Stazione di Roma Termini 1957

Proper Bathroom Etiquette

I put my euro into the slot at the automatic gate and a high-pitched alarm sounded.  The gate wouldn’t open so I started fiddling with the coin return button in an attempt to make the buzzing stop!  Fifteen seconds of that ear-piercing noise brought out the bathroom attendant who shouted at me in Italian to move my bag.  “Can’t you see that your suitcase is too close to the gate and that’s what’s causing the commotion?” he growled at me menacingly.

Big Fat Chicken

I’ve never been very good at confrontations – I get really nervous in tense situations and this usually renders me completely inarticulate.  If someone is aggressive or mean to me I dummy-up only to think of a pithy comeback later, when it’s too late.

Parlo Italiano un po’

But something strange happens when I speak Italian; my personality changes and my communications become more direct and my tone tougher.  Perhaps because my vocabulary is limited I don’t mince words – what finally comes out of my mouth is basic and instinctual.  In Italian, I don’t pull any punches.

The change has come…

Without missing a beat or hesitating one millisecond, it came over me – a reaction as natural and spontaneous as I’ve ever had. “Eh, no, non ho capito perche’ il problema non e’ ovvio, SCUSA!” I yelled back at the attendant, adding the appropriate hand gestures for greater effect.  He backed off.  Maybe this place is rubbing off on me?

by Toni DeBella

I write about Italy because…

…the country of Italy is jam-packed with hundreds upon hundreds of small, intimate and profound stories.  Material and subjects fall into my lap – I don’t even have to look for them, they just appear at my doorstep.  What can I do? They are screaming to be written about…and I am a “wannabe” travel writer.

…”old” is interesting to me and so is “different”.

…I am uncontrollably compelled to chronicle my experiences and spew forth my points of view about what I love (and sometimes hate) about this country.  It’s a complicated relationship we have, Italy and me, and I need to talk about it.

…I am just arrogant and self-absorbed enough to believe that everyone within earshot or sitting at a computer wants to hear or read what I have to say.  I am the self-appointed, unofficial Ambassador of Orvieto, Umbria, and all parts in between and beyond.  I’ll write about Italy if I think you’ll read it.

I write about Italy because I can.

by Toni DeBella

Italy Roundtable’s One-Year Anniversary Invitation to Bloggers:

 “As we’re preparing for our one-year anniversary of the formation of the Italy Roundtable, we’d like you to pull up a chair (so to speak)! We invite you to choose one of the topics we’ve blogged about in the past year and write a post about it. We’ll highlight some of our favorites in our own Roundtable posts next month.” 

ArtTrav, At Home in Tuscany, Brigolante, Italofile, & WhyGo Italy

I was having a chat with a friend today who was in a bit of a quandary.  He’d been offered an incredible opportunity – the kind of thing that comes around once in a lifetime.  I know that in his heart he’d really like to accept the offer, but just the thought of it made him squirm in his chair.  He was definitely contemplating something outside the box – the very reason he should “go for it”…easy for me to say.

In the film A League of Their Own, Tom Hanks, speaking about the game of baseball said, “It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it.  The hard is what makes it great.” 

Stepping out of ones comfort zone and putting it all on the line is never easy. But taking on something that, in your wildest dreams you couldn’t imagine doing, and then doing it…that’s what makes life worth living, isn’t it?

Isn’t life strange

A turn of the page

A book without light

Unless with love we write;

To throw it away

To lose just a day

The quicksand of time

You know it makes me want to cry.

“Isn’t Life Strange?” by the Moody Blues

Lyrics by J. Lodge

by Toni DeBella

"Orvieto Sunset"

I have an Italian passport, a codice fiscale and my city library card.  I received the “friend-of-a-friend” discount on my Roman root canal and get the locals’ price for my morning caffe latte.  I’ve accumulated two tablecloths, four plug adapters, six wooden hangers, a set of espresso cups, a milk foamer, a bathmat and a thicker skin.

Going back and forth, arriving and departing, being here and then there makes my head spin!  My months in Italy have passed at lightening speed; the countdown has begun and the melancholy is setting in.  There is just over one week until I must return to my American “base camp”.  I get confused about which place I can call home: San Francisco or Orvieto?

I’m often asked if I am living la dolce vita? Stereotypes and dopey clichés are the stuff of Hollywood films, tour companies and real estate agencies – images perpetuated to sell the fantasy.  No, I don’t live either Under the Tuscan Sun or in The Dark Heart of Italy.  Honestly, this kooky existence, even with its sometimes harsh reality, beats the Eat, Pray, Love version of romanticized Italy, hands down.

The other day I overheard one women whisper to another as they passed me on the street, “There’s that americana”.  It sent me flashing back to my preteen, middle school days for a moment and then, suddenly, a satisfied smile came over my face because being the topic of town gossip, I decided, is much preferable to being invisible.

I know that I am still an outsider looking in, an invested observer circling around the perimeter of Italian life.  I quite like the view from over here…for now.  Sometimes you have to let things unfold at their own pace and in their own time.  I’d rather stay in Italy, but I must go back.  I cling to the hope that one day il destino will throw me the proverbial bone and I won’t have to leave.  Until that time comes, I will make like a bad penny and just keep turning up!

by Toni DeBella

“Orvieto Sunset” and the other images of Italy were contributed by Patrick Delaney, a fellow expat from Dublin, Ireland in the process of building a house in nearby Montecchio. Umbria.  Patrick, an architect, has been painting in oils for ten years.  He believes good paintings are about light and shade and atmosphere.  His favorite artist is Caravaggio – he only wishes he could paint like him.  (But mind you, he gets into as much trouble!)  For more information about Patrick’s work, you can contact him at delaneypm@eircom.net.

I don’t know why, but the sight of my friend Brian “putting” about Orvieto in his 2000 forest green Piaggio Ape makes me smile.  Perhaps it’s because he’s such a distinguished and elegant Englishman that the visual of him in that little Italian pickup truck (“ape” means “bee”) creates a contrasting effect – as if one is looking at an enigma.  But once you get to know Brian you’ll discover the many facets of his personality: father, grandfather, friend, soul mate to the lovely Antonella, and an adventuresome, rugged, country-boy-at-heart hobby farmer.

I got to wondering about how Brian happened to land in Italy, so on one of our morning jaunts around the Rupe I asked him and he graciously agreed to spin his wonderful tale of two teenage boys, a yellow and grey 150 LD Lambretta scooter, 4,000 kilometers and the dawn of a dream to someday live in Italy.

Just sixteen and eighteen years of age respectively, he and his friend Michael Williams set out from Rotherham, England for Italian parts unknown.  It was 1957 (a very good year) – a decade post-World War II when Italy was a much different country than it is today.  He remembers it as a simple and innocent time.  

Brian doesn't recall the girl in the photo's name, only that "she didn't fancy me."

The exchange rate to lire was good, the girls were pretty and exotic and the boys’ youthful exuberance and open hearts bought them life lessons you couldn’t pay a million euros for today.  Per esempio, a collision with the back of a tractor ended amicably with a “wine” summit on the tractor owner’s portico.  Both parties agreed to assume equal fault in the matter with just a gentleman’s handshake, a “grazie” and a “ciao”. 

As with most journeys, this one came to an end and Brian dutifully returned to England to join the family’s tile business.  When it came time for a trade course, his father sent him off to Malmö, Sweden, knowing full well the risk of sending him to the training in Modena, Italy – Brian might never have returned!

Enjoying a visit with the grandchildren

Brian worked hard and raised his family, venturing back to Italy whenever he could.  With his children grown and his tile business sold, he retired at the young age of 51 and made a “bee” line straight for Italy where he has now lived for 21 years…and counting. 

Although today he drives around on three wheels instead of two, I think it would be safe to say that life in Italy is very sweet for Brian and his little Ape. 

by Toni DeBella

I had my first real run in with La Signora at our town’s Saturday outdoor market.  I’d made the amateurish blunder of hesitating for a split second and a woman with her produce-filled cart literally ran over me, scraping the back of my heel which broke the strap of my favorite pair of sandals. She didn’t even slow down – blowing right past me without a word.  She was surprisingly unaffected by the ranting and cursing of a bloodied lunatic who doesn’t know her way around a vegetable stand.  I learned at that moment that La Signora, like other people of great power and influence, is a force to be reckoned with.

La Signora demands respect and she most assuredly gets it.  She is a sensible shoe-wearing, evil eye-casting, mama’s boy-promoting woman on a mission.  She is serious-minded, takes no prisoners and doesn’t trust you as far as she can throw you.   Her outside shell is tough to penetrate – Fort Knox would be easier to crack than her personal inner sanctum.

I both admire and revere La Signora.  She is able to out cook, out shop and out walk me up a hill…and if she needed to, I believe she could even out run me.  In Italy, La Signora reigns supreme.

by Toni DeBella

Art: The Good, the Bad and….

Unfortunately there won’t be any swooning happening here. You see, at the base of the rock that I live on, in front of the town’s train station sits a sculpture in a fountain. This “work of art” makes a very strong first impression to visitors arriving by rail on their way up to town. It is my understanding (I did some asking around) that the artist is internationally renowned and important enough that the City commissioned not one, but two of his works for installation.   I don’t get it.  I can’t even describe the fountain to you without using terms that would make a 9 year old boy collapse in a heap of laughter at my “potty” humor.  Fortunately no one really cares what I think about the fountain, and why should they?  Who the hell am I to judge the merits of a piece of art?  What I know about art couldn’t fill an espresso cup.  Art, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder.  Enough said.

by Toni DeBella

writ·er [rahy-ter] noun. a person engaged in writing

The words scribbler, dabbler, pencil pusher and hack all come to mind as a description of the activity in which I am now engaged.  But the term “writer” – that particular word sticks in my throat. For me the title has always been reserved for those who actually deserve it, such as the likes of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Capote, Irving and Bradbury. 

So what makes someone a “real” writer?  Are you a writer when you are paid to write?  If so, how much money buys you this status?  Is a writer someone who gets published?  Today’s publishing landscape has changed to include self-published websites, bloggers, contributors, ghostwriters, editors, etc.  Which of these capacities qualifies you as a writer and which do not? How many people in the world must agree that you are a writer in order for you to call yourself one?  Do people fill out a ballot designating you as such?  What is the litmus test one must pass to become a member of this elite club?  

Even if I had answers to the above questions perhaps they might not amount to a hill of beans?  Could it be that the name you give yourself isn’t really that important? Perhaps it isn’t what you say you do that matters, but that what you do brings about fulfillment.  Every day I sit down at my computer and put words onto a page.  Maybe that’s all I really need to know.  I write.

by Toni DeBella

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

If I hadn’t experienced it myself, I don’t think I would have believed it.  My friend, who attended class with me, was witness to the casino (mess) that was my first public funded italiano per stranieri (Italian for Foreigners) course.

It was a blast from the past – reminiscent of the glory days of flying spitballs, pimple-faced awkwardness and hallway passes alla “Welcome Back Kotter”, the iconic television sitcom about a street-wise teacher saddled with a class of overzealous, unruly misfits.

This afternoon’s cast of characters: a pretty blond, if not somewhat scattered teacher; a macho hooligan who passed out our text books while making wisecracks with a unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth;  a skinny, greasy-haired and sullen boy who interrupted class to take a call on his cellphone; a dull-witted, sloppy adolescent surfing his Facebook page during the lesson; a painfully shy North African women who refused to  speak if asked a question – she just sat there until the teacher moved on; a young Eastern European couple who sat so close together they almost became one person and, my favorite, the know-it-all teacher’s pet who corrected your answers before the instructor got a word in edgewise.

The class was disorganized, the overhead projector didn’t function and the audio CD was scratchy and unintelligible. However, I did learn some things I didn’t know before – the words l’orario fisso (fixed schedule); lo stipendio (salary), and turni (shifts).  Also, silenzio! (be quiet!);  No, non si può fumare qui dentro! (No, you cannot smoke in here!) and Spero che tornerai la prossima settimana (I hope you will come back next week).

I believe “sweathog” translated into Italian is sweathog.

by Toni DeBella

Just a few short months later, I find myself sitting across the dinner table from a lovely couple to whom I’d been introduced that evening.  Halfway through the supper conversation we discover the link: “So, you’re that Toni DeBella”, the husband declares to our astonishment. You could have knocked me over with a feather!

In these crazy moments, the once unthinkable becomes imaginable.  Here we all sit together in a restaurant in Orvieto, experiencing firsthand the growing obsolescence of continents and landmasses with hard-drawn borders.  Can’t you just picture it – the entire human race clustered in one big archipelago – chained loosely and floating alongside one another, just waiting to collide?  And do you know the most amazing part?  My story is becoming more and more common and every day.  Il mondo e’ piccolo (it’s a small world), and it’s getting smaller all the time.

Read another “small world” story by Lisa Chiodo at Renovating Italy here.

 
by Toni DeBella