Italy Up Close and Impersonal

The show was about a search for a new co-presenter for a variety show. The contestants were all model-quality blondes who had to perform some skill - such as making a martini - and then do a sexy dance for the audience.

The show was a talent search where the audience votes after every two contestants. The two contestants await the audience’s decision as they stand over trap doors. Beneath them are large tanks of water. The loser goes swimming.

The show was a game show, one team vs another. They had to perform various skits and dances to score points. Only here the teams were labelled Hetero vs Gay.

The shows are all on Italian primetime TV and it felt like American reality TV on steroids. Just how offensive, sexual and in-your face can we be? It must have been the question the Italian producers asked themselves as they went into planning this year’s crop of crap. Can North America be far behind? Oh well, at least there aren't any suicide channels...yet.

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First impressions of Rome: grungy and multi-ethnic. We arrived via train from Avenzanno on Sunday morning. A Lui cousin was kind enough to get up early, early on Sunday to drive us from Peschina to Avenzano where a train whisked us to the heart of the Roman Empire. And what a busy heart. Tourists from every nation mix here, anxious to walk the ancient walks, see the ancient sights but mostly find their hotel and find their way out of the train station. They say all roads lead to Rome; well apparently so do all train lines. The station was a humming hive of comers and goers located in a rough part of town.

Outside the station African and Asian hawkers show their wares, competing with one another for our attention. Graffitti adorned most walls and the refuse lining the cobblestone streets added their texture to the car fumes and heat. Our luggage identified us as fresh meat for the machine but a year of travel has made us veteran gauntlet runners. She hunted down the hotel, He and I hunted down breakfast.

She had booked us a shared apartment not far from the station, so still in Grungeville but, as it turned out, very clean and comfortable. A tiny elevator that once operated on coins creaked to the 5th floor of the two hundred year old building where we met the two young couples we were sharing the apartment with. Like us, they were out most of the time so interaction was minimal and pleasant. The kitchen allowed for leisurely starts to our days; I’d hiked back to the train station where I’d seen breakfast basics for sale. With coffee, eggs and bread in the cupboard we could start our days slow, planning what to see and where to go.

And what we planned to go and see that first day was Appia Antica, the first major road built for the military. It had been recommended by the guide book and as that’s Her bible, we also got the bicycles it recommended. Good thing too because it’s a loooong road. And bumpy - my ass was sore for days. But a fantastic introduction to Rome and far from the Colliseum crowds. Over 2300 years of artifacts lined the road amongst the villas and catacombs, and if we’d stop to examine each and every, we’d still be there. Three quarters of the way down the road we veered off to see the aquaducts and then circled back to The Road for a vibrating end to the afternoon. We finished our first Roman day roaming around the Colliseum and chowing down at restaurant serving up that most recgnized Italian dish, pizza.

Day two saw us early at the station cuz the next train brought sis, sis and hubby, hubby to Rome. We all got on the wrong hop on/hop off bus and spent the better part of the day listening to commentaries about this church and that church when what we really wanted was that site and this site, you know, the big stuff. But there we were on the Christian tour of Rome, stopping at chapels big and small.

Ah well, St. Peter’s Square is big and Christian so we got off there for a stroll and grub. Good grub, great pix and fantastic company made for a memorable afternoon. Unfortunately, the family affair ended at six because all but He, She and me were heading back to Peschina leaving us to pack and prep for the morning’s departure to Florence.

But I’ll write about the awe of Michelangelo’s David next time. This is already too long and we're moving and seeing faster that I can write.

Life in the Slow Lane

There are no souvenir shops in Pescina. There's no English spoken, not even at the hotel. There are two hotels but they’re old and small and while air conditioning wasn’t invented when they were built, they’ve never had the impetus to add it in spite of Summer temperatures in the high 30’s. As a percentage of the gross domestic product for this city, tourism ranks very low.

But here we are. If we wanted to see real Italy, we’re in the right place. Not the canals of Venice or the art of Florence or even the history of Rome, but Real Italy where only Italian is spoken and the rythym of the day is unchanged for millenia. We'll see that other stuff later.

Pescina (pronounced pesh E nah) sits on the edge of what was once a large lake, purposely drained to provide fertile agricultural fields. There’s the sugar beet factory down the road that employs a few hundred and farms that employ more and, interestingly enough, a floor polisher manufacturer that displays its wares in a showroom on the main street. But if you want to buy one get there before one o’clock because like every other business in town it closes then until four thirty to allow everyone to go home to their families and enjoy the big meal of the day.

And a big meal is best followed by a siesta so if you’re tapping your toe outside the grocery, public washroom or government office, rest assured that they’ll be with you as soon as they’re finished resting. After a year of rushing from one attraction to another on a schedule that Fedex would be proud of, life has come to a crashing stop in Pescina...and it feels good.

My brother-in-law is from Pescina and seems to be related by blood or marriage to everyone we pass on the street. “Bonaseri!” if it’s an evening stroll or “Bonjourno!” if we haven’t had that big meal yet. “Ciao!” is used both for hello and goodbye and kissing both cheeks is de rigeur for both greeting and leaving. Everything else is communicated by hand signals.

We came to Pescina by way of Pescara, a teemimg metropolis on Italy’s Adriatic coast and we came to Pescara by way of a superfast ferry from the island of Hvar in Croatia. We were aware of the afternoon shutdown in Croatia but were assured by a shopkeeper that it was because everyone was on the beach so there was no point in being open, no-one was shopping. Not so in Pescara. A popular spot for Italians but rarely visited by North Americans, they follow the same traditions we are experiencing in Pescina and sampled in Croatia. But here the beach emptied at noon as everyone headed to their hotel for ‘the meal’ and hibernation. They locked the washroom and shut the snack bar as they went so hunger and bodily functions for foreigners were left unattended. Travel’s all about discovery.

We’re slowly settling into the Italian way of being. I’m typing as She sleeps off the noon feast, courtesy of another of Lui’s relatives. When it’s cool enough we’ll head out again for the stroll and too much wine on someone’s terrace. But what we won’t be doing is buying souvenirs, because there aren’t any.

Looking for Nike

It was hot in the graveyard. Dubrovnik’s noon sun was penetrating the concrete graves, walks and walls, it was being absorbed and re-radiated by the stones that lined the paths and filled every spot that threatened to be green. It was an open air oven and we were getting baked.

Walking the streets my father had walked as a youth had blown oxygen on the ember of my curiosity. I wanted to know more about where I came from and my sister’s enthusiasm fanned the flame. I’d felt a closeness - fifty-two years dormant - that took hold the moment I stepped inside those walls. I could hear his echo bouncing off the ancient stone and I wanted to chase it.

Melita was a little surprised by our enquiry. “No-one has ever asked about her grave before. I ask Angela if was alright to continue and I have all receipts!” She was worried. Graves here aren’t just burial sites, they’re a connection to the past and a plan for the future. They’re family property and are passed on to heirs like any other holding. A fee is paid annually by the holder to the government to maintain title and as my father’s last surviving Croatian relative, Melita had continued the payments and maintenance to ensure she had a place to spend eternity.

When her time comes, the lid will be lifted, her remains placed in the family crypt and a new name added to the list of ancestors. Unless some uppity direct descendants cross the ocean and want to re-connect. My grandmother was the last person added to the list and Melita, a second cousin to me, was afraid we were looking for a final resting place; we were just looking for my grandmother’s grave.

Melita’s wariness about our intent made her directions vague and her reticence and marginal English made clarification difficult. The guy in the office wasn’t any help either. He spoke some English, but only enough to tell us that his ‘colleegu’ wasn’t in and he didn’t know how to operate the computer that held all the records. “Come back tomorrow.” Unfortunately, we were leaving the next day. This was our one shot to stand silently and stare at the foreign name chiseled in foreign stone and reflect on our past.

Dad rarely spoke of his past. It must have hurt him deeply to desert the country that bore him but the communists were in control after WWII and his time in the merchant marine had opened new horizons. He met and married an Englishwoman and after the war settled in England long enough to sire five children. He worked the mines but a sailor underground is an unhappy creature so they sold the silverware and bought passage to Canada.

Seven children followed the first five, Canadian citizens all, and other than the frequent Croatian curse from Dad, his homeland rarely featured in the lives of his children.So little that we spent the first hour looking for our family name on the tomb. Silly us.

We finally called Melita and roused her from her midday slumber. Now she was wary and cranky. “You should have done your research first!”, she reprimanded. My grandmother had remarried and died as Nika Tomic and that name would have appeared on plaque on or about the tomb. And the name on the family tomb is Urban; apparently my great grandfather was a Hungarian immigrant. My family knowledge was growing.

“What colour flower you buy?”
“Uh, we thought we’d find the grave first...”
“Ok, ok. Whatever. No matter.”

Back to the ovenyard to the spot Melita assured us we’d see our past. Not there or near there or anywhere near any other interpretation of her directions. We crossed and crisscrossed and double-checked each other’s checking. Our search revealed a lot of Dubrovnik’s history: the Russian section with its cyrillic alphabet was testament to their occupation, the large Italian immigration, the dominance of the Croatian nameform and saddest of all, the section for those killed in the war with the other former Yugoslav states. But no grandmother.

Pave finally called “Uncle!”. With our dwindling time and the increasing heat we had to accept defeat. But as we walked away without leaving flowers I realized we were taking something, the increased knowledge of my family and the nation that spawned half of me. I didn’t get the photo but I got what I came for; a sense of connection.