke of their families and reminisced about the past.  Each of them commented about how little the years had affected the others, especially true in Carmela’s case.  Angela said that the women in their family, while never skinny, had their weight in the right places: “una bella panorama” (a beautiful landscape) Angela said while motioning towards her chest.  I didn’t need to hear that.

L to R - Carmela, mom and Angela

Updated phone numbers and addresses were exchanged, the intention being to try and stay in touch.  Who knows?  More often than not the obligations of everyday life get in the way.  I took a photo of the three cousins.  Time had definitely left its mark, but they each saw the others as young.  Maybe you can go back sometimes… if only for a short while.

9/11/11 The Drive to Antonimina: You Can’t Go Back

Antonimina is yet another small town nestled into a steep hillside a short distance away from Locri.  Mom suggested we drive there and on the way try to find the land where her house was and where her family’s olive grove once stood.

The return to Locri had been tough for mom.  Sure, she was happy to see all her friends and family; overjoyed in fact.  But the signs of neglect were all around us.  People would keep their houses in immaculate condition, but the streets were littered with garbage.  The municipal garbage bins were overflowing.  Instead of looking for a bin with space, residents dump their garbage beside the bins.  When the garbage truck comes around it only picks up what’s in the bins and not what’s on the ground.  In the garbage collector’s mind his job is to pick up bins and nothing else.  Why should he care?

Italians have a word for these people…”menefreghisti”, the “I don’t cares”.  They exist all over the country as they do in every country, but in Italy the “I don’t cares” seem to be concentrated in the South.  This upsets mom terribly.  Her hometown seems to be overrun with the “I don’t cares”, the roadside trash and refuse on the beach providing ample evidence.

During lunch yesterday at Lidia’s house mom raised the subject and nobody denied the problem.  Lidia’s son offered the brutal truth… even if someone wanted to start a movement to gradually clean up the streets by taking up the cause on their own everybody would laugh at them.  It’s a sorry state of affairs.

Mom’s memories of this place are coloured by the sweetness of youth.  For her, the road to Antonimina used to be paved with candy and ice cream.  Disappointed by the new reality, or perhaps the recognition of what always was, one thing becomes painfully clear: you can’t go back.

Roadside fichi d'India

Our drive to Antonimina continued and mom kept marvelling at how many “fichi d’India” (prickly pears) there were…all going to waste.  We rounded a corner and came upon the corpse of a fox that had been hit by a car.  Only this hadn’t happened recently; the corpse was practically mummified from baking on the tarmac in the scorching summer heat.  Mom refused to let me stop and take a picture on account of the morbidity of the idea.  The worst part was that the corpse was right in front of someone’s driveway.  Clearly it was the home of a family of menefreghisti.

Mom could contain her disappointment no longer; she blurted it out, “God forgot this place”.  And if it wasn’t for the fact that there isn’t a God she might have been right.  It hasn’t rained a drop here in over six months, everything is dry and dusty, the heat keeps people indoors seeking shade and depriving the town of any semblance of life.  And on top of that, Locri has become a mafia stronghold.

Maybe God did forget this place; from some angles it looks like the Devil’s playground.

9/10/11 Random Photos and Video #13

Seriously?  This guy died an old man.

Didn't anybody love him enough to
take a picture of him while he was alive?



Looking my chicken dinner in the face

Maria's home made salami



Maria's freezer: ready to feed an army.



The Italian version of my favourite arcade game

My favourite arcade game I

My favourite arcade game II



Emilia aka Palma



Gerace from a distance



Una vecchia cinquecento



This tractor reminded me of "Johnny 5"...
...or "Wall-E" for the younger generation

Lidia's son and grandson

Lidia's son-in-law: the most animated guy in Locri



9/10/11 Driving the 500 – Fun Times in a Girl Car

I had been writing on Maria’s rooftop patio and baking in the sun for a couple of hours; I needed hydration.  On my way downstairs Maria and my mom called me into the kitchen.  Immediately, Maria tried to feed me.  Even though I had gained a bit of weight over the past couple of weeks she still thought I was too skinny.  “Do you want some salami?  Some cheese?  A salad?  I could make you some french fries.”  Hell, I could have asked for a roast beef dinner right then and there and Maria would have made it appear.  She’s that accommodating with her kitchen.  I politely refused her offers in an attempt to keep my growing midsection in check.

The house was hot, dinner would be hot, and the red wine that would likely be offered would make me even hotter.  I asked Maria where I would be able to buy some beer.  Anna, her daughter who lives in the 3^rd floor flat with her husband Nicola and their sons Francesco and Rocco, said she had to go to the store as well.  She’d take me.

The garage door opened to reveal Anna’s car, a Fiat 500 (cinquecento).  Anna noted my reaction and said “You drive” as she threw me the keys.   My first order of business was to grind the gears while trying to find reverse.  “Ma va fanculo!” (Go fuck yourself) I grumbled to the car as I looked over to Anna with an apologetic grimace.  Anna did a pretty good job of hiding her nervousness; thankfully it was the only time the transmission would be abused at my hands.  The rest of the drive was as smooth as silk.

I’ve liked the 500 ever since I first saw them in Italy a few years ago, and now that they’ve started selling them in Canada, I thought it would be a fun car to have.  Earlier during this trip while in Macerata, Marco told me that I should be careful: “A 500 is a girl car and everyone knows it”.  Anna agrees; with very few exceptions most of the people she knows who drive them are women.

If I look back at all my cars over the years, I don’t count a single “girl car” among them.  Some might argue that my Crossfire is a girl car, an opinion punctuated by the fact that I’ve been told the car is “cute” a couple of times.  Hearing that is just as painful as stabbing me in the ears with a flaming sharp heavy thing.  No, a Crossfire is a girl car when it’s a convertible with an automatic.  Mine’s a hardtop with a manual, so I figure that I’m in the clear.  Yes, I know I’m reaching.

Anna could see I was enjoying myself, so after getting the beer we stretched the drive out a little.  She forgot that I wasn’t from here and gave me some extremely late directions.  I hit the brakes hard and grabbed a fistful of steering wheel to make the corner.  We both had a laugh and I told her that with directions like that I’d end up in jail.  Anna laughed even louder since her husband Nicola is a cop.  She knows all the cops in this small town; they’d be more concerned about the strange guy driving Nicola’s wife around town.  I stopped laughing… Nicola may be a pleasant friendly guy, but he carries a gun.

So back to the question: is the 500 a girl car?  I’m undecided.  It’s the same size and style as a mini, but I’m undecided on that one too.  I’ll have to wait for a test drive of the high performance Abarth version to make my final judgment.

9/10/11 Finding your Dead

That the cemetery in Locri is a lonely place is not a unique thing, most cemeteries are; but the loneliness seems worse here because of the neglect.  Wild grasses and weeds have taken over; tombs are broken and the intense heat radiating off of every stone surface gives you the impression that the living are not welcome here.  This cemetery is the final resting place of my grandfather Giuseppe.  He died at the age of fifty-seven; mom was only nine years old.



Portrait of cemetery neglect



Mom didn’t remember exactly where her father was entombed, her visits having been separated by decades.  She remembered the general area and told dad and me to look for a dark marble tomb.  After an extended search all three of us had come up empty.  While dad continued his search, mom approached a man that looked like he worked there even though he wasn’t doing much of anything.  Mom asked if he could tell her where someone was buried.  The man took a long slow drag from his cigarette as he leaned on the iron gate.  He paused.  “Nome” (name)?  My mom offered the name and the man repeated it slowly and methodically before taking another deep slow drag from his cigarette.  The pause seemed to take forever in this summer heat; almost as if a hammer had finally dropped in his head after teetering on the edge of consciousness, his answer was offered bluntly…”no”.

With years of Canadian expectations of service poisoning her mind, my mother asked him if there was some type of registry to show where the dead were.  After taking yet another long drag from his cancer stick, he admitted that there was a registry of sorts; it contained the name of the person, their date of death and the date of entombment, but not location.  “Why” asked mom.  The question was met with another long pause and then the predictable if ridiculous answer… “There hasn’t been time.”

Finding your dead in Italy was proving to be next to impossible.  We would need help.

Video - The most disinterested cemetery worker on earth

9/10/11 Touching and Tasting the Water: Pure Joy

Despite what mom told me about the beach being a forbidden place during her youth, it still figures prominently in her memories of home.  Maybe more so because it was off-limits.  I had heard about Lungo Mare (Long Sea) many times over the years, how beautiful it was, how calm the waves of the sea were, and how clear the water was.  All of it was true as long as you kept your eyes pointed towards the ocean (more on the general neglect for the environment later).

We stopped at Lungo Mare on our way to the cemetery.  Mom was hesitant to go down to the water; perhaps memories of the past and the beaches label as “forbidden” was holding her back.    But it didn’t last long, she shook off her sandals and headed for the water almost going in up to her knees with no concern for getting her pants wet.  She brought a handful of water to her mouth for a taste…”it’s so salty!”

Video - Touching and Tasting the Sea

Mom was completely immersed in the experience, you could see the joy on her face, the sights, sounds and tastes of the sea brought her back in time; yet another form of time travel…by water.

9/10/11 Ambulance drivers and the Easy Going South

Over lunch stories were told of mom’s past visits to her hometown.  One of them stood heads and shoulders above the rest.

My mother had returned to Locri in the late sixties prior to meeting my father with my cousin Joe (a real cousin) as her travel companion.  At some point during their stay, Joe took ill and became extremely feverish; so feverish that convulsions set in.  While waiting for the ambulance, Mom stopped Joe from biting his tongue and brought down his fever with a cool bath.  By the time the ambulance arrived, Joe’s  convulsions had stopped and he looked much better.  Mom insisted that they still go to the hospital, but on the way there the driver told my mother that he had to make a small detour to pick up his mother-in-law (suocera) and give her a ride.  “Absolutely not” was mom’s response.  The driver told mom not to worry, Joe was looking better and would probably be alright; besides, picking up his mother-in-law would only take a few minutes.   Motherly instincts kicked in (mom is a mother to the whole family) and the ambulance driver was likely threatened with loss of life.

Long story short, the ambulance proceeded directly to the hospital, Joe survived.  I don’t know if the mother-in-law made to her appointment.

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.