Angel Cake

ANGEL CAKE
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, January 2008)

It’s been said by millions of people…there is no place as close to paradise as is Italy. Spectacular valley, mountain, and ocean views give inspired artists their manna. Kitchens from every part of the peninsula offer up gastronomical gifts that really just seem to be exercises in pure physical pleasure. Kindness is something inherent in its people, and beauty surrounds every step you take. And just when you thought Italy couldn’t get any better…they go and have TWO Christmases!

January 6th is the real end of the holiday season for Italy. Well, let me rephrase that. 365 days a year is basically the holiday season for Italy. It never ends. I think it all has to do with the great zest for life here, as every single day holds some reason to celebrate. Last summer I was invited to join a large group of friends for dinner. When I asked what the special occasion was, my friend said, “It’s Thursday!” I waited, thinking that something more informative would follow, but nothing came. I finally turned my palms upward in good body-language style and said, “Okaaaay. Aaaaand?” My friend began to laugh, “But Terri, Thursday only comes ONCE a week! We HAVE to go out!!!” I know she was kidding me, but she was kidding only so much. There was a grain of truth to her teasing. Let us not forget, the term “Carpe Diem” was invented on this soil.

But the 6th of January is the end of the Christmas season anyway, best known as “Epiphany” or “Little Christmas” in English, but is also known in Italy as “Befana.” And what kind of holiday would it be if it didn’t have its own mascot? This holiday stars “La Befana,” depicted as a witch-like old woman, dressed in black and riding a broom, bringing gifts to good children, lumps of coal to bad children, and giving your floor a good sweeping while she’s there visiting in the night. Though outwardly she may look like a witch, she isn’t anything of the sort. The Catholic based legend says the three Wisemen stopped by her house and asked her for directions to the Savior’s birth. She had no idea where this child was, but offered them food and a night’s lodging. The next day, when the Wisemen were leaving, they were so moved by her generosity, they asked her to join them. She declined, saying she had too much housework to do (hence her broom symbol). Later however, she rethought the offer, and set out after them. Unfortunately, she never did catch up to the Wisemen and is still to this day, flying around on her broom looking for the newborn Christ.

I think she visited me today.

I’ve come to know many of the “little old ladies” in the village where I live. When I was first learning the language, they were the only ones to speak slowly and clearly enough for me to understand. And their lives just intrigue me. Women who are now in their 80’s and 90’s, were children in the 1920’s and 30’s, and the changes that they have seen astound me. When they describe their childhoods, it sounds to me to be something from a fairy tale. There was no indoor plumbing or electricity in the town, there were Countesses in horse-drawn carriages, coal sellers in the piazza, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers...to hear them talk, it seems as if they are recounting tales from the 16th century not the 20th! And the dearest of them all is a wonderful young woman of 85, named Adelia.

It’s the very end of the season for this tourist town. In just a few days, we’ll be shutting the door until springtime, but for another day or two I still have a job. These days, that job consists mostly of just sitting and freezing in our unheated boutique, reading or writing to pass the time, or dancing to try and stay warm. Today I forgot my book at home, so I was deeply engrossed in reading the fine print on the calendar, when I heard the door open. I looked up, trying desperately not to have “PLEASE COME IN!” too obviously plastered on my face, when to my surprise, it was not some lone tourist, but Adelia standing in the doorway.

She carefully held a brown paper bag in her tiny hands, and asked if she was disturbing me. As she was the first sentient being I had seen in the last three and a half hours, I assured her that she was not disturbing me at all. She came in cautiously, as this cold weather does terrible things to her knees and slows her down a bit. She sat the brown bag on the desk in front of me, and said, “I made this myself. Now, there’s no hurry to eat it right away. I’ll be back to pick up the plate on my way back home after Mass this evening.” I peeked inside the bag, curious and excited to know what she had brought. As the bag opened, I saw the pink and yellow layers smothered in a chocolate blanket, and I drooled more than I said, “Oh…Zuppa Inglese…!” Now this particular sweet-treat I had never seen in the States, but it is neither a soup nor is it English. It is instead, a layered sponge cake, soaked in a light liqueur, with bits of candied fruit and chocolate to top it off. And it is one of my favorite things in the Multiverse.

I looked back up at Adelia and asked, not ungratefully, “But why? Why did you bring me this today? That’s so kind of you!”

She came close, and leaned over to where I was sitting. She looked at me in a way that was so kind that I almost felt unworthy of it. She touched my cheek with the back of her hand and said, “I was just thinking of you today, and I know it must be very hard for you sometimes, being all alone in a country where you were not born. I just want you to know that I care for you as if you were one of my children.” And in that moment, I felt like a child. I felt like a child that did not get coal this year, but got the most beautiful gift instead. My eyes began to burn as I fought back the tears that were forcefully fighting to run down my face. Adelia quickly took her hand back, and waving it in the air as if brushing away a flurry of butterflies said, “Well, ok. Maybe more like one of my grandchildren, I AM pretty old!” and gave me a smile that somehow, for that instant, made everything in the world all right.

She gave me two quick kisses, one on each cheek, and then on her way out the door, she stopped, pointed at me and directed, “Now you eat every bit of that, you understand?” And with another radiant smile, was gone.

I don’t see La Befana as an old witch riding a broom. To me, she looks like a delicate angel carrying Zuppa Inglese.

Yuletide Musing

Yuletide Musing
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, December 2007)

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Ok, yes, I know it’s not Thanksgiving. December is the month of Christmas, Chanukah, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Year’s Eve, Boxing Day, Las Posadas, Yule, Winter Solstice, National Cookie Day, and my birthday. So as far as special days go, this month is chock full. December is when the circle of existence ends and begins again. And it’s during this time, that every year, I am overwhelmed by reflection, and a great feeling of thankfulness. As another calendar year comes to a close, as I turn another year older, when the air is filled with holiday song and smells, I find myself ruminating on the time that has passed since I last roasted chestnuts, sipped Novello wine, and blew out that ever increasing number of candles on a cake. This year in particular, I am enveloped in a great cloud of gratitude for what has come to me, and am bathing in optimism about the future.

I know a man that lives in Umbria, not far from the silver-blue splash on the floor of the Valdichiana Valley known as Lake Trasimeno, in central Italy. This particular gentleman bought a house out in the countryside some years back. When he first saw that house, it was a shambles, the roof had fallen in decades ago, the floors were collapsing, and the stone walls were, bit by bit, toppling over. After signing the deed, his first priority was to demolish that house, razing it level with the earth. Then, with attentive patience, he rebuilt the structure stone by stone, using the original material. The walls were set back in place, stronger than before. Centuries old ceiling beams were cleaned and repaired, and now lend their solidity to what was a short time ago only a pile of broken rock, but is now a warm and inviting home. He had to destroy the old, to rebuild it again anew. I think I know how that house feels.

Six years ago, I came to Italy, not really knowing what I was doing, but I knew I had to come. I left everything familiar to me, uprooted my very being, and transplanted myself on Italian soil. It was a time of turmoil for me, and a time of pain and loss. My life in America, whereas not horrible as compared to living in say, modern-day Baghdad, it was not a good time for me personally. But as in the words of Austin Powers’ arch-enemy Dr. Evil, “The details of my life are quite inconsequential.” Let’s just say that it was time to tear down the house.

The phase of rebuilding has been the past six years I’ve spent in Italy. Piece by piece, I’ve put the old foundation back in place, but with marked improvements and enhanced stability. The walls have been rebuilt using all that was there to begin with, and now stand sturdy and reliable. This past year, I feel as if the final stage has been complete, the roof is on, and it’s time to move in. But this reconstruction project was not done alone, and I have many thanks to give.

My first thanks would be to Fra Noi, for giving me the opportunity to fulfill a dream of mine since I was a child. I’ve done many interesting and rewarding things in my life, but I’ve never been a “something.” People I grew up with are now doctors, lawyers, mothers, teachers, artists and criminals. But I’ve never had any particular title attached to me. Thanks to the opportunity given me by Fra Noi, I can now say “I’m a writer,” something I’ve desired since I first learned how to hold a pencil. Thank you Paul for taking me onboard, and for all your thoughtful encouragement. Thank you Mary for your eternal patience and help. And a very special thank you to my Fra Noi co-correspondent, my former professor and present friend, Judith Testa, without whose guidance, inspiration, patient prodding and consistent honesty, I’d probably be living under a bridge somewhere.

But there is another “thank you” that I owe, from deep within my heart. I owe it to something that previously had been unknown to me, but now I can’t imagine living without. I have an ocean of thanks to give to Italy, her culture, her mannerisms, her quirks, and especially her people.

I am often asked about “why” I came to Italy. “Had you ever been here before?” “Did you know the language?” “Do you have Italian blood?”, and the answer to all of these is “no.” In the dust that was raised by the demolition of my old life, the particulars of exactly why I was led to Italy is rather lost. Why not England? Why not China? I take the easy way out, and tell you it was Destiny that took me in her arms and set me down on this beautiful peninsula. Whatever the reason, I am here now, and owe my entire renovation to the kind, tolerant, and loving skill of Italy’s transformational qualities. After all, look what she’s done with Rome! Centuries ago, Rome was beaten down, abandoned, and left to decay…but to see Rome today, one would never know it was ever anything but the most beautiful city on the planet, and the center of the Universe.

For my rebirth and renewal I am indebted to this country and the love that her people have genuinely given me. It is well known that Italians have a strong sense of family, but what is probably lesser known is that their sense of family is not limited to only those that share close genetic links. It is my opinion that Italians are a people that have already achieved that which so many hopeful, propitious, oftentimes crystal-carrying humans long for. One integral goal of the whole “New Age” movement has been to see all human beings as part of one large, extended family, that we are all “one.” Italians have no need for metaphysical rituals, it’s already in them. They have a love for life that is not limited to self. They have a spirit of sharing, an eye for beauty, and a heart that is open. Passionate without being vulgar, hard-working without being materially obsessed, loyal, honest, dedicated, helpful, caring…they have given me more than I can ever repay. I thank them all, those who I know, those who I don’t, those that live in the houses next to mine, and those that live abroad. They all unknowingly carry the torch of human kindness through their customs and traditions, in what they teach their children, and what they share with their neighbors. They’ve taught me, “Finchè c’è vita, c’è speranza” – Where there is life, there is hope.

My last thanks goes to those of you that read my little offerings. I’ve received a few letters and emails from some of you, and your words mean so much to me and encourage me in this strange adventure I’m on. Thank you. Whether you are in the midst of tearing down the past, rebuilding the present, or making home-improvements for the future, may this next year be filled with contentedness and tranquility.

Happy New Year.

DEVO-tional Experiment

DEVO-tional Experiment
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, November 2007)

Somewhere in a small town in Tuscany…

It started out as an afternoon not unlike so many others. Playing the role of Cordial Shopgirl, I cheerfully assisted tourists choose just the right earrings and/or other assorted goodies that best suited their fashion or gift giving requirements. During a quiet moment, I stepped outside to straighten up the colorful displays hung about the storefront that between the wind and tourists’ curious hands, are oftentimes in disarray. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed three elderly, heavyset, well-dressed Italian women enter the store, but allowed them a moment to browse without my guidance while I finished my tidying tasks. That done, as I entered the doorway I found myself nearly trampled to death by these same three women, fleeing the store in a stampede of great haste. One woman was holding her hands over her ears, shaking her head violently (in a way that would make any professional mourner very proud) and exclaiming rather loudly “Orribile! Orrible!” Her companions were rushing alongside her and accompanied her dismay by glaring at me as if I had just admitted to eating young children as a hobby (which, by the way, I don’t). I was at a complete loss, what could have initiated such a response? Why was she covering her ears? And what was she referring to as so horribly “orribile?”

Logically, the only reason someone would cover their ears, would be an unpleasant reaction to an auditory stimulus. But I heard nothing unpleasant at all in the sounds that were reverberating off the ancient walls that enclosed this little haven of commercial promotion. There was only music. Music that I love with all my beating heart and ever-so-slightly mutated soul. Profound, sensitive, intelligent lyrics companioned with innovative and eternally creative fluctuations of sound produced through an ingenious unification of tradition and technology. Just…music. What was her problem?

Oh no…it’s DEVO.

Apparently these lovely little octogenarians didn’t hear and appreciate the American musical group DEVO the same way I did. The unprepared great-grandmothers had innocently stumbled into the middle of the song “U Got Me Bugged” and obviously, the song had bugged them more than just a little bit. Whereas when I hear it, I tend to fade into a trance like state, usually resulting in my delicately dancing like a marionette made of over-cooked tagliatelle, I suppose I could see where someone who was not privy to the complexity of DEVO might hear it as something like a malfunctioning robot blowing bubbles through a straw into a glass of warm mercury.

The history of DEVO is long and involved (and very, very interesting), but for the sake of space here, suffice to say that they were originally formed in 1972 by a bunch of really cool art students at Kent State University, and found a certain degree of commercial success in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s. They disbanded in 1991 after a period of difficulty, only to reform in 1996 and are now experiencing a huge resurgence of popularity both in America and in Europe, especially Italy. The fundamental principles of their music were never based so much on a goal of being pop-stars as much as that of being artists, using music as the canvas. Brilliantly blending the sensibilities of artistic concepts such as Dadaism, Minimalism and Industrial Design, DEVO was able to subtly convey anti-war, anti-conformity, and anti-stupidity positions through a medium yet unused for such noble purposes. As bassist Jerry Casale said in an interview for the Swedish television program “Tid för design-Showroom” in 2005, DEVO took all these ideas and combined “the low, junk pop-culture with obvious academic high-art standards in a way that was funny.”

However, not everyone got the joke, and at the outset, DEVO was met by confusion at best and near-violent rejection at worst. In an interview with “The Believer” magazine in September of 2005, synthesizer-scientist, artist, vocalist and all-around persona interessante Mark Mothersbaugh recounted the tale of an early DEVO show at a Halloween party in 1975, where the audience was less than wholly receptive. After a DJ for the radio station that was hosting the party, grabbed a microphone and yelled, “These guys must be stopped! This isn’t music!”, the audience turned into a surrealistic mob. Mothersbaugh remembers, “They felt what we were doing was dangerous. So all of a sudden, drunk mummies were shaking their fists at us. Draculas were shouting obscenities at us. That made us even happier, and pissed them off even more. It turned into a bit of fisticuffs. It was a mess. But it made us feel we had to be doing something right to get so many people pissed off.”

But lots of other people actually did understand what DEVO was doing. In Italy for example, the “Memphis Group” was an assembly of Italian designers and architects founded in 1981, whose intention was to artistically reject 1970’s conformist ideals and conventional use of color, shape and purpose in their creations, and were apparently great aficionados of DEVO. Asking around, it seemed like almost everyone here had at least heard of the Memphis Group, and they were always spoken about in positive terms. Knowing this, I felt that perhaps there had to be other DEVO fans somewhere here in Italy, and I decided to experiment and see if I could find them.

With a selection of less “abrasive” DEVO songs in hand, such as “Girl U Want,” “Uncontrollable Urge,” and “Jocko Homo,” I began to play these tunes non-stop while at work, taking advantage of the public forum the store provided me with. A type of “Skinner Box,” if you will. The results of my DEVO-tional experimentation are as follows:

1: 71% of adult Italians exposed to the music of DEVO showed little or no reaction, with the exception of the song “Girl U Want” which did get a noticeable increase in a sub-conscious foot-tapping response. (This high percentage of non-reaction was not unexpected, as Italy is inundated with noise and the Italian people have developed incredible super-powers of tolerance and filtering when dealing with sound. At the average dinner table in Italy, it is common to have the radio playing, the television on, cell phones ringing incessantly and nine different conversations going, even if there are only three people seated at the table. It is truly amazing.)

2: 15% of subjects visibly reacted negatively; a pause to listen, followed by a frown, shrug and/or shaking of the head, occasionally followed by their asking, “What is this?” I would explain a bit about the band and then ask “Ti piace? Do you like it?” Being a straightforward and chronically honest culture (despite untrue stereotyping of Italians as just the opposite), their answer was a direct, dry, and unblinking “No.”

3: 14% either knew who DEVO was and were Chihuahua-shakingly thrilled to hear them, or had never heard the music before but with big eyes full of wonder, were quite enthusiastic to learn more. I was pleased to what I could to help in their initiation.

4: Children love DEVO. Dancing was uncontrollable and a joy to behold.

5: Playing “Jocko Homo” for the parish priest was not the best idea I’ve ever had.


Summation: In all, the experiment was a success. I was able to find those that appreciate DEVO in all their splendor, right here even in a small town in Italy. Original fans were alerted to the fact that DEVO was back, and new ones quietly come to me asking to hear “quella canzone” again. Those who were not impressed or ran screaming from the store, well, perhaps a seed was planted for them and they’ll come around some day. “Dovere Adesso per il futuro!”

The Count

The Count
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, September 2007)

When I first met Nick, he looked much younger than I expected, and a lot less greasy. Not greasy in that garage mechanic kind of way, but in that overly tan, slicked back hair, classic Borghese Italian way. There’s a fashion trend amongst young, “upwardly mobile” Italian men that makes me fear for the upholstery of sofas up and down the peninsula. This particular aesthetic statement involves spiked, gelled, oiled, glossed and rigidly sprayed hair, accompanied by Vaseline or baby oil rubbed over their lithe, bronze bodies as a “lucidante”, making them shiny as freshly washed plums. And one of these slippery plum boys is what I expected of “The Count”. The image I had in my mind was something like George Hamilton’s Dracula in the 70’s film “Love at First Bite”, or perhaps a sullen bit of arrogance, perfect for some Calvin Klein ad. But what I encountered was someone else entirely.

Niccolò Baldelli-Boni is the twenty-four year old, would-be heir to the title of “Count” in a prosperous and popular hilltown in Southeastern Tuscany, were that such titles still used today. His friends know him as Nick, and I found him to be quite literally, impressive. His mischievous good looks make the first impact, but then after speaking with him for just a few minutes, the second opinion is that of a truly good person. He carries a great tranquility and a sensitivity that make this boy more of a man than someone even three times his age. And at twenty-four, he can hardly be called a boy, but in a country where men are plagued with the image of the “Mammone” , eternally and voluntarily childlike and tied up with apron strings, even until very late in life, a young man of Baldelli’s maturity and grace makes him stand out like a poppy in a field of clover.

I met Nick while working for one of the larger of the numerous festivals that are celebrated here in my little adopted hometown in Italy. He plays piano beautifully, can talk to anyone as if he’s known them for years, and after seeing him ruthlessly teased by a gaggle of giggly girls (all obviously infatuated with him) I came to the conclusion that he also has the patience of a saint. He is politically conscious, without being particularly partisan. It seemed to me that his emphasis is more on awareness, than on any given blind-allegiance to one political agenda or another. When talking to him about the importance of education, he said, “No matter what your opinion is of bombing a place, whether you are pro or con, you should at least know where it is on a map.”

As the months passed after our first meeting, I periodically found myself wondering how it must feel to be him. I know virtually nothing of my own family history. I can trace my paternal lineage as far back as my great-grandparents, and the maternal side as far back as…my mother. Beyond that, it’s a bit of a mystery. So when thinking about the young Signore Baldelli-Boni and the fact that his family tree can be traced back nearly a thousand years, it intrigued me. Then, his being the latest in a long line of nobility piqued my curiosity as well. The idea of “nobility” had fascinated me since childhood. All I really knew about Princes, Counts and Lords, I learned from Walt Disney…hardly a realistic representation. So, I decided to try and find out just what the real story was.

It seemed to me, the best place to start would be at the town’s archives, located in an 800 year old palazzo. I entered the tiny wooden door, and climbed the narrow stone steps up to the second floor where I became lost in the maze of tiny rooms, the smell of old books, soft yellow light filtered through small windows…it was a bibliophile’s dream! However as I had no idea where to start my research, I decided to ask a bit of guidance from the wonderful young woman named Patricia that I had found tucked in amongst the piles of paper. When I explained my quest was to find out about the Famiglia Baldelli-Boni, with a smile she kindly explained that the archives had been kept for over ten centuries, but that they were only now being put into any kind of order. Though researching a specific topic was possible, it would indeed be a challenge. She suggested that for an easier beginning, I should go to the town’s library, located in another part of the palazzo, and look for things that had been dug up by others already. Looking around the room, at the mountains of books, ledgers and random bits of paper and vellum piled from the floor to the ceiling, I concurred.

My experience at the library was much more productive. After rummaging through the card catalog for about 20 minutes, a very quiet man in a bright red shirt appeared from seemingly nowhere, and asked if he could retrieve anything for me. I gave him the list of numbers that I had copied down from the catalog, and he disappeared into a back room. How he could walk without making a sound astounded me! I began to wonder if he was even real…

He noiselessly returned moments later with a small stack of books for me. With a whisper, I thanked him and he vanished as quietly as he appeared. I followed the family back through time, reading over the names, their accomplishments and their responsibilities. It seems that most notably, the Baldelli family had been a great intellectual and literate influence on the area’s history. For example, in the mid 1500’s, Francesco Baldelli was responsible for the translation of an amazing number of religious texts from Latin to Italian. In the 1600’s, an earlier Niccolò Baldelli had written a vast work based in philosophy. In the 1700’s, Count Giovanni-Battista Baldelli wrote book after book on numerous and varied topics, including the history of Florence, the lives of Marco Polo, Petrarch and Boccaccio, and was one of the first to write seriously about the history of the Etruscans. And this is just a small sample of the intellectual influence of the Baldelli family on Tuscan history!

When I saw Nick again some time later, I told him of my research, and asked him what feels like to be a part of such a, in my opinion, truly noble lineage. After all, what could be more noble than carrying the torch of knowledge through the ages? His tone was lighthearted, but deep in its sincerity when he answered. He shrugged, and with a soft smile said, “I can definitely feel grand about my history, but I certainly don’t have the right to feel special about it.”

In my life, through my travels and the various jobs that I’ve taken on, I’ve met hundreds of thousands (if not millions!) of people. And though Nick Baldelli-Boni may not have the right to feel special simply because he was born into a particular family, I think he has the right to feel special simply because of who he is.

The Heat is On

The Heat is On
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, August 2007)


“Oddio! Questo caldo non lo sopporto! E’ come un forno crematorio!”

It’s August in Italy, and well, come to think of it, it’s probably August everywhere else in the world too. Italy is well known for its unbearable midsummer weather, with its high humidity and suffocating heat, that make some folks exclaim the above, “Oh my god! I can’t take this heat! It’s like a crematory oven!” The first time I heard this analogy, I wanted to laugh at the graphic and morbid nature of it…but I couldn’t laugh. It was simply too hot, and laughing would have used up valuable energy otherwise to be used for the sole purpose of simply staying conscious. This is now my sixth August spent in Italy, and in this land of extremes, where it seems as if there are even extra colors in a rainbow, the heat simply plays a part of the intense existence here. Autumn glows in coppers and golds and desperately breathes into you the last warmth of the year, like the soul-twisting kiss of a departing lover. Winter is a cold, damp and grey time, perfect for sinking into depression or escaping into painting. Springtime is an explosion of pastels enclosed and contained by powerful frames of green.

But this is the height of summer. And it is here to challenge you.

The first summer I was here, I had no idea what I was in for. I had arrived in the spring, the heady jasmine laden air permanently marking a place in my memory banks. For me, the smell of jasmine IS Italy. The months grew balmier, but the temperature never seemed to rise above an uncomfortable level. I had rented a small attic-room apartment on the valley floor below Monte San Egidio. It was a quirky little space, very inexpensive, and I adored it as it represented the first steps in stabilizing my new life in Italy. People had told me, however, that the summer was to get quite a bit warmer, and living in an attic may not be the wisest place to be, but I was ready. I had a fan.

When August arrived, the first few days weren’t awful. But then, as if a hurricane of heat had blown in overnight, I woke up one morning to what felt like someone standing over me with a blow dryer on the high setting. My trusty fan was in the window, massaging me with fresh air as I slept, but now the air outside had shot up to a temperature of well over 100 degrees. It was too warm to try and sleep through it, so I opted for a shower in an attempt to cool off. This didn’t work however, as cool water was not available. I felt as if I was bathing in tepid tea, but I found at least a bit of comfort in the fact that it was in any case wet. After the tea-bath I found myself none cooler, and feeling as if I might be going mad from the inescapability of this heat. I laid down on the cool terra cotta floor still naked and covered in bath water that was not in the least bit evaporating, and for the first time that day, found a tiny bit of relief. As I lay there, breathing air that was quite a few degrees above my own body temperature, I suddenly started thinking about turkeys. This surely must be what it feels like to be a turkey on Thanksgiving.

That particular heat wave only lasted a short while, especially in comparison to what happened the summer of 2003. That summer was record-breaking the world over, but I witnessed first-hand what the European heatwave looked like in central Italy. The normally lush, green hills quickly burned to a painful, dull brown, and many of them turned black as olive groves caught fire and burned away. Farmers stood helpless as they watched the ancient trees go up in flames, as there wasn’t enough water to go around. I had found work in a town about an hour and a half away from where I lived, and my only mode of transportation was a 1982 Piaggio Sì, a rickety but reliable, fragile looking “motorino” or moped. But I have to tell you that despite the Sahara-like temperatures of that year, some of my fondest memories are of riding across the Italian countryside at the incredible, lightning speed of 40 miles an hour on that little piece of mechanical joy, singing at the top of my lungs, and getting very tan.

August 15th is a national holiday in Italy known as Ferragosto. It is a Catholic holiday marking the day that the Virgin Mary was “assunta in cielo”, or had gone directly to heaven. But the holiday, and its name, actually has pagan roots going back to the Emperor Augustus, who had proclaimed a series of festivals called the “Feriae Augusti”. Nowdays, the week of the 15th is when virtually everyone in Italy goes on vacation. Domestic help however (as was my job in those days), doesn’t get such time off, so August 15th of 2003, once again I was there singing and riding along the Italian highways, but that day I found myself completely alone, as everyone else had apparently gone to the seaside. It was glorious, as Italy seemed completely mine that day.

The lovely little Englishwoman that I worked for decided that we would make it a short workday that that afternoon, as the temperature was now 43 degrees Celsius, more or less 110 degrees Fahrenheit. I gratefully agreed with her, and slathering myself in UV suncream, I hopped on my little “motorino” and started home in the baking sun.

I didn’t make it home however. About 20 minutes into my ride, my beloved “motorino” started making a strange noise that sounded like someone trying to gargle a bucketful of screws. Just as I had completed the thought, “Gosh…I wonder what THAT is?”, my treasured metal friend let out an exasperated “PHWAAH”-sound, a puff of smoke, and that was that. The engine couldn’t take the intense heat and had basically exploded. I was stranded along the empty highway, on the hottest day yet that year, but thankfully, after a series of panicked telephone calls to what few people I could find at home, a good Samaritan was eventually found and I managed to make it home by evening.

August of 2006 was odd, in that the heat never came. We were blessed with delightful daytime temperatures and cool, refreshing evenings. This year, no one knows what to expect, though predictions are for another sweltering heatwave. But I am fully prepared. I’ve changed jobs and now work a mere two minutes walk from my home, so there is no risk of mechanical mishaps. I am well supplied with all kinds of super sunblock, as well as potassium and magnesium tablets to help me deal physically with the potential meteorological onslaught. I’ve a new apartment that seems to have an endless supply of fresh, cool water from deep inside the hill I live on. But best of all, this year I have a bigger fan.

The Best Medicine

The Best Medicine
(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, July 2007)


“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.” – Kurt Vonnegut

When I first came to Italy, I didn’t really speak the language at all. I could get across basic information, but truly expressing myself seemed all but impossible. And what was worse, I couldn’t understand anything. On the one hand, that was nice. Any kind of bad news would just bounce off my ears, and I was left innocently unknowing. But there were times when I really wanted to understand. Whispered flirtations by a handsome stranger, the price of my lunch, or directions to the train station for example. But the one thing that appealed to me more than anything, the one thing that I yearned and physically ached to comprehend, was the laughter. It seemed that Italians laughed all the time. I needed to know…what was so funny?

I love to laugh. Laughter has been a best friend to me throughout my life. Through every dark period, through every rough time, I always found that laughing somehow kept me afloat, and kept me going. After outgrowing a very introverted and fragile adolescence, I discovered that there was something inside of me that could apparently make people laugh as well. How cool was that? Giggles on command! No matter what happened to me, as long as I could have laughter, everything was possible.

But when I came to Italy, the laughing stopped. At least most of it. I was still very capable at laughing at myself, thank goodness. But in everyday life, I was missing out on something very important. I witnessed the waving of arms, the exaggerated facial expressions, the twinkly “Ya-know-what-I-mean?” looks…but the core of it all was a mystery to me.

And that period was a time when I greatly needed laughter. Although there are definitely worse things in life then to find oneself in a small Tuscan village, surrounded by art, beauty, great food, gorgeous sunsets, amazing dancing flocks of swallows, fields of sunflowers, wine, music, and air that always smells of jasmine. (Hmm…yes, that does indeed sound pretty torturous, doesn’t it?) But in the midst of all this wonderful-ness, my solitude became all the more apparent to me. When one is immersed in all that beauty and goodness, but has no one to share it with, that empty space next to you is felt more profoundly. I had no friends yet, and making any seemed impossible unless I learned the language. And so, “pian piano”, slowly-slowly, I started to learn, and the ice began to melt in my fortress of solitude. And I began to laugh again. I began to live again.

But I was to find out that it was not simply a matter of learning the words, but learning the culture as well. So much of humor is based on a tribal-esque association to like qualities in a society. Take for instance, Spam. For those of you fortunate enough not to know what Spam is, I’m not talking about getting blasted with unwanted emails, but a bizarre meat-ish food product. Over the years, in America and England, Spam has been a fantastic resource for comedic material. (One of the best laughs available about Spam is the official Spam website at www.spam.com. Self effacing humor is always a riot…) But whereas laughing about Spam in America is possible, in Italy it’s not funny, simply because Spam doesn’t exist. In that same vein, lots of Italian humor is lost to foreigners, not because of a lack of vocabulary, but for a lack of cultural exposure. “Inside jokes”, or “being in the know” is essential for understanding cultural humor.

So I initiated a very serious study on modern Italian culture…and I began to watch television. Hours and hours and hours of television. Game shows, sitcoms, dramas, talk shows, mystery shows, but best of all, comedies. At first glance, it seemed to me that Italian humor was based solely on three main things: 1- The bounciness of a young woman’s overly abundant breasts while she dances in a bikini, 2- The inability of an older, usually not very good looking man to speak after witnessing the bounciness of a young woman’s overly abundant breasts while she dances in a bikini, and 3- The angry reaction of the overweight, poorly dressed wife of said older, usually not very good looking man, and his inability to speak after witnessing the bounciness of a young woman’s overly abundant breasts while she dances in a bikini.

I was extremely disappointed by the results of my research. That was it? Sophomoric T and A humor was the height of my favorite population’s wittiness? This is what I worked so hard for to understand? No, no…there had to be more.

And with time, I was to find out that certainly there was. There is a grand playing with words in Italian. Wonderful works of clever, witty turns of phrase, double entendre, and rapid fire banter. Velvet gloved insults, that aren’t really insults at all, but rather invites to a type of word battle, a type of humorous provocation. Roberto Benigni stands out as a great comedian, because of his intelligence and incredible skill with words, as well as his ability to speak them all at an unbelievable speed. Benigni’s cross-over work, the 1986 American film “Down By Law”, demonstrates even when playing in English, his possession of the Italian language and his gifted comedic timing and delivery.

One of the finest works in Italian comedy has to be the dubbing work of Alberto Sordi and Mauro Zambuto as the voices of Laurel and Hardy. In America, I found Laurel and Hardy to be amusing, as any sentient creature would. But in Italy, the humor has been brought to another level, and I have actually felt pain in the left side of my abdomen, the result of how hard I was laughing. Whereas nearly all foreign films are dubbed in Italy, the thing I find strange is that whether the character is American, Russian, or Chinese, they all speak the same manner of Italian, completely lacking any form of accent. That is not true for the Laurel and Hardy films. Sordi and Zambuto may have dubbed these films in the 1940’s, but the wit is timeless. Both men are speaking Italian, but with a very played upon English and American accent, and it is absolutely hilarious. I feel though that I must point out that whatever the great Alberto Sordi did was absolutely hilarious, as anyone who has seen the films “Un Americano A Roma” or “Il Moralista” would surely agree with me.

Medical researchers have evidence that laughter boosts the immune system, lowers blood pressure, and rids the psyche of negative emotion. There is even evidence to suggest that laughing 100 times is equal to 15 minutes on an exercise bike, giving the body an entire aerobic workout. Laughter is without a doubt, the very best medicine there is. But the Italians have known that for centuries. Apart from their famous Mediterranean diet, it’s their laughter that explains the mystery of their long and Dolce Vita.

Fish Slapping Explained

For those of you who have never seen the "Fish Slapping Dance" mentioned in the previous article, I found this lovely video that explains it quite nicely.

Michael Palin talks a bit about the silliness of it all first, and then on to the Dance...