Tag Archives: lies

Travel highlight: Civita di Bagnoregio, Lazio

Travel highlight: Civita di Bagnoregio, Lazio

This little jewel of a town is the stuff Italian dreams are made of.  It’s a cross between walking into a time machine and stepping onto a set of the most picturesque Italian scene you could ever imagine – except it’s no facade and certainly not Disneyland; it’s real, and absolutely gorgeous.

Located about 90km Northwest of Rome, in the province of Viterbo, it’s one of the best discoveries we’ve made so close to home and reminds us of how important it is to explore this area.

Appearing to be suspended in the middle of a valley, the town is only accessible on foot, or by motorino.  It takes about 20-30 minutes and it’s all uphill, but well worth the trek.  It was founded by the Etruscans twenty-five hundred years ago, and it’s population is currently all of fifteen residents.

In ancient times it was called Novempagi and Balneum Regium, before becoming known as Bagnorea in medieval times.  It was taken several times by barbarians between the sixth and ninth centuries, and was once a Papal State.  It’s also famous for being the birthplace of the philosopher St. Bonaventure in the 13th century.

Enjoy a glimpse of our visit a few months ago.

(Source: http://player.vimeo.com/)

Love Letter to my Nonna

Posted in Culture by

Written a week before her passing…

Not many people have a best friend who’s sixty years older than they are.  I do – but devastatingly, her health has taken a turn for the worst and she’s about to leave us.

It’s certainly not to be taken for granted that she’s blessed to have lived almost ninety-three years, but to me, she’s my Noni Netta, and she will forever be ageless.  She’s the backbone of our family, and has been a constant in my life I honestly can’t imagine being without.

The thought of this happening during a rare moment when I’m not able to travel is disappointing and extremely upsetting.  I want to be there, holding her hand as she did mine whenever I was scared, or unwell.  The only solace I have is the certainty that I couldn’t have been any closer to her than I have been throughout my life.  I know she can feel me there with her.  Our relationship has been incredibly special and I believe it transcends any limitations of space and time.

At this point, Alzheimer’s has cheated her out of all the magnificent memories of an incredibly full lifetime.  She’s frail and has stopped eating.  She doesn’t remember being abnormally healthy her entire life.  She doesn’t remember the exceptional ability to cook and the amazing appetite she had until a short time ago.  She doesn’t remember never resting until every guest was stuffed and had been offered every possible form of food available in the house.

She has forgotten that I’m married, pregnant, and living in Rome.  But I’ll never forget some years ago, when my husband and I were courting each other from across the world and the distance was taking its toll on our relationship, she comforted me and offered to buy me an emergency ticket to Rome to come see him.  What was important to us was always important to her, and our happiness was her priority.

She doesn’t realize that she and her broken Italian accent taught me what true culture was all about; that there was an entire world outside of my small town to discover.  She held her native country close to her heart all these years, and in doing so contributed to an upbringing unique to that of so many around us.

She inadvertently infused in me a passion and respect for our heritage and tradition so great that it has changed the course of my own life.  By directly experiencing her country and way of life, I’ve felt closer to her than ever before.  Her culture has enriched me and continues to do so every day.  And now I have a husband with the same adorable accent, and I love hearing it.

She doesn’t know she was the quintessential definition of strength: one of the first women in a small Italian town to ever give birth via c-section; taking shelter in caves while bombs dropped down from above during WWII; having the courage to leave her war-torn home and embark on a new life in a foreign country, never to see her own parents again; feeling completely lost and out of place and stuck in what she referred to as “Siberia”; learning a new language with only the help of the newspaper and television; creating a respected reputation and a beautiful home in a community far from her own reality; then, much later, carrying on for the sake of her family after losing the love of her life.

She doesn’t remember all the wonderful years of memories we created together at 931 Myrtle Ave: all the times we laughed, sang, and danced around the living room to “Peppino the Italian Mouse” on repeat on the turn-style; the hidden jar of biscotti that was never hard to find; the incredible smells coming from the basement filled with fresh pasta, salami hanging from the ceiling, and barrels of Papa’s best dago red.  When I think of my happy place, to this day, it’s Christmas Eve at Noni and Papa’s house, or any other after-school visit, for that matter.

She’s forgotten how obsessed she was with cleanliness, following us around with a moppina attached to her hand,making any mess disappear in seconds while never getting in our way of having fun.  She would eat over the sink to catch runaway crumbs, sleep on a tiny pillow (which she made herself) so her hair wouldn’t get messed up, and would never leave the house without a layer of Oil of Olay and some makeup on.  She was an expert at taking care of herself and others.

She doesn’t recall reading every health-related book she could get her hands on, mastering symptoms and illnesses all in a second language, and with a 5th grade education.  She had a sharper mind and keener intuition than so many well-educated people I know.

She’s forgotten how she’d repeatedly make the sign of the cross every time a thunderstorm would roll in – or how she prayed incessantly for our well-being at all times, rosary after rosary, blessing after blessing.  Her faith has been an unwavering constant her entire life, despite so many obstacles and strife.

She’s no longer able to repeat all the hilarious sayings and quotes that have become scripted staples to us over the years, and will undoubtedly keep us laughing for many more to come.  All the stories we shared, plans we discussed, and great advice she always gave…  I could talk to her about anything, and she always had a wise, pertinent, and optimistic viewpoint.

She has no idea how popular she was with everyone she met.  All of our friends loved Noni Netta.  Everyone recognized her kind, gentile spirit, sweet disposition, and the light of goodness that surrounded her.  Her calming presence has meant so much to our family in the past, once struggling with serious illness and the simultaneous loss of its most beloved members.  Little does she know that – even as an adult – her smile, warm embrace, and the smell of her skin could always set my world right.

All of this, and so much more, she no longer remembers – but we can certainly never forget.  We will remember it all for her.  What she has built will last in eternity because she is the foundation of who we are, and who we want our children to become.

The only real peace I’ve found in these difficult days has been when I sit and listen to our son kicking around in my belly, and imagine how well he will know her through me.  As I prepare to raise him, she will be there in my words and my actions, as there could be no better mother to emulate.  She is my definition of honor, integrity, strength, and love.

Now, as she struggles with her last breaths, I continue to reflect on how a life, just one life, can have such an incredible effect on the development of each of us.  Any success we have is owed partially to her, for the bold choices she’s made for our well-being, and the unconditional support and abundant self-sacrificing love she’s always given us.  Her idea of a punishment was always, “I kissa you two time”; I never needed to learn how to love or be affectionate because people like her showed me what it meant from the beginning…

We’ve been blessed by her presence for so long, and we’ve needed her.  But her destiny will soon be calling – and as she would say: “se è destino non manca.”  It was her destiny to be our Nonna, and very soon, it will be our destiny to miss her terribly.

Ti voglio un bene immenso,

Andrea

 

Count the Putans

Posted in Culture, Expat Life, Featured by

It’s summer in Rome – and in this city, when the temperatures rise, the clothes come off.  Which reminds me, time to play one of my favorite seasonal games: “Count the Putans.”

Some may have already guessed how the game works.  It’s not a complicated concept, but it is nonetheless quite amusing.  If you haven’t figured it out yet, by putans (the Italian-American slang for the word puttane), I’m referring to prostitutes, women of the night, hookers.  Whatever you choose to call them, they are a living, breathing part of the scenery here in the outskirts of Rome.

I happen to live and work in Roma Nord (the typically highly-regarded North end of the city), and therefore use Via Salaria every day for my commute.  La Salaria is a main vein leading out of the city.  Throughout most of the year the area is your standard, four-lane business district lined with hotels, businesses (including my office), and luxury car dealerships.  Continuing on after the commercial area, in about fifteen minutes you reach our suburb of Monterotondo.  But something bizarre starts to happen once the warm weather breaks around May: spring fever hits, the weather heats up (along with libido, apparently), and the girls start their high season.

All of a sudden, a wave of putans hit the street – and as summer progresses and the heat scorches, they get progressively more naked.  Yes, from May to September, the world’s oldest profession is alive and well on Via Salaria – so much so, the scene has inspired this impromptu game we’ve shared with friends and visiting family (and have had great fun with, I must say).

The game begins on the way home from Rome’s city center: once we reach the start of this 2-3 mile stretch of sex for sale, everyone in the car has to guess how many putans we’ll spot by the end of the road.  At the moment, we have a standing record of thirty-four (and that doesn’t count those who may have been on “business” while we were passing).  That’s pretty staggering for such a small area.  If it’s true that supply reflects demand, then the numbers are quite telling.

So you just can’t help but wonder: who are these men who keep this business thriving? Every now and then, you get to answer that question in first person: when you’re lucky enough to be behind a car that happens to be dropping a girl off, and you use all your powers of peripheral vision while trying to pass and get a good look at his face without actually turning your head.

My colleagues and I have become so accustomed to it by now that we’ve actually started to be able to recognize the putans personally, since they’re usually always the same and in the same locations.  It’s entirely possible to hear one of my colleagues say, “Anyone notice the blond with the 10-inch white boots wasn’t by the entrance?  She must be sick today.”

And Via Salaria is only one of the areas where you’re guaranteed to get a show; let’s not even get into the “tranny” zone, which happens to surface after a certain hour in one of the richest neighborhoods in the city.  Oh, che scandolo!

So, prostitution must be legal in Italy, you say?  No, it’s not.  But that’s clearly not stopping anyone.  Sure, the occasional squad car pulls up to take record, and shoot the breeze – but rather than threatened, the putans always just look blasé and mildly irritated at best by police presence.  Prostitution seems to be yet another of one of those “look the other way” laws in Italy – just another subject that stirs the usual response from most Italians when they feel powerless about something: “It’s always been that way; it’s just the way it is.”

While in the States there would probably be protests galore and a new organization formed within a week (perhaps MAS – Moms Against Sex – or something similar), here in Italy, everyone is so immune they don’t even pay attention anymore.  After all, who are they going to complain to, the politicians who frequent the escorts (aka, higher-paid, more glamorous cousins of the puntans)?

So, when our child is old enough to ask, “Mom, why is that girl standing half-naked on the side of the road?” I think I’ll go with the answer my mother-in-law used to give my husband when he was little: “She’s just waiting for the bus, honey.”

Let the blind eye philosophy continue.  After all, when in Rome…

Falling in Love, Neopolitan Style

Falling in Love, Neopolitan Style

It’s hard not to fall in love with the Amalfi Coast.  I remember the first time I was there: I was fourteen years old and completely overwhelmed by the beauty around me.  Each incredible vista gave me feelings and ideas I’d never had before – and it was then I knew Italy would be a part of my permanent future, in some way. I was immediately addicted to that sensation.

These days, every time I visit another new, beautiful place in Italy I always have the urge to say it’s my favorite place of all, until I go back to the Amalfi Coast and remember that it can’t be beat – not by Lake Como, not by Taormina or the Cinque Terre, not even perhaps by Sardegna (which are all my votes for the most beautiful places overall in Italy).

Why the Amalfi Coast can’t be beat is a simple question of location, as far as I’m concerned: it happens to be right next to Naples, which automatically makes it more dramatic, passionate, and over the top. It’s the land of mandolins, romance, old-world culture, and traditional Italian slow food (before anyone even knew what “slow food” was). Naples has its problems, and perhaps the proximity to the urban grime of Italy’s “bad boy” city is precisely what gives the Costiera its literal diamond in the rough mystique.  

Aside from its obvious natural beauty, the people who inhabit the Costiera are living characters. They share the same exaggerated, gregarious personalities and dialect as their famous Neopolitan neighbors. The food is ridiculous, the atmosphere is total relaxed sophistication, and the scent of lemon trees and fresh sea air are utterly intoxicating. All of this, combined with the staggering backdrop of rocky bluffs plunging into the sea creates a drama and stunning grandeur beyond compare. All in all, it’s much more worth experiencing than talking about.

So, Amalfi Coast, I may cheat on you every now and then – but you’ll always be my first true love.

*Click on the photos to enlarge – enjoy.