Stranded In The Spotlight

Stranded In The Spotlight

(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, April 2008)

Well, it seems the long, hard winter is finally over. Here in the central heart of Italy, flowers have again become exploding waves of color, dripping from every windowsill and balcony. Shop owners are dusting off the merchandise hidden from view these past cold months, and are re-opening their doors to embrace the torrent of tourism that comes with warmer weather. The tourists are returning to the hills of Italy, like flocks of swallows that mark the anticipated return of Spring. Every town and village prepares itself for another working season, with myriad fiere and festivals, in an attempt to catch the wandering traveler's eye, and lure them in to spend a bit of their holiday time and money.

It has been through these festivals that I have not only found an occasional secondary source of income, thanks to my having been graciously deemed "fluent" in Italian, but also where I have enjoyed myself immensely. At smaller festivals, I've helped with translating for many happy travelers, and in their company, have eaten remarkable things, danced traditional dances, and on one occasion even been involved in a medieval sword fight. At larger festivals, I've worked as a translator as well, but perhaps in a more "professional" manner. For example, a couple of years ago, I was asked by an Italian writer friend of mine to accompany her to interview Bobby McFerrin, the musician of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" fame. His performance left me astounded. It was not the Top 40, pop music show I had expected, but rather, an amazing mix of world, jazz and classical music, sprinkled with sparkling moments of enchanting humor, that lifted my heart to the point of joy. After the show, I was thrilled and honored to speak with him, and translate the short interview my friend had requested. McFerrin was an elegant speaker, a very warm soul, and one musician that I would describe as genius, without feeling the least self-conscious about saying it.

Yes, festivals are fun…but, that's not always entirely true.

Early summer 2006, I met one of the organizers of a "Coffee and Poetry Festival," and after chattering away for a while in Italian, she asked if I would be interested in helping them during the upcoming festival. She said they needed someone to do some light, informal translating for a visiting American poet, at an evening "meet and greet" session. I understood it to be an opportunity for the public to meet with the gentleman, and I would be on hand to help the conversation run smoothly if needed. It wasn't a paying gig, strictly voluntary, but it sounded like it could be interesting, and so I readily accepted.

The day of the meeting arrived, and I showed up where the event was to take place, ready and relaxed. What could be more tranquil than an evening of poetry in a palazzo? Having been through things like this before, I had anticipated tables draped in linen, adorned with flowers, hors d'oeuvres and wine, with a smattering of white chairs arranged around the open space in typical "garden party" fashion. Walking through the enormous, 17th century entrance into the intimate 13th century courtyard, I found in its place, something else entirely.

In lieu of the dreamy, picturesque scene that I had quixotically imagined, I found no flowers, no wine, no linen, no smattering, but instead rows and rows of plastic chairs all facing the same direction, straight at my worst nightmare.

A stage.

My heartbeat began assaulting my eardrums. "Don't panic," I told my stage-phobic self, "it's probably just the set up for some performance AFTER the informal meeting with the public. You don't have to go up there. I'm sure you don't have to go up there. I promise you…y-y-you don't have to go up there."

I spotted the woman that had recruited me, and doing my best impression of calm-cool-collected, I asked her just what it was exactly that was going to be required of me. Her replies were vague. When I pressed her for a direct response to whether or not I had to actually go up on that stage, she suddenly remembered she had to talk to the sound engineer, and flitted away, waving her hands at me and smiling, saying more to the air than to me, "Non è niente. Tranquilla! Tranquilla!" – "It's nothing. Don't worry! Don't worry!" Her sudden disappearance and non-answer to my question, did anything but make me feel very "tranquilla."

As I was standing there, looking at the giant doorway that had led me to this, I began to think how easy it would be, just to slip away. I mean, I certainly didn't want to let anyone down, but it is my deep-seated, personal feeling that I would rather wrestle a six-armed, rabid grizzly bear with severe halitosis and razorblades for claws, than set foot on any stage. As I stood there fantasizing about a quick and easy exit, a young man gently touched my arm, waking me from my mental-escape moment, and said, "It's time to meet Mr. Strand."

The tone in his voice when he spoke those words, made me feel as if I was about to be ushered in to meet the pope. Or the Wizard of Oz. Or a firing squad. I didn't know what to expect, I just knew this was a very serious thing.

My first impression of Mark Strand was that he is a very, very tall man. My second impression of him was that he was a rather handsome man as well. Wikipedia says that he was born in 1934, but armed with his movie-star good looks, I never would have guessed. And spending just a few minutes with him, his eyes gave me the impression that he was someone that wanted to laugh a lot more than he actually did.

When it came time to start the afternoon's affair, I was still operating under the delusion that I could pull off whatever it was I was supposed to do. "Informal" was the word she had used. "Tranquilla," she had said. I told myself that this was a wonderful experience, and that stage-fright or no, I was going through with this.

As we stepped onto the platform, I was amazed at how serene I was feeling. In retrospect, I understand now, that I had gone well beyond the state of Fear, and deep into the bordering country of Resignation. There were three chairs on the stage. To my left was seated a very well informed Italian journalist. To my right was Poet Laureate, MacArthur Fellowship recipient, and Pulitzer Prize winner, Mark Strand. I, in the middle, was to serve as interpreter. Some faceless, bodiless entity from somewhere handed me a microphone, and the torture began.

The young man to my left spoke, "Signore e Signori, benvenuti." For an eighth of a nanosecond, I felt relieved. Maybe this wasn't going to be so horrible after all. I could say "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome," no problem. But before the hint of a word could leave my lips, he began speaking again, fast and furious, full of praise for Strand, comparisons of the works of today's guest artist to the works of other great poetical masters in history, and…much, much more. Even if he had been speaking English, it still would have sounded like "omstyqwuèptoz.x,vnjf<," to me. Poetry, is not my field. With a little work, I might be able to qualify as "plebian" someday. But that afternoon, I just sat listening to what this young man was blathering on about, trying desperately not only to understand it all, but to REMEMBER it all. He rambled on for what seemed like an eternity, before his vocal inflection alerted me to the fact that his little speech was coming to an end, I was going to be expected to do something.

When his introduction was done, he nodded his thanks to the audience, and then turned to me, signaling that it was now my turn to regurgitate everything he just said, but in English. I brought the microphone up to my mouth, took a deep breath, and then…hanging there in time, with my mouth open and not saying anything, I drove straight through the country of Resignation and into the Alternative Dimension of Surrealism. This whole thing became absurdly funny to me now. Still holding onto it, I flipped the microphone over my right shoulder, tilted my head, leaned in towards the overly eloquent journalist, and whispered with a grin, "That was super. Now, could you say that again, but…shorter?"

I don't know what reaction I was expecting. An understanding smile? A glimmer of empathy in his eyes? I really don't know. What I did receive however, was a cold, empty "You-have-got-to-be-kidding" stare. Reluctantly leaving the Alternative Dimension and slinking back to Resignation-land, I proceeded to stammer to the audience something along the lines of, "Mark Strand is a great poet. He writes great poetry. We think he's great. It's great he's here tonight." I pivoted toward Strand, preparing myself to have a go at his response. The withering stare that met me, was not unexpected. I had known for several minutes now that I was in over my head, and now they did too.

This torment went on for well over an hour. I did find though, as the interview progressed, that Strand's understanding of Italian miraculously seemed to improve immensely, as did the journalist's understanding of English, and I was slowly and subtly relieved of duty. But I was still unmitigatedly trapped on that stage. So, for the last leg of the endeavor, I initiated my Cranial-Auto-Gyrator, so that when either Strand or the journalist would speak, my head would rotate in the direction of whichever voice I heard, giving the appearance that I was actually listening to what they had to say. For good measure, I also applied the OTHTLORIAIF Program (that is, the "Occasionally Tilt Head To Left Or Right In An Interested Fashion" Program), so as to give the illusion of being touched by or involved with the flow of words that came from either man. In reality, I was actually engaged in an exquisite out-of-body-experience, far, far, faaaar away from that whole scene.

When it was finally over, I quickly shook Strand's hand, told him what a great pleasure it had been for me (something we both knew to be a lie), and I got out of there like a kid running for recess.

One hour and two glasses of wine later, I finally accepted the fact that humiliation won't actually kill you, and vowed to never put myself in that kind of position again. From now on, I'm keeping my festivals festive, gleefully sticking to dancing and dining, and leaving the stage for those who actually want to be there.

E se domani - Mina Mazzini

A treat for you...

The divine Mina, singing "E se domani" on live television, 1966. 

Girl Power

(Photo: Legendary Italian singer, Mina Mazzini)

Girl Power

(Published by Fra Noi, Chicago IL, March 2008)


“I'm tired of all this nonsense about beauty being only skin-deep. That's deep enough. What do you want, an adorable pancreas?”
–Jean Kerr

Ok, let’s go over the checklist. Hair? Properly ironed. Make-up? Done, except for the lip gloss, which I’ll apply right before I go out the door. Clothes? Fashionable and suitably accessorized. Shoes? Comfortable low-heeled boots, with a sparkly little band around the ankle. Perfume? Of course, no woman is complete without it. Today’s choice is “Crystal Noir” by Versace. Purse? For this excursion I think I’ll go with the black leather Valentino. Checklist complete, and now I’m ready.

Am I going on a date perhaps? Off to a job interview? Meeting friends for a special lunch? No…I’m going to buy potatoes.

There’s a lot of work that goes into being a female in Italy. And for those of us not born here, there’s a lot to learn. Even if it’s to run to the vegetable stand or take out the trash, “Una donna deve essere sempre una donna,” that is to say, “A woman should always be a woman.” So what does it actually mean to be a woman in Italy? Italian women are known around the globe for their beauty, grace, and unmitigated style. And there’s a good reason for that. They work hard at it, and training begins at birth. The importance of a “bella figura” or “good image” is everything. A “bella figura” is not limited to physical appearance, but it certainly starts there. The way one displays oneself visually is how they introduce themselves to the world, and if the image one presents is one of a well dressed, elegant, and proper lady (or gentleman for that matter), then the battle for the “bella figura” is all but won.

And if you make a mistake, there is a good chance that you might be told. When I arrived in Italy, I had just spent the previous four and a half years as an art student. For me, quirky was cool, and the fashion philosophy that I had adopted at University, I was to learn, stood in direct contrast to Italian standards. One eye-opening Sunday evening for me, I was standing in the piazza talking with friends, and taking part in the Sunday evening tradition of the “passeggiata,” where everyone in the town comes out to see and be seen. At a certain point, I noticed an elderly man looking at me rather intently, but being quite tall, I found myself being stared at fairly regularly, so didn’t really give this man’s fixed gaze much heed. That is until he walked over to me, pointed directly at my shoes and in a voice that sounded like a stern teacher correcting the mistake of a young student, he ordered me to go home and change. I was speechless. He stated in a rather loud voice, “Those shoes do NOT go with what you’re wearing, young lady!” I felt my cheeks go red as numerous faces all around the piazza turned in my direction, looked me up and down, and with disapproving shakes of their heads, returned to their interrupted conversations. The aged gentleman’s daughter came running up to him, and taking him by the arm, said, “Papà! Let’s go…come on now.” She looked at me, apologetically tried to smile, and started to lead the old man back to their group. She reprimanded him quietly, but I could hear him defending his position as they walked slowly away. “Yes, yes, I know…but just look at her! She’s a mess!”

I was left in the uncomfortable position of trying to pretend that this little scene hadn’t just struck a very deep chord in me. My insides were vibrating as if someone had just hit a giant gong in my abdomen. I hadn’t felt this publicly embarrassed since the horrors of my ineptitude in grade school gym class. A mess? Me? I was at a complete loss. All this fuss over my shoes? What was wrong with wearing clunky, dirty hiking boots with a long velvet skirt anyway?

Well, in the halls of a college art school, there was nothing wrong with such a combination. But on a Sunday-best evening in a piazza in Italy, it was a fashion faux-pas that was to begin a radical change in how I looked at femininity, and myself.

In America, I always felt that I was a person first and a woman second. Here in Italy, the line between the two is blurred, and what I had always seen as two separate things, blend together as one, but with perhaps a greater emphasis placed on being “woman” more than anything. However, for many looking in from the outside, it may seem that Italy is behind in its feminist doctrine. But is it ethnocentrism that drives their judgment, or are they right?

One example of what some would call a feminist failing, are the omnipresent, scantily clad dancing girls that bounce around, flipping their hair and pouting into the camera on every game show on Italian television. They have no relevance to the game by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve yet to hear any of my Italian female friends complain. On the contrary, they find the girls adorable. In an article in the Financial Times (July 13, 2007) entitled “Naked Ambition,” author Adrian Michaels asks “Do Italians, particularly Italian women, really think it acceptable to sell primetime quiz shows on terrestrial television by trying to stir the male genitalia instead of viewers’ brains? Or are they instead happy with life as it is – beautiful, flirtatious and with a supply of great shoes?” The article goes on to explore the two sides of the issue, that on the one hand, the idea of a feminist movement in Italy, ended some time ago and shows no sign of reviving, leaving many problems for women as a result. On the other hand, it shows no sign of reviving because for the most part, people seem to be happy with (or perhaps simply accustomed to) the gender roles in Italy.

It is more than certain that there is much progress to be made in terms of women’s roles in business and politics, but a woman’s role in the culture of Italy is, without a doubt, central. Italian culture is founded on art, beauty and aesthetics, and the Italian woman reflects that part of her culture with such refinement and sophistication, that despite the go-go girl mentality of Italian television and advertising, I don’t see them as being repressed at all. Every Italian woman that I know personally, I envy for her strength of character, her resilient nature, her patience, sense of humor, and her beauty, both inner and outer. They know the power that their femininity brings them, and they use it skillfully and wisely, not seeing themselves as victims at all, but quite simply and honorably, as women.

Personally, I don’t see myself as having changed dramatically in my feminine views since living in Italy, as much as grown. For whatever pros or cons are involved, I think I’ve finally discovered that it’s fun to be a girl.

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.