Thoughts Arising from An Ice Cream Cone

There was a minor panic at the local cafeteria/gelateria this week. Why? The gelato cooler was on the blink. On an ordinary day in the scorching August heat of a Tuscan summer, this represents a significant loss of daily revenue. This week, though, no gelato means the loss of big business. Why? The annual festa is in town.

The festa is what we know as a carnival. It moves from town to town in the summertime, exciting children as well as adults who still have a child lurking within them. In our small paese (village), it also means all the negozi (stores) stock special items and stay open past midnight so the festa goers can pick up a broom, a set of dishes, a vacuum or a ham on their way to or from the rides and games set up in the local soccer field.

The town piazza buzzes with activity. Two pizzerias and one ristorante/wine bar are full of customers, while music plays on a stage in a corner of the square and people of all ages stroll around. There is no bedtime for Italian children in the summertime, so the streets are full of strollers and toddlers, as well as little kids weaving in and out on bikes and scooters.

Side note: an Italian friend of mine visiting Ireland was appalled that children were put to bed at a set time. "They were crying because they wanted to stay up with everyone else, but their parents made them go to bed! How cruel!"

But back to the saga of the gelato cooler. In late August almost all businesses in the area are in ferie (on vacation), including the one that could repair the cooler. Our friends at the gelateria shrugged their shoulders in the way Italians do to convey "We're at their mercy." You could sense them calculating how many gelato euros would be lost during the five-day festa.

Italy has a reputation for being chaotic with an allora (whatever) attitude to schedules or urgent repair needs. Perhaps that is so in other parts of the country, particularly south of Rome, but we haven't found it to be the case in our experience.

Examples: a few days ago we had big leak in our furnace room. A part had gone bad. We were told it could not be fixed until the next day, which was soon enough for us. However, a few hours later the plumber reappeared with the part and fixed it in no time.

Sixteen years ago we renovated our centuries-old stone farmhouse here while we were living in Vienna. This meant the work was done while we were not around. We made monthly visits to check on the progress. It took almost a year to complete, and I can honestly say in that time we only found two minor and easily amended things that had not been done correctly.

I compare that with the renovation we did to our apartment in London ten years ago. We visited the site every single day and every single day we found a problem. Big problems, too, like the wrong door taken out (they hadn't read the blueprints), the tile laid incorrectly, the wood floors put down badly, doors hung so you had to go around them to get out, etc.

But before I digress into Italy vs. England comparisons, I know you are in suspense about the gelato cooler. With the festa in full swing, and the caffeteria/gelateria in a prime location, what happened?

A sympathetic technician at the refrigeration company came through for them and repaired the cooler in time for the opening of the festa. The relief was palpable.

Last night crowds gathered around the cooler to choose among the delicious guste (flavors), made daily from fresh ingredients. You can travel all over the world but you will never find ice cream better than what we have right here in this small Italian paese. Don't be jealous. I'll have a cone for each of you.

You Have Found America!

"Hai trovato America!" is an expression Italians use when someone strikes it lucky.

As an example: A friend found a stray dog wandering near her house in the Tuscan countryside. It was matted, full of ticks and fleas. My friend took her to the vet and said to do everything necessary to bring the dog back to health. The vet exclaimed, "Il canino ha trovata America!" (The little dog has found America).

Since the turn of the 20th century, Italians have viewed America as a golden place where one could go and start a new life. It was possible for an illiterate peasant from Calabria to emigrate, start a business, send for his family, support those left behind, and raise his children to be American doctors and lawyers. This optimistic picture is one that lies deep in the Italian view of the United States.

An Italian friend tells me, "America has always been everything to us. Our ancestors went there for a better life, you liberated us during World War II, we love the music, the way of life, the friendliness, the movies, the big spaces. It is every Italian's dream to visit America."

Except, that friend continues, "E' sembra che America ha perso la via" (It seems America has lost the way).

I've been in a small Tuscan village during the dramatic deficit showdown, arguments over the legality of Obama's health care, and the rise of (gulp) Michelle Bachmann. Throw in the three continuing wars, too. It isn't obvious the people of this small paese would be paying attention, but nearly every day someone asks me why things are so bad in the States. I should emphasize they asked the same question during the Bush years.

The difference is they considered Bush truly dangerous and they generally like Obama. After his election, their usually positive view of America, lost during the Bush years, was restored overnight. They grasp "i suoi nemici lo vogliono a faillire" (his enemies want him to fail) but do not understand why he was "non piu forte" (not stronger) during the battle of the budget when he had the authority to use a big club. I tell them even his diehard supporters are at a loss to explain some of his actions.

They are worried because "che accede in America colpisce il mondo" (what happens in America affects the world). Obama needs "meno cerebrale e piu' muscoli" (less brain and more brawn), they say. They know he has strength because he defeated the Clinton machine to become our first black president, and he, not Bush, can take credit for tracking down Osama bin Laden, but then "cosa gli e' successo" (what happened to him)?

At dinner with Italian friends recently, one told me that for her, the hardest thing to understand is the lack of American health care and the opposition to providing it. She works in a hospital and can not comprehend how even dying people can be turned away from many hospitals in the States if they have no insurance. She knows Obama has passed a health care bill and finds it inconceivable that there is a movement to reverse it. "I would not like to live in a country like that. E' senza cuore (It is heartless). We have many problems here in Italy but at least we take care of our sick people. What kind of country won't do that?"

The only riposta (response) I have found is "non so" (I don't know).

Baby Love

If reincarnation exists, I'd like to come back as a baby in our Italian village. The adoration that would come my way! The faces that would light up at the sight of me. My feet would be tickled, my cheeks lovingly tweaked. Hundreds of kisses would be showered on me. Sweets and presents would be thrust into my tiny hands. I'd be elaborately decked out in baby finery.

There would be abundant sympathy and a frantic desire to comfort me when I was unhappy. I would be called "Amore" (love) by everyone. If I made a mess at a risortante, I would be told "non importa" (loosely, no one cares). If I happened to come back as a blonde, blue-eyed baby, I could own the town.

It is a cliche that Italians love babies, but it is easy to see how the cliche got started if you accompany a baby around this paese (small country village). A visit to the forno (oven) for bread can take up a half hour while the commessa (sales woman) drops everything at the sight of the baby, hands him biscotti (cookies) and takes him from his stroller for a cuddle. The other customers forget about their pane (bread) and join in the baby love.

A stroll down a side street can bring an unknown woman out of her negozio (shop) with a balloon for "il bimbo" (slang for baby boy). Preening Italian males in their designer shirts, pants, shoes, sunglasses, and probably underwear, let down their stylish guard to coo at a baby.

With such affection for babies, it is surprising to learn that Italy has one of the lowest birth rates in Europe, with an average of 1.3 children. This is despite the ban on birth control mandated by the Catholic Church.

People of all ages may fill the churches on Sunday mornings, but they have obviously decided the Pope and other unmarried, childless clergy in the Vatican are not going to tell them how many children to have. My take on that is if you don't play the game, you don't make the rules. But I digress.

Young people in Italy delay marriage for a few reasons, but one of the most obvious is the tendency of the Italian male to live at home. This is accepted and often encouraged by his parents (see "Mamma's Boys," October 22, 2009). These men are so numerous they have a name: "mammoni." When they finally decide to walk down the aisle, it is often with a pregnant bride or with their baby as part of the wedding party.

More and more Italian women work outside the home, making large families difficult to manage. There is not a strong and reliable day care system, either. At least in this town, grandparents tend to the children while the mother and father are at work.

Everyone seems to benefit from that solution, but some families don't have the benefit of such an arrangement (though I am hard pressed at this moment to think of even one family here who does not have it). Things are different, certainly, when parents and grandparents do not live near each other, or if the grandparents are still working themselves.

Our daughter and husband, en route to Italy with their (our) baby, told us about an encounter at airport security in the USA. Naturally, they were carrying some baby food in their hand luggage for an eight hour journey. The TSA agent, full of self importance and stupidity, insisted the baby food jars be opened in order to swab them. This meant the baby food, unless used within an hour, which it would not be, had to be thrown away.

When they left Italy, our daughter worried about security at the airport here. We assured her that Italian security, while thorough and quite strict, would use common sense when they saw them with the baby and all the paraphernalia needed to make a transatlantic journey with one. Sure enough, the three sailed through security, but not without at least one or two of the security agents smiling and waving "Ciao" to the baby.