Bargains with no bargaining at open air market in San Salvatore

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Open air markets are everywhere in Italy. Even our tiny community has one that runs Wednesday from about 9 a.m. to noon, although it only has about six vendors. Usually when we pass, we are on our way to catch a train, but today we ride by on our way back from our once-a-week language class at the home of Marco, a retired public school teacher. We discovered Marco when I asked Matteo, a local shopkeeper, if he knew anyone local who gave private lessons. He didn’t know anyone, but one of the customers standing nearby did, and we have been meeting with Marco once or twice a week for the last three weeks.

The parking lot where the San Salvatore market is held has been special to me ever since I discovered that it is the site of my grandfather’s family house. The home has since been torn down, but fortunately cousin Rolando visited Italy in 1969, and he snapped some photos just a year before it was demolished. Lucy is looking now at pots and pans in the casalinga stall, and I note that she could be standing in the very spot where great-grandmother Maria Marchi might have been cooking 110 years ago. Of course, she could also be standing in the toilet, too, though the house most likely would not have had indoor plumbing then.

Market vendors in Italy are licensed and regulated, but they keep all their supplies in large vans and move around to different piazzas. The shops are often run by a husband and wife, and because of their low overhead, they usually offer better prices than the stores. For example, Lucy bought a herb chopper in a beautiful store in Lucca for 22 euros. Then she found a cheaper one in a crowded little side store for 9 euros. She bought it and will take the expensive one back. Here at the market, she sees a similar chopper for 6 euros.  We have been in need of some bigger pans than those provided by the agriturismo, so we choose a pan and a lid, and then we also choose a nice cutting board and a juicer. Our first language teacher here, Laura, taught us that at least in northern and central Italy, price haggling in stores is not done. We would make a brutta figura if we tried to bargain in a store. Markets already offer low prices in the first place, so Laura doesn’t ask for a discount—though she may when she buys more than one item.  Well, we are buying four items, and the bill is about 50 euros, but we are happy with what we have and don’t try to bargain. The shop owners, though, hand us a bin with a wide assortment of cutting knives and tell us to pick one out. The knives are not in their packages, but they look to be of good quality and are either new or nearly new.

Then we move on to the fruit and vegetable stand, where we watch two women each order three or four bags full of fruit. They talk with the vendor a bit about food and cooking, but we don’t see any haggling over the prices. We ask for potatoes, beans, blood oranges and mandarins. Each time the vendor puts them on the scale and tells us the price, and then he puts something extra in, either more of the item we ordered or something else, so we also come back with a carrot and some celery and parsley which he has thrown in, he says, “per sugo,” for sauce.

Lucy tells me at home while she is squeezing juice out of the oranges that the prices and quality are excellent. “I wish we had known about this market earlier,” she says. The fresh juice is sweet, tangy, delicious.  Although some people love the gamesmanship of bargaining, we prefer the cordiality of this local marketplace where instead of having to argue, we are given smiles, courtesy and free samples without asking.

The Spadoni house as it appeared in 1969, when it no longer was

occupied by Spadonis. Note building on the right, which is still standing

and is visible in the picture above of the open air market.

(photo courtesy of Roland Spadoni)

La cucina americana: Brunch

Tuesday, April 5

What is typical American food, anyway? We have invited three Italian cousins—Grazia, Marta and Gianfranco—for pranzo, and we want them to experience something American, since they eat Italian food 365 days a year already. The first things that come to mind are hamburgers and hotdogs, and for sure we don’t want to do those. Of course there are casseroles, meatloaf, steak and potatoes, but we are not keen on those ideas either. Then Lucy comes up with an idea that seems strange at first, but then it grows on us, and pretty soon we have become enthusiastic about it.

She asks me to remember the breakfasts they used to have at the lodge at Snoqualmie Falls. In fact, maybe they still have them, but in any event, these meals are not quickly forgotten, because one delicious course followed another, and pretty soon all guests had to unloosen their belts because the food was too good to refuse. And who can deny that Americans are big on hearty breakfasts and brunches, so having a multi-course brunch would qualify as a typical meal. It would also be completely different from Italian habits, because a customary Italian breakfast would be a brioche and a shot glass of espresso, and nothing else, all downed in about five minutes while standing at the counter of a bar. So it is decided. First course: oatmeal, topped with hot spiced apple compote, walnuts, raisins and whole milk. Second course: blueberry pancakes. Third course: omelet with mushrooms, cheese, onions, green peppers with secret spices from chef Paolo. Fourth course: fruit salad. Dessert: Pepperidge Farm chocolate chip cooks (a recent addition to the shelves at EsseLunga) and gelato (our one concession to the Italian menu).

We eat in the piazza right outside our apartment door, and the weather is perfect. How do our Italian guests like their American meal? They say it is great, and they point out that they have eaten everything and had seconds on some courses as proof that it was buono. We know, of course, that they probably would have said this even if it wasn’t great, and we will never know for sure exactly what they thought, but the meal goes smoothly and we have a great time talking. Afterwards we talk about our families, and they help me identify a few people in old photos that were brought from Italy to America 100 years ago. We are invited to their house for pranzo three weeks from now, and everyone gives hugs and kisses and says, “Ciao, ciao, ci vediamo” several times before our guests leave and we go inside to rest, tired but content.

Seated: Grazia, Marta, Gianfranco. Standing: Head chef Lucia

La famiglia medievale Seghieri

Monday, April 4

As we ride our bikes out of the driveway, we see a tractor coming down the road, and third cousin Fausto Seghieri is at the helm. He apparently has come to help out his mom and dad on their yard. He stops the tractor and says he has a piece of paper for me. He jumps off and runs inside the house of his dad, Mario, and comes out with an amazing document. When we first met, some weeks ago, I asked for more information on his family, meaning his uncles and cousins, and he said he would write this down and I could come get it later. Now I have the paper in hand, but instead of it being information about current family members, he has given me information tracing our family line back the birth of Francesco Seghieri in 1543, complete with the first and last names of each descendant’s wife.

After having spent a couple of hours in the church archives in Pescia trying to find out similar information on the Spadoni side and only getting back to around 1750, I can appreciate how much work this represents. I thank Fausto as profusely as I can, and he hops back on the tractor.

After Lucy and I finish our bike ride, I head straight to the computer and enter in the information I have obtained. The names go thus: Francesco, Marco, Andrea, Seghiero, Andrea, Giovanni, Giuseppe, Seghiero, Torello and then Anita, my grandmother. Fausto and I share the same great-great grandfather, Seghiero.

Suddenly I am inspired to go back to Fausto to get the information I am missing about his side of the line. My great-grandfather Torello was the brother of Natale, Fausto’s great grandfather, and I want to fill in as many details as I can about Natale’s descendants. I print out what I have of Natale’s family tree and head back to Mario’s house to see if Fausto is still around. He has left, but I am still in luck, because his brother Ivano, whom I have not met, is working in the yard and is happy to help me. After a few minutes of awkwardly trying to write while standing up, I am invited to sit inside at the table, where I am joined by Mario and his wife Loretta, who help Ivano recall names and dates. I am slow at writing information, mainly because I have to think so much when they give me numbers.

“Lui é nato ventotto settembre mila nove cento ottantuno,” they will say, and my brain slowly processes one number at a time while I try to repeat the whole thing so I won’t forget it. That would translate as, “He was born 28 September, 1981.” I write this down and show it to Ivano for verification. After about fifteen minutes of this, I suggest that maybe Ivano should be writing this, and he makes the wise suggestion that he continue without me and I come back in two or three days, which I gladly accept.

Before I leave, one more breakthrough occurs. A Seghieri who lives in the long old Seghieri house is married to a tour guide who works in Lucca and speaks perfect English. Nobody thought to tell us this before, but now they give her a call and she comes right over. Her name is Elena Benvenuti, and she has to leave in a minute to go to work, but she will be glad to meet with me on Thursday of this week. Her husband is related to Libero Seghieri, whom we met last year. Libero has done some work on his own family tree, but he and I were unable to find a family connection at the time. Now that I know how I am related to Mario, Fausto and Ivano, that could be the key to fit together many more pieces of this gigantic puzzle.

“Are Libero and Mario related?” I ask.

“Yes, I can’t tell you how, because I am not a Seghieri,” Elena answers. “But if we get everyone together, they can tell you how they are related. We can find out.”

This is very encouraging news for me, because I am eager to find out how I am related to the other people here, especially the ones who run the Casolare dei Fiori, where we are staying. It is also heartening to find out that there are relatives here who are interested in their family history and have done their own research. It would be helpful if I could find someone on the Spadoni side who shares this interest, but I will take what I can get. 

Beware of false foreign friends!

Sunday, April 3

As I work on making reservations for some travel, I am reminded of a verbal blunder I once made while corresponding by e-mail with the proprietor of a bed and breakfast. After agreeing on the dates and cost, I asked how I could send the deposit. I didn’t know the word for deposit and didn’t want to take the time to look it up, so I just called it the deposito, because I was pretty sure I had heard that word before in my travels. True, I had heard the word, but it is not used the same way in Italy. It means warehouse or storeroom. The word I needed was quite different, which I soon discovered when the proprietor wrote back with instructions on how to make the caparra, with no mention of my gaffe, which he had probably heard from other foreigners before.

Such words are called amici falsi, or false friends, because they fool you into thinking you know what they mean, but they actually mean something else. Here are just a few other examples of false Italian friends:

Sensibile means sensitive, not sensible

Educato means polite, not educated

Fame means hunger, not fame

Largo means wide, not large

Fattoria means farm, not factory

Noioso means boring, not noisy

Parenti means relatives, not parents
Preservativi means condoms, not food preservatives

Many, many times the Italian and English words are similar, which makes Italian easier to learn than other languages, but I have seen and heard some funny stories about false friends and other language blunders which are worth relating.

Of course, the problems go both ways. I once saw a sign in Italian about how a museum was being remodeled and thus was temporarily closed. The explanation ended with “Ci dispiace per il disagio.” Agio means ease or leisure, and disagio means inconvenience, which could be translated more literally to mean a lack of ease. The sign included a complete translation below into English, and it ended with “We apologize for the disease.”

My favorite story comes from my friends Steve and Patti. It involves a British missionary lady who was ordering some work done on her kitchen while she returned on leave to England. She had laid out the plans just fine, until she told the Italian carpenters that she wanted them to purchase and install a cabinet, which she referred to as a cabineto, right here. “Qui?” they asked incredulously. “You want it here? But why?”

“Because that where I want it,” she said. “It’s the most convenient place.”

They continued to question her, but she was insistent: “Mettete il cabineto qui.”

And so they did. There is no such word as cabineto in Italian, so they did what they thought she wanted. When she returned, she found a gabinetto, a toilet, installed in her kitchen. 

Renewing Italian families ties

Saturday, April 2

We have cut back on the Italian lessons to one per week.  I am supposed to use the extra time to get to know people here, to research family history and to write, but I have spent the morning doing nothing much. Lucy is shopping in Lucca, and I get antsy to get back to my agenda. It is a gorgeous spring day with weather approaching 75 degrees F, so I decide to go see some cousins on the Spadoni side, sisters Grazia and Marta Michelotti and Marta’s husband Gianfranco. I have procrastinated a bit because I know they don’t have e-mail accounts, so I can’t write them to warn that I am coming. I could phone them, but I really, really hate talking on the phone in Italian. It makes me nervous and I usually do a poor job. Inevitably there comes this dead space when the person I am talking to is probably wondering if I am still there, since something has popped into my mind to say, but I don’t know how to say it in Italian.

So I decide to drop by unannounced, which is probably fine at 1 p.m. on a sunny Saturday. I have last seen Grazia and Marta nine years ago, when Lucy and I lived in Padova. They are my second cousins and don’t speak any English, although Gianfranco does and often serves as translator when American cousins visit. As I pull up to the gate of their house, I see both Marta and Grazia outside, and Grazia walks toward the gate to see who is this stranger who has pulled up on a bicycle and is talking to her with a strange accent. After a few seconds of puzzlement, she realizes who I am and we do the Italian hug and kiss greeting, and then I do the same with Marta.

I am treated to some pasta, carrots, water and wine, and we catch up a little on what everyone has been doing. They are all a few years older than I and are retired, though Grazia does some custom tailoring work out of her home. I talk to Gianfranco mostly in Italian now, and he goes back and forth between English and Italian, but we try to do mostly Italian so Marta and Grazia can keep up. This is the kind of conversation I excel in, because it mostly amounts to the same things I tell people here over and over again—what I am doing here, what are my children doing, am I still working, where do I live and all that.

Lucy is missing out on this opportunity to get to know my cousins, and besides she is a big help in keeping the conversation going, so I decide to invite them all to our house for lunch next Tuesday, and after some extra encouragement on my part, they accept. Lucy is a great cook of both American and Italian cooking, though I know she feels intimidated at the thought of cooking Italian food for Italians. We will try to think of something American to cook, if we can, but it is hard to get some ingredients here. I ask them to bring some photos for me to scan for my family history research, and in this way I am keeping to my agenda—practicing my Italian, getting to know people here and doing family history research.

Another mystery of Italian craftsmanship

Friday, April 1

Everywhere we look, we see marvelous Italian craftsmanship: paintings, statues, architecture, stonework, brickwork, clothing, pastries, pasta, windows and doors and the list could go on. I do notice one area where Italian craftsmanship is sadly and glaringly wanting. The quality of asphalt paving here is abysmal. I do asphalt maintenance for a living in the summer, so of course I can’t help but notice these things, but one does not need to be an expert to recognize the problems.

The autostrade are an exception. They are mostly smooth and in good repair, but almost every other paved road I have seen has its problems, even including many newly done projects. In the first place, most asphalt roads are done without proper preparation of the base, so after a short while, the roads sag and crack. Grass grows right up to the edge of the pavement, so the roots penetrate the surface and cause the edges to crumble away.

And then there are the repairs, which is the part that amazes me the most. Usually when a road develops multiple cracks—that alligator skin appearance—I will use a saw with diamond tips to make a clean cut. Then I will remove the old asphalt. If necessary, I will dig down a foot or two to find out why the ground has sunk and then refill with gravel and compact. A sticky substance called tack coat is then applied around the edges of the old asphalt to make the new stick to the old. Then I replace the old asphalt with hot asphalt, compacting with a plate compactor or roller, being careful to make sure the new asphalt matches the existing grade. As a final step of the repair, I seal the seams of the patch with a hot, rubberized tar to prevent water infiltration. After this, depending on the wishes of the customer, I may seal the entire road or parking lot with two coats of industrial grade asphalt sealer.

Here, the process is much, much easier, though extremely ineffective. A crew will drive around in a truck with cold mix asphalt and shovels. They will put a shovel load here and there and tap it down a bit with the shovel. Then they will move on, leaving the passing cars to compact the asphalt. How they choose which of the many holes to add asphalt to is somewhat of a mystery. There is no cutting, tack coat, hot asphalt, compactor or seam sealing. It looks like they pass by each road every one or  two years, and a single chuckhole may have five or six different patches applied in this manner, while some are completely passed by, making for bumpy and uneven surfaces. As for sealer, I have never seen a parking lot here that has been sealed.

It is amazing to me that a country in which people value style and craftsmanship so highly can tolerate such terrible road work. And roads are obviously very important to Italians, because despite excellent public transportation, nearly every family has a car, and Italians are noted for their love of driving fast. I sometimes wonder if it is done on purpose to slow people down, but I know that can’t be true. Chalk it up there with the Etruscans as another of the mysteries of Italy.

Bicycles, bogs, frogs and battle axes

Thursday, March 31

Lucy and I periodically debate whether we should get a Vespa or some other type of motorino next year. It would be nice to be able to go up to Montecarlo without walking twenty minutes up a steep grade. Today, however, is a good day to have only a bicycle, because otherwise I would have missed out on a couple of interesting encounters.

The first occurs as I ride along via Mattonaia and hear splashing noises in the boggy ditch. I slow down enough to realize that frogs, frightened by the sound of my bike, are jumping into the water. Then I stop completely and get off my bike for a closer look. I am passed by a boy of about sixteen on a motorino, but he swings back around and turns off his motor. "What are you looking for," he wants to know. "Frogs," I say. "What?" he says. I don't know if it is my bad accent or the fact that a grown man is looking for frogs that makes me hard to understand, but after I repeat the word a couple more times, he gets the picture.

"Are you French, German?" he asks. "No, americano," I explain. "Mi piaciono rane." I like frogs. This leads to a mini conversation, the only one I have had with a neighbor besides various nearby Seghieris. His name is Andrea, and he will be playing in a soccer match next week at Pescia against a squad of Americans. He likes the Los Angeles Galaxy soccer team and has a classmate who is a Seghieri. Do I play soccer? No, basketball and baseball.

After a few more minutes, we both move on. I would like to meet more neighbors, but this year we have focused on language learning. Next year we hope to take private lessons in San Salvatore so we can spend more time in this little community. Now as I ride through the town, I pass a group of men of various ages who are throwing what looks like fancy hatchets at a wooden target. They are in the side yard of the local library down below the street level, and the yard is surrounded by an iron fence. I stop to watch for a moment and ask if they mind if I take some pictures. Certainly, go right ahead, they say.

It turns out they are throwing medieval battle axes, which, when thrown correctly, spin around and stick in the wooden target. Some of the throwers are quite good, while others appear to be beginners. Now some of them are throwing metal spears at the target, and there are also some fancy-handled knives stuck in the grass. I snap a dozen photos, and one of the men comes over to me and gives me a brochure that explains who they are.

It seems I am watching a practice session of the Historical Group of Montecarlo, which each year hold a festival in medieval costume to demonstrate the food, colors, arms and customs of the area during the period from about 1440 to 1510. The festival is held on the closest Sunday to June 20, and I am disappointed that I won’t be here to see it, but at least I have had a chance to watch this costume-less practice session.

Sentinels in Medieval garb from a photo I find on the site of the Gruppo Storico Montecarlese.

A battle with bastoni

Spadoni family secrets uncovered

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

I had planned to see American cousins Colleen and her daughter Monica today, but they e-mailed that they were deeply engaged in una cosa d’amore for Monica. Okay, they didn’t really put it that way, and I am exaggerating a little, but probably not much. They are negotiating for the purchase of a cello for Monica in Firenze. She is an accomplished cellist and is quite taken with a particular cello made by the Florentine craftsman Paolo Vittori. Hopefully they will be successful.

I decide to use the unexpected free time to do some family history research. But before that, I am taken to Pescia by my bi-lingual friend Ari, and this time we are successful in obtaining my codice fiscale, the document I will need if I ever want to open an Italian bank account, buy a vehicle or get a job here. All we needed was a form filled out by Luca from the Casolare dei Fiori stating that he is providing us hospitality. Ari has already talked to the clerk here twice, so once we have the proper form, she says “perfetto” and the whole meeting is done in less than three minutes. All I am lacking now is enough money to actually buy a vehicle or piece of property.

After Ari drops me off, I am ready to hit the road again. I plan to take the 11 a.m. train to Pescia because on a previous trip to the parochial office there, I noted that the hours of opening are 10-12:30 p.m. Then I remember that there is no train at 11 a.m., and not even one at 12:00. The next train won’t come until 1 p.m., so I ride my bike for the first time to Pescia, which takes about half an hour. Once at the office, I am told that the archives are in a different building, and the hours there are 4-6:30 p.m. on Wednesday and Friday. I am also told that the office is not clearly marked but is the third door down on that yellow building down the street. I am now used to this routine, going to a place at a certain time and finding out that I must go to a different place that has different hours, so I am unfazed and I ride back home for lunch.

There is a train at 4 p.m., so after a ten-minute ride to San Salvatore, a five-minute train ride to Pescia station, and another ten-minute ride to the Archivio delle Parrocchie, I fill out a form stating what I want. Four other people, all Italians, are quietly reading historical documents at a large table. I am given an old book filled with hand-written records from the 1800s, but I am also given personal and professional assistance from one of the clerks, Andrea. Without his help, I would have been lost, because though I can comprehend textbook Italian well enough, all the writing is in old Italian script, which is nearly impossible for me to decipher. It takes me a minute to scan one page to see if it has any information I need. Andrea, though, can run his hand over the same page in ten seconds and still find something I have missed.

Oh, and the information he discovers! The Italian relatives we know here, to put it mildly, are not very interested in family history, and neither were their fathers and mothers. My grandfather Michele left Italy in 1903, and his brother Enrico paid Michele’s fare, according to the ship records. We know all the descendants of Enrico, but all they can tell us of Enrico and Michele’s father and mother are their names, Pietro Spadoni and Maria Marchi. Where did they come from? No lo so. When were they born? Non lo so. Did they have brothers and sisters? Non lo so. When and where were they married? A mystery. Were there other children besides Enrico and Michele? Only one, I am told, Eugenio, who did not marry. However, my Aunt Lola told me numerous times that Michele was the youngest of many children, as many as eleven, she thought. I am skeptical, though, because how would it be that Lola, who grew up in America, would know this, while the offspring of Enrico here in Italy said otherwise.

Well, guess what? It turns out that Lola was closer to the truth. Andrea and I discover three other children of Pietro and Maria. One I had uncovered myself on an earlier trip to the Pescia Comune, Zelinda, who died at age seven, but I had found only her death certificate. Today I discover her date of birth, July 9, 1880. I also find that Michele had a brother Domenico, born in 1870, six years before Michele, and a sister Maria Luisa Zelinda, born in 1864. What happened to Maria and Domenico is a mystery for another day, and how many more siblings were there really? Hopefully I will find more, but now we switch to another track.

We find the date that Pietro and Maria married—Oct. 17, 1863—and to my thrill, the record also shows their parents’ names. And their parents’ parents’ names as well! Pietro was preceded by Pellegrino, whose father was Francesco, whose father was Lorenzo. Maria’s father was Guiseppe and her mother was Luisa Vita. There are a few more names, and I am getting overwhelmed with information. It is almost closing time, so I thank Andrea heartily and leave feeling both euphoric and dazed. We have found little information on the Marchi side, so I will come back either Friday or next week.

I had sent a letter to this office in 2008 and never received a reply. Now I have received an hour and half of personal assistance, plus everyone in the archives took a break together and they gave me coffee and pastries. What a difference a personal visit makes!

Hard-to-read Italian script which shows Pietro's name at the bottom when he was two months old.

Post script: Later while looking up info on the Internet, I came across this family crest of the Seghieri family of Pisa. We are about 25 miles from Pisa here, so there is probably a connection to our Seghieri family. I also read that there is a different family crest for the Seghieri family of Pistoia, but I couldn't find an image of it. Pistoia is in the opposite direction and about 15 miles away.

In the written description, it says that the ribbon-like object in front of the lion is a band saw, which makes sense, considering that the name derives from sega, saw in English.

Rome is Rome, but there’s no place like home

Monday and Tuesday, March 28-29

Lucy has been wanting to attend a meeting of Bible Study Fellowship, which exists in Italy only in Roma, and only on Monday evenings. Roma is about four hours away by train, which means we will have to stay overnight, as trains do not run to San Salvatore at night. A further obstacle is the cost, about 50 euros each way. However, by playing around a little on the trenitalia.it website, I discover that by changing trains at various stations, we can take regional trains, the kind that stop at small stations, and cut the cost in half. It means the trip will take about five hours, plus additional time waiting in stations, but we will gladly trade a few hours for the saved money.

We fill up our backpacks with our overnight kits as well as snacks, books and Italian class homework. When we are not occupied with these things, we love to stare out the windows at the hillside cities in the distance. We wonder what life is like up on those isolated hills, and we marvel that these cities would have looked much the same if we had passed through these valleys 500 years ago. Some may have looked even more impressive, since in an earlier age it was important for anyone of means to build a tower to show off one’s status and wealth. I don’t want to disparage these early tower owners, however, because I would definitely have wanted to build a tower if I could afford it.

Bible Study Fellowship meets in a Baptist Church near the Spanish Steps, and we find it easily after checking into our room. I eat a leisurely dinner while Lucy, who has grabbed a quick meal at the station, goes off to the meeting. After dinner, I stroll back to the steps for some serious people-watching. Surprisingly, by walking slowly, confidently and purposefully, the immigrants selling toys and trinkets ignore me, because I have fooled them into thinking I am Italian instead of some foreign tourist looking for souvenirs. This gives me a small sense of satisfaction, though I know that if I were to open my mouth, my accent would betray me.

I meet Lucy at 8:30 p.m. and we go to have a drink with Mary, an American that Lucy met during the Bible study who also recently obtained her Italian citizenship and arrived in Rome with her mother only three weeks ago. We exchange stories for a while over tea and hot chocolate and are amazed when we get the bill. Each drink has cost five euros, or $7.04 at today’s conversion rate. And the hot chocolate was not even traditional thick and creamy Italian cioccolata calda but a thin Americanized version. We ask if there is a mistake, but no, that is what it costs.

The prices, the noise and the professional beggars we encounter on the streets and in the train station make us thankful to be living in Toscana. The historic sites here are unsurpassed, of course, but in short time we would run out of money and yearn for the quiet of San Salvatore and the welcome order of peaceful Lucca. In the morning, we decide too late to see the crypt of the capuchin monks. We would arrive there at noon, the start of the three-hour lunch break, and since our train leaves at 2:45 p.m., we go to lunch instead, where even there we are approached by a pair of beggars, a mother and her son, who looks to be about thirteen years old. Lucy sees them from afar, and the son looks relaxed, casual and even a bit bored, but once they get to work, his face is sad and imploring, and the mother is able to bring tears to her eyes at will. Somewhat grudgingly, I give them a tangerine and a coin that was my change from buying lunch. The boy pleads for more, but I tell him no. Lucy and I confess that we are both rather relived to get back on the train and look at the hillside cities and the countryside again.

Sogni d’oro of a casa toscana

Friday, March 25

Talk about scope for the imagination! Today we find out that two abandoned two-story houses on via Mattonaia are for sale. Both are right on the river and are within easy walking distance of our agriturismo.  They are set back from the main road, so they would have long driveways but would also have privacy. They have fields for planting vegetables and fruit trees and whatever else we could think of to plant.

We see the upstream house from a distance nearly every day when we ride to the station, but we have not looked at it up close until today, when by an interesting coincidence, we find out it is for sale. This all comes about because this morning we ask a real estate agent, Roberto, to show us an apartment that is for sale up the hill in Montecarlo. The apartment is advertised as very near Montecarlo and recently refurbished. The asking price is 200,000 euro, which would be in our price range if we ever decided to sell one of our properties in the states. We are not seriously looking, but it never hurts to have more information.

After he show us the apartment, which is really very nice, he mentions that he has the listing on a rustico in San Salvatore, and we ask to see it, not realizing it is the old house we have passed so many times on our bikes. It is about 2,600 square feet and sits on a little less than an acre of very flat farmland. No one has lived in it for forty years, and it is locked up, so we can only peak inside and see a large fireplace with an ancient pot hanging in the middle. We can also see some boxes and old farming supplies. It is made of brick and stone and then coated with stucco, but most of the stucco has fallen off.

Roberto tells us it is owned by two brothers who live nearby and that it is the old family house. He says we would have to run utilities underground from via Mattonaia and then put in a new driveway, because the existing driveway runs right between the two Lari houses. We know it would be very costly to put in the driveway and even more costly to renovate the house, but Roberto says we could finish the house a few rooms at a time. We ask why there is no for sale sign, and he tells us that such signs are rare in this area.

 Back home at the Casolare dei Fiori, Lucy asks our padrone Enzo what he thinks about this house. It is old and far from the road, he says. Do we know there is another rustico for sale that is newer and closer? We walk into his garden area and he points to a house a couple of fields away. It is owned by some Seghieris and has been for sale in the past. He doesn’t know if it is currently for sale, but it has been empty for some time and the owners are probably still interested in selling.

Lucy and I walk there and peak inside what we decide to call the downstream house. It seems slightly newer and looks as if has been unoccupied for maybe only twenty years. However, it has no trees and the nearby houses seem a little closer. We stand up on the river levy to see what view the home would have from the second floor. We can see Montecatini Alto and Uzzano Castello, but we also see a lot of electrical towers that are quite near. And what’s that faint hum we hear? It seems to be coming from an electrical substation across the river.

Now we ride our bikes back to the upstream house. It has a walnut tree shading it, and it is set back farther from the road so it has more privacy. It is only 60 feet from the river, so no one is ever going to build another house in its backyard. Across the river is a hill with a forest, and the train runs through the pine trees on the hillside. Some might say that would create unwelcome noise, but trains here run on electricity and are relatively quiet, and perhaps because we are fond of traveling, to us the sound of trains makes us think of adventure. To get to the river, we must scale a levy that is about twenty feet tall. Atop the levy, it is flat and broad, and we can imagine taking our lawn chairs, books and lunches up here and enjoying the breeze, the view and the sound of the murmuring stream. We also see a couple of fishermen on the other side. We love it!

“Sogni d’oro” is a thing that Italians sometimes say when bidding someone goodnight. It means, “Dreams of gold.” We love to dream, but we also are fully aware of reality. The asking price is 220,000 euro, about $310,000. Then it might cost another $300,000 to make it habitable. If I had $510,000, which I definitely don’t, I would be better to invest it (or pay off my current debts). $510,000 invested at five percent interest would earn more than $25,000 a year, and for that I could rent an entire villa for three months and still have money left over to buy a car. Still, there a strong inherent appeal in the thought of having one’s own estate, and we know we will now be destined to stare longingly at this enchanting rustico every time we pass it.

Il Carnevale staordinario di Viareggio

Sunday, March 20

Last week at church, we met a couple of charming German retirees who nearly thirty years ago purchased a ruin near Viareggio and have been working on it ever since, coming here regularly for a few weeks in the fall and spring. They took us out to lunch, and today we return the favor. Eberhard formerly worked in German radio and television. He has traveled extensively and tells us some intriguing stories about his work. Dorothea is a theologian and teaches ethics to students planning to become social workers. She speaks German, English, Italian, French and Czech and has experiences equally as fascinating.

At some point in the conversation, Carnevale comes up, and we tell about our soggy attempt to see the corso mascherato last week. Today is a beautiful day, and we know that because two of the five Sunday parades were rained out (and another was held in the rain, with some damage to the floats), the city of Viareggio has decided to hold a corso staordinario today to make up for the missed parades. We are interested but don’t feel ready to invest the rest of our day in this pursuit, knowing that the trains run less frequently on Sundays and we could spend much time waiting around.

Eberhard and Dorothea went to Carnevale here years ago and were disappointed because it didn’t match up to Carnevale in Germany cities. Not as much drinking, not as many people dressed in costume, not as much spirit, they said. They plan to go home and work in their backyard. An old olive tree tipped over this winter, and a handyman has cut it up. Now they need to gather and stack the wood. The thought of Eberhard, who is eighty, hauling wood on a steep hillside prompts Lucy to volunteer our services. Eberhard and Dorothea have a short discussion in German and make us an offer we can’t refuse. They will take us to their home, where we can help gather the wood, and then we can rest a little, and they will take us to Carnevale. Afterwards, they will take us out to dinner, and then we can spend the night in their guest room. The next day, they will drive us back to San Salvatore.

We accept, not so much because we are dying to see Carnevale as because we are enjoying the company of these interesting new friends. Their house, now nicely restored, is located on the steep olive-tree covered hillsides above Piano di Mommio. It reminds me a bit of my all-time favorite book about foreigners coming to live in Italy (and I have read about twenty of these), Extra Virgin. Neighbors can be seen on the adjoining hillsides, but it would take quite a hike to visit most of them. One can just see the Tyrrhenian Sea from here, as well as the northern half of Viareggio.

Lucy and I make short work of the firewood harvest, and she is ready to take a rest, but I am anxious to do more. Eberhard has mentioned that later he will use his electric chainsaw to cut the branches into smaller pieces to fit in the fireplace, and I find Dorothea, who shows me where the saw is located, and she and I string the electrical cord out the back window. Now Eberhard joins me, holding the branches while I hold the saw, and in twenty minutes, we are finished. We celebrate with nuts, crackers, cheese and a variety of beverages, and then we are off to Carnevale. On the way, we drive past Cittadella del Carnivale, a mini-city where the craftsmen make the floats.  Parking for us is not a problem, because Eberhard is not going to stay; he drops us off a block away from the entrance.

The corso mascherato is suitable impressive, and Dorothea admits it is much better than she remembered or expected. The floats circulate continuously along the two waterfront streets, and the artwork and animation are spectacular. We are told that the organizations which create floats must compete for the honor of being selected for the Viareggio parade, and each float has a theme with both serious and satirical sides. For example, U.S. President Obama, animated eyes roving from side to side, is pictured as a smiling grand magician waving a smoking wand in front of a flea circus, in reference to campaign promises that are becoming mere illusions. More smiling and head-nodding paper-mâché members of his staff, including Hillary Clinton, follow him. Suddenly, in a puff of gunsmoke, out from his top hat pops an armed Osama bin Laden. On another float, Italian Prime Minister Berlusconi pulls back the mask that is his normal face to reveal a grotesque and grinning skull beneath, a reference to the problems that lurk under the surface of his administration.

The most notable difference between the corso mascherato and American parades is intricate use of animation and the finely detailed paper-mâché instead of the floating balloons of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade or the flower-covered floats of the Rose Parade in Pasadena. Live characters on the floats are engaged in singing, dancing and acting rather than just waving at the crowds or throwing candy. Also, there are no barricades to prevent spectators from walking in the streets and taking photos standing directly in front of the floats, although there are escorts on foot to make sure no one is run over or gets whacked on the head by a protruding animated arm or tail.

Later at dinner, we learn more about Eberhard and Dorothea, including a fascinating tale of how Eberhard escaped from East Germany balancing a backpack and a young niece while crossing a stream over a narrow railroad tie. He was near a guard station manned by Russians, but that was part of his plan, because he didn’t think anyone would be expecting someone to cross at that point. The frightened niece was able to keep quiet while Eberhard stepped over a knee-high trip cable placed on the railroad tie crossing.

After we go back to the house to get ready to spend the night, we are alerted to lights and sounds in the sky over the water. The fireworks marking the end of Carnevale have just begun, and we climb higher on the hillside to get a good view. It is a magnificent display, with several exploding shapes that we have not seen elsewhere. We clamber shivering back down the hillside and make our way inside and prepare for bed. What started out as a day with no plans other than going to church has turned into an unexpected and unforgettable memory.

Il boscaiolo fortissimo

The warmth and welcome of spring

Saturday, March 19

Spring has started a day early in Toscana! This was the rainiest week since we have been here, but today is mostly sunny, and suddenly it is warm outside. Previously the predominant smells have been of the wet clay-laden soil, with occasional wiffs of decaying vegetation left on the ground from last fall. Now these odors are overpowered by the sweetness of blossoming fruit trees and flowers that seem to have opened up in the last twelve hours.

Lucy and I ride our bikes to Conad, a grocery store that is nearby but on a street we don’t usually take—thus the store avoided discovery until recently. For reasons unknown, the store is closed, though it is now 3:10 p.m. Lucy will go to Luigi’s little shop in San Salvatore instead, but I, now that I have roused myself from a day spent mostly in front of my computer, want to make further discoveries. I bid Lucy good-bye and ride off in the opposite direction.

I find a small tunnel that leads under the A-11 highway to Chiesina Uzzanese. This is helpful, because in our previous visit to this nearby little city, we had to ride over a narrow, steep and trafficoso overpass, not a pleasant task on our aging bicycles. I don’t stop at Chiesina, though, because I am looking for terra nuova today. I head in the direction of Ponte Buggianese. I don’t have a map, but there are always signs that can guide me back to Chiesina when I am done wandering. I have to stop and put my jacket in my backpack, the first time this has happened, another sure sign of spring.

In only fifteen minutes, I find myself unexpectedly in Ponte Buggianese. I must have missed the sign when I entered, and I only realize I have arrived when I look up just in time to see via I. Spadoni, which I recognize from a spring break exploration in a rental car three years ago. I know this street is in the very center of the city, and I follow it about a block to the Comune of Ponte Buggianese, where there is a plaque on the wall in memory of Italo Spadoni. I saw this during a fruitless search three years ago for the birthdate of my great-grandfather Pietro Spadoni. I know from his death certificate that he was born  here around 1831, but that was before Italy became a country, and there are no civic records. The clerk at the records office suggested that I try researching church records, and that remains on my to-do list. She also told me that there are about 100 Spadonis living in Ponte Buggianese, and at the cemetery here, Lucy and I saw dozens of Spadoni gravesites. This city truly seems to be at the center of the Spadoni family in Toscana.

The plaque reads:

alla memoria di
ITALO SPADONI
che nel fiore degli anni
il 1° aprile 1924
fu barbaramente assassinato
dai sicari del fascismo
---
il popolo di Ponte Buggianese
promotore il C. L. Nazionale
con sottoscrizione plebiscitaria
perché i posteri non dimentichino
i martiri che col loro sacrificio
prepararono la redenzione del popolo
e le scelleratezze e i delitti
compiuti sotto il regime del littorio
pose questo marmo
lì 28 settembre 1947

Here is my translation, to the best of my current abilities: To the memory of Italo Spadoni, who in the flower of his years, on April 1, 1924, was brutally assassinated by the hired killers of Fascism. The people of Ponte Buggianese, sponsored by the Community of National Liberation, all contributed so that those who come after will not forget. The martyrs and their sacrifice prepare the way for the redemption of the people and the wickedness and crimes committed under the regime of Fascism. This marble is set here Sept. 28, 1947.

I know that Italo is not in my family line, though we are likely tied together somehow in the distant past. It makes me curious to know more about the development and spread of fascism in Italy. I know that Fascism grew rapidly from 1922-1926, using violence and intimidation to gain power. Mussolini was named prime minister in 1922 and declared himself dictator in 1925. During the years before he joined the German side of World War II in 1940, he was powerful and fairly popular. I am pleased to know that “cousin” Italo saw through Hitler and his ill-fated Fascist movement long before much of the rest of Italy did, but I am sad and angry to think about the high price he and his family paid.

I ride on and find another Conad grocery store. It is open and I buy a few things that I know were on Lucy’s shopping list. Then I stop for ten minutes to watch a soccer game being played among teenagers in a stadium. As I ride back towards Chiesina and my apartment, I see a sign on the outside of a large building for a business called Cecchi & Spadoni. It is closed today, and though I can’t tell exactly what the business is about, I can see it has something to do with automotive services. I feel as if the warm weather and the “Spadoni sightings” I have had today are a way for Italy to say to me that even though I struggle to fit in here, I am welcome to return. I am still a part of Toscana.

Secrets and mysteries of Lucca

Friday, March 18

Mummies, backwards bodies, statues that change colors, oxen carrying out the will of God—these are all part of “The secrets of Lucca,” which is the title of our language school activity this afternoon. Interestingly enough, our guide’s name is Luca. If you have not studied Italian, you might think there is no difference in the way these names are pronounced, but Italians can easily tell the difference. For us, pronouncing Lucca and Luca correctly is a work in progress, as is detecting the difference when native Italians say the names.

Note leg on horseman on right.

The Basilica di San Frediano houses several mysteries, including a display of the body of Lucca’s patron saint, Santa Zita. The fact that it mummified without any preservatives in the humid climate of Tuscany is considered remarkable. Zita was born near Lucca and at age 12 became a domestic servant to the wealthy Fatinelli family of Lucca. She was beloved by the family and a devout Catholic who carried leftover bread to the local poor. One day a jealous co-worker accused her of stealing from the family by carrying away their bread to the poor. When the head of the family asked her what she was carrying in her apron, she opened it and a cascade of flowers spilled forth. Now her death on April 27 is celebrated with floral exhibitions in various places in the city.

Also at San Frediano is a fountain lined with bass relief images depicting the crossing of the Red Sea. One of the Egyptian horsemen has a body which from the waist down is facing backwards, while the top part is facing frontwards. Luca does not know if anyone is aware why the artist did this.

Before we leave San Frediano, Luca points out a painting called the Trasferimento del Volto Santo, the Translation of the Holy Face, in which a wooden statue of the crucifix is being pulled in an oxcart. The story gets pretty elaborate, and it is hard to tell which parts are true and which not, so I will just relate what I have heard and let the reader decide. The original crucifix was carved by Nicodemus, the one in the Bible who helped Joseph of Arimathea remove Christ’s body from the cross. He carved everything but the face, hesitating because he feared he could not do it justice. He fell asleep and awoke to find the face beautifully and miraculously finished.  It was hidden in the Holy Land for seven centuries and then discovered by Bishop Gualfredo, who was on a pilgrimage and learned about the cave in a dream. To determine where God wanted the crucifix to be located, he set it adrift in the Mediterranean in an unmanned boat.  It landed in Luni, Italy, but it wouldn’t let the people of Luni board it, pulling away from the shore every time they tried. The bishop of Lucca, also prompted by a dream, came to Luni and the boat came to him. To further determine where the statue should be housed, he put it in an unmanned oxcart, which carried it to Lucca and then stopped. It was placed in San Frediano, but the next morning it appeared instead in the church of San Marino, which was accepted as its rightful resting place.

This elaborate story, however, is not the mystery that Luca is about the reveal to us. It is just the back story. He asks us to look carefully at the painting, which shows the Volto Santo in an oxcart, on its way from Luni to Lucca. What is the color of the face and hands of Christ? White, we respond.

Now we are on to San Martino, where we see the actual Volto Santo. The face and the hands are a deep, deep brown. Why was it white when it came to Lucca and brown now? Well, that’s why this tour is called the secrets of Lucca, and there appears to be some disagreement about the reason. Luca believes it is because the wood of the statue has absorbed much candle smoke over the centuries. A web site that I consult afterwards says it was carved with dark cedar wood, and the “face has been left the deep brown color of the wood, with the beard, hair and eyes painted black”(www.sacred-destinations.com), but there is no mention on the web site of the white-faced crucifix in the painting.

These are not the only mysteries we discover on the tour, but we feel obliged to hold a few back. If you want more, you’ll have to come discover them in person!

Montecarlo and the Italian unification

Thursday, March 17

We go to a truly Italians-only event tonight, a special program in Montecarlo to commemorate the 150^th birthday of the unification of Italy. In the big cities, there are huge gatherings with parades, orchestras, flag raisings, sbandieratori and fireworks, and that’s where most of the foreigners will be tonight. In little cities like Montecarlo, the festivities are quieter and draw mainly the middle-aged and older people, so in that regard, we fit right in. We saw a poster yesterday advertising the city’s celebration and decided that this would give us more insight into the local culture.

For one thing, the event is held in the Teatro dei Rassicurati, and for several years now, we have wanted to see the inside of this building. When we came here during my spring vacations, we would see well-dressed Italians going into the theater in the evening to watch live productions. We even considered inquiring about tickets, but we realized that plays usually have fast-paced dialog with minimal action, and we undoubtedly would understand little. But tonight there will be an orchestra and a chorus, along with speeches from the mayor and two university professors.

Typical of Italian events, the starting time is 9 p.m. We want to make sure we arrive in time to get seats, and we also are not keen on walking up the hill in the dark, so we leave home at 6:30 p.m. We ride our bikes ten minutes until the road becomes too steep for us, and then we lock our bikes and continue on foot, about twenty minutes more. We have clear skies now, but it has been pouring rain for much of the day, so the street and ditches on the hillside are awash with water.

We are fond of walking through Montecarlo because, though small, it always seems friendly and lively. We explore a restaurant that is perched on an outcropping on the edge of the hill and has a large covered outside dining area. It must be a spectacular place to dine in the summer, with a 180 degree-plus view of the valley below. Now it is too cold to eat outside, and the menu is a bit pricey for us, so we decide to go back to the trattoria where we dined with the Grays on the day in which they helped us get settled back at the beginning of February. We have found that a smart way to dine out here is to order a full course meal but split every plate between the two of us. That way we get to sample a variety of foods but don’t get too stuffed and don’t break our budget. The food is every bit as scrumptious as it was the first time, and we also are given a complimentary bowl of pumpkin soup as an appetizer.

We arrive at the theater at 8:45 p.m. and try to look like we know what we are doing as we choose a pair of empty seats. We have plenty of time for people-watching, as the program doesn’t actually get under way until 9:15 p.m. We recognize the sindaco, Vittorio Fantozzi, from a photo we saw on the comune’s web site. He looks to be in his late thirties and is smiling and dapper, with a neatly trimmed short beard and mustache. He is passing out ribbons of green, white and red with pins to fasten them to jackets or shirts, and we give him a grazie as we take ours.

The theater is old, dating back to the 1600s, but it has been remodeled several times and is well maintained with comfortable seats on the ground floor. In the balconies above, the seating areas are boxed off so that families can sit together in relative privacy. A good 80 percent of the audience tonight is composed of people ages forty and above, and there are many smiling and polite greetings between the attendees, though this is a formal event and voices are lower than they normally would be if you put this many Italians together in, say, a restaurant.

The orchestra has only nine instruments and the chorus about 18 persons, equally mixed between men and women. We listen to the Inno di Italia, the Italian national anthem, also known as the Hymm of Mameli, for Goffredo Mameli, who wrote the words. This is followed by a ten-minute welcome from Sindaco Fantozzi (see photo, left), who introduces historians Sergio Nelli (right) and Giorgio Tori (center). Dottor Tori makes a thirty-minute speech about the Risorgimento, the time during which Italy became united. I can understand this a little because I am familiar with the story. He says it was a type of civil war, sad and bloody, but the end result was beneficial.

Fantozzi, Tori, Nelli

Now is Dottor Nelli’s turn, and he talks about the history of the Montecarlo area during the mid-1800s. His speech is long and full of dates, names, cities and census data, and we are at a loss to understand many of the words in between. However, I perk up when I hear the name Seghieri. In fact, by the end of the speech, I have counted sixteen references to various Seghieris, including a Giovanni Seghieri, who could be a distant relative, according to the ancestry research we have done. I think he also says that a Seghieri accompanied Giuseppe Garibaldi on one of his campaigns.  We also hear the names Capocchi and Montanelli, which are in our family line. I wonder where Dottor Nelli works and if he speaks English so that some day I can find out more about the Seghieris’ role in local history, but my time here is packed already and I think that will have to wait for another year.

Then there are more performances from the orchestra and chorus, and we are struggling to stay awake when the end is announced at 11:15 p.m. We will have to walk down the hill in the dark, and we decide to leave quickly so we won’t have a line of cars driving up behind us. The moon is nearly full, and a confused rooster halfway down the hillside is crowing. We make it to our bikes without encountering many cars and arrive home just before midnight, tired by happy to have participated in a small way in an authentic community event.

Getting close to Italy’s birthday

Wednesday, March 16

We make our first trip to Firenze in the month and a half since we have been here. Even though we are only an hour away, it has not been on our agenda. We are here to learn Italian and to learn about being Italian, not to look at amazing buildings and works of art. It is true that we occasionally do become typical tourists as well, but we try to keep the tourism thing to a minimum. We purposely chose to live in a small city because most adults in rural areas speak little English, and we like it that way.

On so many occasions during previous trips to Italy, we will walk into a shop in a tourist city, say “Buongiorno” or “Buonasera” or “Vorrei un cono di gelato” and get in response: “Hello” or “How many scoops?”  Sometimes I don’t even say anything, and I am greeted with, “May I help you?” It’s like I have a big sign on my head that says “Foreigner!” This used to really irritate me, because I have been told that I look Italian, so how do they know I am American? In fact, it still does irritate me, but I have grown to accept it as inevitable.

I admit that the accent is probably a giveaway. Even though I think my buongiorno sounds pretty good, I realize that when an Italian says “Good morning” to me, I can hear the accent right away. It is pretty nearly impossible for an adult to learn a new language without an accent. But how do they know I am American before I even say a word? I must concede that another giveaway is my lovely wife, who is taller, blonder and more white-skinned than the typical native. But there is even more to it than that. We have a friend, Pino, who once explained to us that the way we dress and walk gives us away, too. It is something that defies easy description, he said, but there are subtle clues that set us apart. He suggested that if we want to blend in, we should shop at Italian clothing stores, and that is part of my motivation for the two trips I have taken to Torello Abigliamento in the past three weeks.

Today I am wearing my new Italian sweater and boots as we walk through Firenze, but right off, I am met by a young person who wants me to sign a petition opposing drugs. I have said nothing, but the request is in English. What’s up with that? Did I just throw my money away on a sweater and boots? The same thing happens when we go into a bar and I order “Una cioccolata calda, per favore,” and the cashier tells me the price in English. I may have my certificate of citizenship, but I have a long way to go before real Italians will consider me Italian.

Tonight is the eve of the celebration of the 150^th anniversary of the unification of Italy, and the streets of Firenze are packed. We walk over to the Ponte Vecchio at dusk, and as the skies get darker, the bridge seems to stand out more and more. Then we notice that it is not all the same color. One end looks greenish, and the other looks reddish. Leaning over the stone railing, we discover spotlights of different colors directed at the bridge, which is gradually becoming green, white and red—the colors of the Italian flag—as the evening darkens.

Back in the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, we find drums beating and sbandieratori marching. Sbandieratori are performers who carry flags on poles that are weighted at the end, and in synchronization they swing the flags around, throw them in the air and catch them in a dazzling display of color and dexterity. In earlier times, sbandieratori were soldiers who bore the flags not only as a source of pride and strength but also to communicate with the troops when to attack, what formations to use and other information about important phases of the battle.

The sbandieratori stop marching and form a circle, and pretty soon flags are flying through the air from one side of the circle to the other. I am kneeling down in the front row, trying to snap a picture at the precise moment when a flag is caught. So intent am I that I don’t realize a flag has gone astray. I hear some gasps around me and then a thump. I look up and find the crowd near me has backed up, and I alone remain, but only a foot away from me is the fallen bandiera. It must have narrowly missed my head, but I alone was fearless throughout the incident. Of course, I alone was the only one who had no idea what was happening.

“Tutto a posto?” says the sbandieratore as he touches my shoulder and picks up the errant flag.

“Si, sto bene,” I answer.

I have come about as close to the celebration as I can come, and this close call gives me my own special event to help me remember the day of the country’s birth.