Black man refuses to back down to train conductor

Thursday, February 9

I am standing in the corridor of a crowded train traveling from Lucca to Padova, reading the autobiography of Sidney Poitier, when I witness an episode of pure irony. Poitier writes of always feeling like an outsider because of his race while coming of age in the 1950s and 60s.

“Society had created laws to keep me at a distance or out of sight altogether. Were outsiders simply trespassers obliged by the nature of their lives to be constantly on the alert, known as
‘one of those’ but never as ‘one of us’?”

This, I fear, is still the fate of many black people in Italy, and today I observe this first hand. A black passenger, whom I guess to be about 45, is told he has to leave the train at the next stop. The conductor maintains that the passenger's ticket does not allow sufficient kilometers for his destination. There is a generic type of train ticket one can purchase to travel 10 kilometers, another for 20 kilometers, and so on. Based on where the man started (which the conductor could see, because before one enters a train, tickets must be inserted into a machine that stamps the starting date, time and location), he will have to exit at the next stop. An argument ensues, partly in Italian and partly in heavily accented Nigerian English, and I don't understood all the details of what each was saying. I'm not convinced that the parties arguing understand each other completely, either. The conductor is adamant that the man must get off and purchase another ticket to continue, but the passenger points out there would be no time to purchase a ticket and still get back on the same train.

When the stop comes, the conductor insists that the passenger leave the train, but the man refuses. The conductor wants to see the passenger’s identity card, and the man refuses this also. All this is taking place in the corridor, and I am the only witness, a fly on the wall, so to speak.

“At the next station, then, I’ll call the police,” the conductor states angrily.

“Go ahead and call the police," replies the passenger, waving his arms in the air. “I’ll be happy to talk to them.”

The train starts up again, the passenger takes his seat, and the conductor goes to the front of the train. But pretty soon, they are both back in the corridor, this time with the conductor’s senior officer. He seems more conciliatory and says the man can just pay the fee for the extra kilometers, something the conductor had not allowed previously. However, the man now says he doesn't have the additional seven euros and adds that the people in the train station told him that the ticket he had was sufficient for his destination. The conductor, however, carries a little computer, which he checks, and declares that the city in question is just over the limit of the ticket.

Again, the black man is asked for his identity papers and he refuses. I’m sure they assume he doesn’t have them, as do I. The passenger asks for his ticket back, but the officers refuse. I am sorely tempted to pull out my wallet and offer to pay the seven euros, but I refrain because I am not sure it would be wise to interfere in a situation that I don’t really understand. Instead I wait to see what will happen, which for now is nothing. After another minute of arguing, the train officials leave and the man goes back to his seat. Now I leave my place in the corridor and seek out the passenger to see if there is anything I can do to help. He is friendly and grateful for my sympathy, but he says he does not need any help. He says he doesn’t intend to pay extra, and he doesn't mind if they call the police. He pulls out his wallet and shows me his identity card. His wallet is stuffed full of other documents as well, and I suspect he might even have the seven euros the officials were asking for.

“Why should I give them my identity card?” he asks. “Who knows what they’ll do with it or write about me? If they call the police, I’ll show the police my papers and tell them I had a ticket. Those men are just trying to make it hard on me. They don't like black people here. I used to be able to find work here, but not anymore.”

I don't know whether I believe that the man was told that his ticket was adequate for his destination or not, but I don't find it hard to believe that he was singled out for his skin color. Lucy later tells me that she saw a group of black men riding the train who got up and changed sections when they saw the conductor coming, apparently trying to evade him. Could the conductor have been taking out his frustration on the blacks who were running away from him by singling out this man who didn't try to hide? My friend Steve, who has lived in Italy since 1986, thinks that is quite possible.

“The Italians are afraid of the Africans,” he says. “They are afraid they are taking jobs away from Italians, but that doesn't make sense, because most of the jobs the Africans do the Italians wouldn't do anyway.”

Steve tells me a story about when he was a pastor in Rome and the church members engaged in street evangelism. Three black women who went out with the group did not return with the others because they were arrested by a policewoman for sharing their Christian faith, though there is no law against this. They were released without charges, but the incident pointed out to Steve the different treatment some police officers give to Africans and African-Italians. In some ways, the attitude of Italians towards blacks is similar to America in the 50s and 60s, he says, reminding me that I was reading about this era when I witnessed the train incident.

It goes both ways, though, Steve elaborates. The Africans do try to avoid and evade the law because many are in Italy without permission and they can little afford the high cost of living here. The police are frustrated and mistrustful and come down harder on the Africans than they do on Italians or Europeans. Steve said that the black passenger I observed may indeed have been paying the price for the Africans who fled the conductor earlier. I do believe, from my prior experiences, that if I had been the one in possession of an improper ticket, I would have been let off with a cordial warning. In fact, this has happened to me on both trains and buses previously.

It seems, though, that in this case, these two train officials have met their match. They can't physically force the man to leave, and in the end, they don't call the police. The passenger exits at his originally intended destination with no fine or arrest.

I report all this with full awareness that my background on the relationship between Italians and Africans is limited. It’s obviously a complex issue and has much to do with Italy's position in the Mediterranean, its proximity to Africa and the fact that is has around 5,000 miles of coastline that its military can't begin to protect against illegal immigrants. Africans flood into Italy and can't find jobs, but they don't want to return to Africa because they are no better off there. Many become street vendors, and, lacking the resources to purchase business licenses, they must be ready to bundle up their wares and run from the police at any time. I don’t pretend to have any idea how to solve these problems, but my goal is to write about what I see here, and today I witness up close a clash between these two forces. I may well see more such incidents in the future.

Return to la dolce vita, via Paris

Wednesday, February 8

Three words in Italian. That’s all I say while walking through the Pisa airport. “Il treno, dov’e?” I ask an Italian man working at the airport. I guess that’s actually four words, but in any event, it is enough to showcase my American accent, because the man answers, “Outside, to the left.” I thought I was used to this, but I guess not, since it still bothers me to be so quickly recognized as a straniero. I have not practiced my Italian since we left Italy last May, so I guess I shouldn’t expect to have improved.

We arrive very tired after having flown 11 hours from Seattle to Paris and then another couple of hours to Pisa. In between, we take a train into Paris and walk around for a couple of hours because we have a seven-hour layover. The cold snap that is upon Europe means walking in sub-freezing temperatures with a fine snow coming down, so we are not making our first visit here under ideal conditions. We go inside Notre Dame and the Shakespeare & Company book store and walk past the river Seine, the Sorbonne, Saint Julien, Cafe Procope, Luxembourg gardens and a few other impressive buildings, and we stop for some delicious crepes at La Crepere Saint-Honore. We see the Eiffel Tower from a distance. All in all, we are glad we take this side trip, though it will not be a particularly memorable experience.

The train trip from Pisa to Lucca is a real bargain at only 3 euro each, and it feels comforting to be back in familiar surroundings. We settle into the Hotel Rex, right next to the Lucca train station, around 8 p.m. and sleep for 12 hours, a welcome rest after having been on the go for 24 hours. Tomorrow it is onward to Padova, where we will stay for the remainder of February. We plan to focus on language classes for three weeks, so it will be short on interesting adventures, but maybe at the end I’ll be able to say a four-word sentence without displaying my bad accent. But probably not.

Final chapter in traffic ticket story?

January 10, 2012

Hopefully today is the final installment in the saga of my Italian traffic ticket, but I can’t be sure. I take my third trip to my bank this morning to make the money transfer to pay my 240.27 euro fine. When I went last Friday, it was too late in the day to make a payment, but I left the bank clerk, Sandy, a copy of the ticket so she could fill out the paperwork.

Then I stop back Monday and Sandy faxes the transfer form to Suzy in the bank’s main office to be checked over before sending along for processing. I wait for nearly half an hour while Sandy makes some corrections and re-faxes the form to Suzy and they discuss the form on the telephone.  Although the ticket provides the IBAN number, the bic/swift number and the fine-reference number, Suzy finally claims that she can’t process a transfer in euros without also having a UK sort code.

“Can you call the police department to get that?” Sandy asks me.  No, I can’t, and I don’t want to even think about it. First, I hate talking Italian on the telephone. Second, there is no phone number given on the ticket. Third, if the UK sort code is really needed, don’t you think the ticket would have included that? I mean, the Italians send out thousands of these tickets per day, so they should know what they are doing. IBAN transfers are a standard way of paying bills and making deposits for travel reservations in Europe, so they know what is needed.

Because U.S. banks use a different money transfer system and rarely do IBAN transfers, the likelihood is nearly 100 percent that my bank is wrong about the need for a UK sort code. However, I don’t explain all this to Sandy. I just tell her I would like her to send the transfer without a sort code, but she says that Suzy won’t send it because it is required for sending euros.

“How about if you send it in U.S. dollars?” I ask. That doesn’t require the sort code, but the bank fee is $50 instead of $35. Go ahead, I say. But the magic 2 p.m. hour is past and it is too late to send it today.

Now I am back for the final time, and Sandy informs me that there is something wrong with the bic/swift number. Suzy has told her that the system does not recognize the number as being valid. They can send the transfer request, but she can’t be sure it will be accepted. In keeping with my theory that the Italians know more about IBAN transfers than the Americans, I authorize her to send it anyway.

So is this the end of the story? I have my doubts. A number of things could go wrong.  I have sent the money in dollars instead of euros. Will they charge me an exchange fee? Maybe there really is a problem with the bic/swift number I was given on the ticket. And the final problem could be that I have missed the 60-day deadline for the reduced price payment. The ticket reads that the offense “requires a reduced payment, to be made within 60 days from the date of this fine-notification.” Beyond 60 days, the fine increases from 240.27 euro to 454.27 euro.

I received the ticket in November, but I didn’t note the exact date. I am pretty close to 60 days, but I honestly don’t know if I am over or under. The ticket is dated Oct. 14, and the letter is postmarked Oct. 27. If one figures one week for delivery, I have missed the deadline, but I would have just made it if delivery took two weeks. It is not clear when the 60 days began. Was it the date the ticket was printed, mailed or received? Since I know that many people just ignore these tickets altogether, I am hoping that whoever handles the payment is willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. With the snail’s pace efficiency of the Italian bureaucracy, I know I will have to wait six months to a year before I can write this incident off as completely finished.

The education and spirituality of our Renaissance cousin Fanny

January 7, 2012

Fanny’s parents hailed from Toscana, the heart of the Renaissance, and after reading her “Of Arts and Letters” chapter, I would describe Fanny as a Renaissance woman, which can be defined as “a person who is skilled in multiple disciplines and has a broad base of knowledge.” While immensely successful as a business woman, she devoured books from early childhood onward. Her librarian friend commented that she had never seen a young girl read so many books. Fanny quotes liberally from the writings of Plato, Socrates, Machiavelli, Dante and Shakespeare, but she also enthusiastically embraced the latest ideas from social scientists, philosophers and psychologists of her own era. Her comments on music, painting, literature, wisdom and the human psyche are full of depth and insight.

Fanny’s columns also offer many insights into her fascinatingly rich personal life. She describes an important incident from her childhood where, while aboard a ship bound from Europe to the United States, she met opera singer Lina Cavalieri, called “the most beautiful woman in the world” in 1916. Fanny also reveals that she averaged four hours of sleep a night, but on the nights she wrote her weekly columns, she would forgo even those hours of sleep.

“Creative thinking for me is accomplished only during the night; my stream of consciousness is of the type that flows only in absolute quiet (how I envy folks who can write with noise all about them), and so 18 years of writing has cost me more than 6,000 hours or perhaps more of sleep . . . I haven’t missed that sleep, because my energy level is high and my blood pressure is low.”

While extolling the virtues of reading, she emphasizes that knowledge should be used for reflection and personal development: “Now while knowledge and wisdom seem to be the same, one may be well educated, that is, with an intellectual knowledge of many subjects, and yet have very little wisdom. The world is full of educated men but not enough wise men.”

She points out that some people who have less formal education than others but are well read— like her own father—can be very wise. The way they apply their knowledge is the key.

“The power of reasoning and judgment developed in childhood through reading will never result in the adult who discovers his limitations in his ability to reason . . . Sometimes a ditch digger can run rings around an educated ‘uneducated’ man without the kind of common sense needed to face the everyday kind of world.”

Her use of the word “uneducated” reminds me of the word maleducato, which is an important and serious insult in Italy. It literally means badly educated, but it is used more broadly to mean rude, ill-mannered or impolite. In Italy, to be educated also meant to be refined and polite, and Fanny was aware of these cultural values.

Fanny’s writing also shows her spiritual side: “Words have no value as regards improving our lives, unless the idea that lies behind them is understood. They have to be digested and assimilated by getting our little petty selves out of the way . . . and letting God take over. I have discovered that the more ‘educated’ some people become, the narrower, rather than broader, they become in mind . . . witness the number of people who think it is not fashionable but corny to believe in God. I am constantly shocked by people of good education and breeding who think that people who believe in God are ‘square’ simply because the nonbelievers don’t know how to think profoundly, because they have never taken the time (and it takes time and meditation) for the real power of spiritual thought to manifest itself.”

Manners, morals and la bella figura

January 6, 2012

Essential to the Italian culture is the concept of “bella figura,” good figure, but the literal translation is not sufficient to comprehend the meaning. It relates to making a good impression but goes even further. It has been described as putting your best foot forward in everything you do, especially in style, appearance and public behavior, as a way of showing respect to yourself and others. Although she does not use this term, Fanny undoubtedly believed in it, as can be seen throughout her chapter titled “Of Manners and Morals.”

“A well-groomed man or woman is mentally well-groomed, too. For resort wear, casual attire is permitted, but even on the Riviera, gentlemen and gentlewomen are always properly attired when they dine in restaurants. My beloved (peasant-born) father wouldn’t even go to the bank unless he was neatly dressed.”

She also decries the loosening of standards evident in her day in clothing and grooming styles that had become both more casual and more revealing: “Women who walk around in public with curlers in their hair are lacking in self-respect (and) respect for others . . . Those who flaunt and tempt men by their display of flesh are the type who flip about from man to man; they can’t even hold one man in marriage. It takes a man with a great heart and mind to know love and life and to love truly. The Don Juans of the world and the sexy nakedness of the harebrained women display lack of depth of mind and feeling. Vulgarity is not a synonym for thought, love, life, truth, beauty, or reality; and the cheap vulgarity displayed in dress, manners, and attitudes of defiance toward society are symptoms of humans who are in deep mesmeric slumber of morbid self-hypnosis created by excesses, by their own inner doubts, fears, hatreds, and insecurity.”

Fanny assuredly would have abhorred the low riser jeans and plunging necklines that have become popular for women in recent times. And one can hardly imagine what criticisms she would have aimed at the baggy pants popular among young men. While I would have applauded her condemnation of these tacky trends, I think she takes her philosophy too far when she starts stepping squarely on my own toes. Having been raised in the style of the Northwest, I love my jeans and flannel and cotton shirts, and I have never been comfortable wearing a tie.

Had Fanny lived in Gig Harbor, we may have butted heads over her expectations for apparel, because she wrote: “A true gentleman wears a coat and tie to honor his wife or lady friend. There is entirely too much casualness in everything today. There is a place and time for everything, and a public place is no place for the undressed. A high-class man or woman dresses for high class, and that doesn’t cost too much money. Simple good taste is never expensive, but oh, how lovely!”

It does sound quite lovely, I must confess. I guess I am pretty much a hypocrite when it comes to la bella figura, because one of the things I most enjoy about Italy is watching the stylish appearance of the people, who stand out even more in stark contrast compared to my drab garb. Fanny was a first-generation Italian American, and I am second-generation, so to some extent I resign myself to being farther from the Italian ideal. On the other hand, if my goal for visiting Italy is to become more Italian, this is an area to which I must devote more attention; so thanks, Fanny, for the advice.

Fanny on love and marriage

January 5, 2012
Since I discovered that cousin Fanny had written a book, I went to Amazon.com and found that I could purchase a used copy of Fanny’s Way of Life. Now that I have it in hand, I would like to include some excerpts and comments. The book is basically a selection of her columns that appeared in the Evanston Review and other small and medium-sized newspapers for at least two decades. It is divided into sections based on common themes: Of Love and Marriage, Of Morals and Manners, Of Arts and Letters, Of Life’s Labors and Of Courage, Faith, and Hope.

Fanny is described inside the jacket as “a serious reader of Italian as well as British and American authors . . . Fanny’s familiarity with the folk sayings of Italy also serves to season her writing with the salt of the soil from which her forebears sprung.”

The jacket also proclaims the book “reveals a deeply religious person, with an intense belief in the rewards of hard work, faith, virtue, and of service to others. Fanny Lazzar is no homespun philosopher. She is rather a student of world literature and music, and an enthusiastic collector of original paintings.”

In “Of Love and Marriage,” Fanny shows herself to be a strong advocate for the healing power of love, compassion, kindness and tolerance. She quotes an Italian saying, “Il meglio medico è se stessa” or “The best doctor is the self,” and then she writes: “Who knows where the body leaves off and the mind begins? They say that many hospital beds would be emptied if humans would drop negative emotions from their hearts, minds, and souls once and for all.”

In her columns, she shares secrets of couples among her acquaintance who share lasting bonds of love and happiness, and also mistakes made by those with less happy relationships. Sometimes she responds to those who write to her asking for advice on life and love. She warns against infidelity, jealousy and in-laws who meddle in the affairs of their children.

I think the influence of her heritage shows in her opinion on flirting, which I am told is an acceptable and even desirable Italian practice, if done within the proper boundaries. Fanny describes it this way: “Most beautiful women have an unconscious coquetry which is completely harmless as it is charming. In Europe, where coquetry is a practiced art, husbands accept it as a compliment if other men flirt with their wives. In fact, a French couple, very devoted to each other, were chagrined one evening, when, in a restaurant, no one flirted back with the wife. ‘Am I getting old?’ she asked him in almost childish fright. ‘No my dear, they are,’ he answered gently.”

However, flirting is even better, she says, when done within the matrimonial confines. In describing a couple who has been coming to her restaurant for 15 years, she writes: “This man and woman are so gentle, so modest, so appealing, so charged with tenderness, that in their presence my very soul feels the sacred fire of their love.” Nevertheless, Fanny teases the wife about having been a tremendous flirt in her college days, which was the time she met her husband. Fanny writes that her friend responded, with sparkling eyes, “Yes, I was, and that is why I have never stopped flirting with my husband—because to me he is the greatest charmer I have ever known.” 

My world famous cousin Fanny

Ada and children Fanny and
Amelia in a photo sent by Ada
to my grandmother Anita.

January 2, 2012
I earlier blogged that most of my known ancestors were farmers, other than a few semi-famous Spadonis from 1000 years ago who may have been my ancestors. But I recently stumbled across some information about a famous restaurateur who was my dad’s second cousin. I learned her name and saw her photo courtesy of my brother and sister-in-law, who have contributed much to the research of our family line, but I was the one who found out about her fame.

In looking at a family album at Roger and Rosemary’s house, I came across old photos of cousins Ada and Fanny Bachechi, who were said to have visited my grandmother Anita many years ago. Anita and Ada had the same grandfather, Giacondo Capocchi, so they were first cousins. Ada’s daughter was Fanny, who was second cousin to my dad and his brothers and sisters. Roger recalls meeting Fanny at some time in Gig Harbor, and Rosemary met Fanny's sister Millie (Amelia) at a 4th of July party at Aunt Clara's house. Fanny lived in the Chicago area, married Henri Bianucci and had two children. Later in life she married Ray Lazzar.

Fanny cooking at her restaurant. Courtesy
of Carolyn Pieri.

In searching the web, I discovered that in 1946, Fanny founded a restaurant, Fanny’s of Evanston, that achieved some considerable fame. She was also an author with a weekly column in an Evanston, Illinois, newspaper and even authored a book, Fanny’s Way of Life, published in 1967.

The following account of Fanny’s fame is taken directly from the website www.fannysofevanston.com:

 Fanny's World Famous Restaurant was founded by Fanny Bianucci in 1946. One year later, she took out a full page ad in a local paper thanking her patrons for making her restaurant World Famous! How did that happen?

She indeed had launched on a most illustrious career at 1601 Simpson Street, Evanston, Illinois, beginning with just 4 tables, faith in God and hard work.

When I saw this on the restaurant's

web site, I knew I had found the

Fanny who was our cousin. Her 

mother's maiden name was Ada

Pieri. Apparently this is the

Pieri family shield.

She had begun as a small café owned by her father, who emigrated from Italy. He served lunch to workers in what was then Evanston's industrial area. Fanny wanted to create a very special dinner restaurant. To this end, she spent long hours and countless recipe combinations to perfect for exquisite taste and digestability her salad dressing and spaghetti meat sauce. She used her own sensitive digestion as a guide to perfection, and history would later record she found it, in her Salad Dressing and Meat Sauce.

She wasn't sure what food to feature and other than herself had no cook. Being a religious woman, she prayed for help. Two days later there was a knock on the back door of the restaurant. When she answered, there was an African-American gentleman, Bob Jordan, who asked to see Mrs. Bianucci. Fanny asked what she could do for him, and Jordan answered, "The Lord sent me to be your cook." Fanny asked, "What do you cook?" and he answered, "The best fried chicken around!" Thus was born the fried chicken that helped make Fanny's Restaurant famous. He remained the Chef at Fanny's restaurant for 25 years.

Early on, Fanny asked one of her customers what his name was, and when he said Marshall Field III she admonished him "You should be ashamed of yourself for impersonating such a well known man as that." The next day a writer from the Chicago Sun-Times, owned by Field, came to the restaurant and told her he had sent her to write a story about it. Fanny, of course, apologized to Field, and they became fast friends. He promoted the restaurant not only through the newspaper, but among his wealthy friends on the North Shore. What developed was an unusual combination of a reasonably priced restaurant, serving outstanding food in modest surroundings.

Fanny insisted on using only the finest and freshest ingredients, but didn't believe in having an expensive building in a fancy neighborhood. She observed "Why the overhead . . . Let's put it in the food instead." Even though the restaurant was in an unfashionable part of town, the food was so good, and in no small part because of Fanny's enthusiasm and promotional skills, the restaurant flourished and was frequented by a very broad range of people, including the rich and famous, such as President Dwight D. Eisenhower and wife Mamie, Louis Armstrong, Mae West, Charlton Heston, Admiral Nimitz. Mamie Eisenhower had Fanny's Salad Dressing mailed t her and the General's home.

To say the least, Fanny's became a very celebrated restaurant. One customer come specially four times a year from New York. It was recommended by Leoni's of London, LaTour d'Argent of Paris, and Tre Scalini of Rome. It received awards from Epicurean Magazine, Bon Apetit, and Holiday Magazine. The restaurant got the Grand Prix D'Excellence of the International Culinary Service in London, and the Epicurean Society of France Award. Fanny was the only woman to receive the Italian government's gold medal "Stella Della Solidarieta" for outstanding achievement.

As the fame of the restaurant grew, Fanny constructed additions on top of and next to the original building, and ultimately had 275 seats. Kraft Foods tried to buy the recipe for her salad dressing, but she refused to sell. Because of the restaurant, Fanny herself became a celebrity, writing a column in the Evanston Review and other North Shore papers, and a book dealing with her outlook on life.

By 1987 she was in her 80s, in declining health, and her husband, Ray Lazzar, had died. Fanny closed the restaurant for its usual August vacation, but decided not to reopen. Fanny Bianucci Lazaar passed away 3 years later.

Fanny was a strong believer in, and servant of, God having extended countless unnamed generosities during her lifetime. She was often heard to say, "We are spiritual being in a spiritual Universe."

Fanny serving at her restaurant. Courtesy of Carolyn Pieri.

I also found an article in the archives of The Chicago Tribune in which Fanny was referred to as "The First Lady of Evanston." It described how her restaurant had taken on cult-like status for its popularity. The author described meeting Fanny in person: "She greets her guests warmly but professionally . . . she banters about her food and her world fame. She insists that hers is one of the only restaurants around that uses all fresh ingredients, has no microwave and never has had a food poisoning case in all her years in the business. But you don't have to talk to her long before you see other sides to her. For example, she will utterly amaze you by reciting verse from memory. She was talking recently about aging--she is 80--and she recited a 50-line poem called Youth." Full text of the article can be found here: 
http://articles.chicagotribune.com/1986-09-05/entertainment/8603060671_1_spaghetti-sauce-american-dairy-association-food

Although Fanny died in 1991 at age 85, it is still possible to order her meat sauce, salad dressing and barbecue sauce, as her descendants have carried on this part of the family business. I spoke with her daughter-in-law a few weeks ago and am planning to send in my order soon. Here is a link to the order form: http://www.fannysofevanston.com/order.htm. Because there is no way to order online and no e-mail address, I thought at first that the order form might be obsolete, but I was assured in my telephone call that I can still order; I just have to do it the old-fashioned way of sending a check in the mail. I plan to order some meat sauce and salad dressing next week, but first I have to make copies of the old photos of Ada and Fanny so I can add these to the envelope before putting it in the mail to my long-lost distant cousins.

Farming runs deep in family roots

Friday, November 25, 2011

I just read a column in the Pittsburg Post-Gazette in which the author describes how he has discovered numerous famous relatives while doing his family tree research on Ancestry.com. It appears he may be related to Bob Hope, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Mamie Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Booker T. Washington and Judy Garland.

I also have been researching my family tree on the same website. And what have I discovered about my own famous relatives? So far, that most of my descendants were farmers, not a profession that generally gains mention in the history books or tabloids. In Italy, the death certificate of my great grandfather Pietro Spadoni lists his occupation as colono, which translates as farmer or tenant farmer. His sons Enrico, Michele and Eugenio learned farming from their father, but only one, eldest brother Enrico, could inherit the family farm, so Michele, my nonno, set off to America in 1903. His occupation on the ship’s log is listed first as “peasant,” but then, perhaps as an early concession to political correctness, this is crossed out and the word “laborer” is written over the top.

Enrico Spadoni and wife Eufemia in
the Spadoni home in Italy.
Enrico was my grandfather's older
brother, who inherited the family
land. 

Michele did not farm as a profession in America, but he had a large vegetable garden and orchard for the needs of his wife and seven children, and the family also raised chickens and sold the eggs. On my mother’s side, both her grandparents were farmers, one in Eastern Washington and one in Carroll County, Indiana. The only one of my great grandparents that may not have been a professional farmer was Torello Seghieri, who is said to have been a musican. However, I spent three months this year living on a large Seghieri family farm in San Salvatore, so I know the Seghieri family is steeped in the farming tradition.

While I have found evidence of some Spadoni family members in antiquity who were distinguished (an ambassador, a cardinal, a lawyer for the Pope and various city leaders in Lucca), certainly none were household names that are still known today. However, I am proud to know that my ancestors worked diligently with their hands and with the soil to produce the fruits of an honest day’s labor. I believe that they would endorse The Farmer’s Creed, as do I.

The Farmer's Creed
I believe a person's greatest possession is their dignity and that no 
calling bestows this more abundantly than farming.

I believe hard work and honest sweat are the building blocks of a person's
character.

I believe that farming, despite its hardships and disappointments, is the
most honest and honorable way a person can spend their days on this earth. 

I believe farming provides education for life and that no other occupation
teaches so much about birth, growth and maturity in such a variety of ways.

I believe many of the best things in life are free:  the splendor of a
sunrise; the rapture of wide open spaces; the exhilarating sight of your
land greening each spring.

I believe true happiness comes from watching your crops ripen in the field
and your children grow tall in the sun.

I believe my life will be measured ultimately by what I have done for my
fellow man.

I believe in farming because it makes all this possible.

-- Author Unknown

To pay or not to pay . . .

Friday, November 18, 2011

So now comes the time to figure out how to pay my traffic fine. Unfortunately, the only way to pay, according to the notification letter, is by an IBAN bank transfer. This is a common and inexpensive way to make payments in Europe, but U.S. banks do not participate in the IBAN system, so it will cost another $35 for my bank to wire the money. I do a web search to see if there is an alternative way to pay but come up empty.

I also find some forums where people have argued against paying the bill for traffic tickets received in Italy, but they are countered by even more people arguing the other side. It seems the arguments are split about three to one in favor of paying. Reasons for paying given: It is the law of the land and should be obeyed. Nobody wants traffic snarling the city centers or people driving at unsafe speeds. The fine nearly doubles if you don’t pay on time. Non-payers might be pursued by a collection agency and be reported to credit rating firms, or they might have trouble re-entering Italy or have their cars impounded if they are stopped again. Some simply said they considered it part of the tourist experience—there are always unexpected expenses on a trip, and this is just one of them.

Those in favor of not paying state that the fines are excessive, they discriminate against foreigners who don’t understand the traffic signs, and many said that they never even saw the signs. Non-paying advocates also say that the tickets come anywhere from six to 18 months after the infraction, an unfair delay that makes it more difficult to appeal, not to mention that appeals must be written in Italian. Some cite technical reasons, such as a law that the ticket must be delivered within a year of the infraction. Another pointed out that the tickets are sent by registered mail, but the directions are written in Italian, so the U.S. postal carriers don’t make the receivers sign, and thus the Italian police have no proof that the ticket was received.

A number of non-payers commented that they never heard another word from the police after throwing their tickets away. No more letters. Nothing on their credit reports. No word from collection agencies. One official admitted in an interview that it was probably not worth the trouble of pursuing a non-payer unless he or she had five or more tickets. (Note: I have more information about a non-payer in a later blog: What will happen if you don’t pay your ticket for a traffic violation in Italy?)

So, knowing that there will probably be no consequences for not paying, and also that my postal carrier didn’t have me sign the receipt, I have considered joining the non-payers. In the end, though, I have decided to pay. I was speeding. I knew I was speeding. I agree with the concept of law and order and speed limits. I should render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, a quotation which takes on extra meaning when the fine comes from Italy. In addition, I have the family name to uphold. How can I hold my head high in family gatherings if they know I am an outlaw? Besides, as Lucy points out, my cousins Claudio and Marco Del Terra are both police officers in Toscana, and if they read my blog, then I’ll be in trouble with my family and the cops at the same time!

Next: Final chapter in traffic ticket story?

Traffic cameras a common complaint

Thursday, November 17, 2011

My traffic ticket misadventure looks mild today in comparison with what other foreigners have gone through. Yesterday I talked to Rick and Debbie Gerke, who had to pay their Lucca parking ticket twice. After receiving a ticket on their windshield, they went to the post office and paid it. Several months later, they received a bill for the same parking ticket in the mail, but by that time they had tossed the receipt and were back in the states, so they paid again rather than take the time to try to dispute the second bill.

In searching the web, I found that we have joined a large club of foreigners who have been ticketed by camera. A discussion thread on TripAdvisor.com has 243 posts, many from foreigners complaining about getting caught and fined by the ubiquitous cameras. Some are confused because they think that when they pay the car rental agency that they have paid for the traffic violation; then they don’t understand why they get a second bill for a greater amount months later.

A ZTL sign in Pisa

“Citman” from England writes a typical post: “Hi to all fellow victims. We went to Pisa on a short break end of May 2007, booked into hotel in centre of Pisa, asked hotel staff where to hire a car, hired car. Only warning that anyone gave us was to ensure that car was moved from outside hotel by a certain time in the morning. The hire car operator and hotel staff gave no warning of potential traffic violations caused by driving within the city. Last October we received the notification (in Italian) that we had committed three offences and that the hire company had debited our credit card for three separate amounts. Yesterday we received three separate letters from the Municipality of Pisa informing us of three ZTL violations, each carrying a 113 euro fine.

It's not easy for someone who doesn't know Italian traffic
regulations to understand what this means.

But that’s nothing compared to the misfortunates of Brian Appleton of San Jose, California, who reported on a Lifeinitaly.com discussion thread that he received 11 tickets during a two-week trip in the summer of 2007. His fines amounted to well over $1,000, and he was also charged by the car rental agency to report his information, presumably another 11 times. I also read that a Europcar clerk told someone that about one out of every three or four calls they receive concerns complaints about traffic tickets.

A number of the 243 posts on the TripAdvisor discussion argue, rather vociferously, the fairness of the traffico limitato zones, and I can see both sides of the argument. It is a good idea to limit traffic in crowded city centers, and it is often the foreigners who don’t understand the signs and customs, so they get many of the tickets. Ignorance of the law is no excuse. However, some people feel it has spoiled their vacation, that the police and car agencies are in collusion to scam foreigners, and the overall result will hurt tourism, Italy’s largest industry. It also seems that the car rental agencies are making a nice profit charging 36 euros for looking something up in their computers that probably takes about five minutes.

While it may have a small negative effect on tourism, it doesn’t appear that Italy is having problems attracting tourists. And the tickets are huge money makers, surely offsetting any potential loss in tourism money. The Florentine, February 12, 2009, reports: “Traffic police (in Florence) issue approximately . . . 1,253 tickets a day. The fines on these tickets average out to about 140 euro per year, per motorist, and they bring about 52 million to city hall each year.”

Florence and Pisa seem to have the most online complaints, but readers were reporting tickets from all over the country. And it is not just Americans who are nabbed. The Guardian newspaper cites the agency Euro Parking, which reports: “Six out of 10 foreign-registered vehicles don’t cough up. The Germans, it seems, are the worst. There are nearly 30,000 unpaid congestion charge notices against German vehicles, followed by Poland (15,376) Italy (11,846) and Spain (9,493).” It looks like I have joined a very large club, indeed.

Next: To pay or not to pay . . .

Busted for speeding in Italy

Thursday, November 10, 2011

This misadventure really started May 3, when I was taking Randall, Lela and Micah to the airport in Pisa in our rental car. The roads to the airport were well marked, but getting back to Lucca led to an hour of utter frustration. Coming out of the airport, there were signs directing me to Firenze, Pisa Centrale, Livorno and a half dozen other places, but none to Lucca, which was not in the same direction as any of these other cities. Okay, there was one sign, but it came with absolutely no warning and it is located exactly at the exit, giving me no chance to get into the exit lane. I can verify this because during the hour I was wandering around, maddeningly, I passed the same spot twice!

Yes, I should have brought a map or had GPS, but I had checked the map before I left and saw that it was relatively easy to get to the airport, and I assumed getting back would be the same, which it would have been if I could have started out on the correct highway. Anyway, I didn’t, and I got lost in the early morning darkness and mist, and I became especially frustrated when I realized I had passed the only Lucca exit sign I had seen in the last hour, for the second time. By this time, I had a pretty good idea how I could get back to that same spot, and with mounting anger, I sped up. That’s when I observed what seemed like a flash of lightning, only very close and not nearly as bright as lightning, and my frustration reached a new level, because I knew what it was—a camera flash. I had just been photographed by an automatic traffic camera for speeding.

I knew about these traffic cams because I had read about them while researching car rental agencies online. I had read reviews of the Maggiore rental agency, and people had generally had decent experiences with the agency, but some had complained about getting charged twice for traffic tickets. First, Maggiore charged a fee a month or so after the camera-recorded infraction for the administrative costs of giving the traffic police the names and addresses of the driver on the day the ticket was issued. Later came a ticket from the police. Doing a little more reading, I found that this was standard practice for all auto agencies in Italy, so I rented from Maggiore and overall had a good experience.  I also read that most of the tickets came from automatic cameras in large cities, Firenze and Pisa included, for driving in lanes that were for buses or in a zona traffico limitato, where one has to have a special permit to drive.

I hoped I was wrong about the flash, but it seemed pretty likely that it came from a camera. And sure enough, on July 10, two months later, I received a charge from Maggiore of 36 euros, or $50.81, on my credit card. No explanation was given, but I asked the credit card company for documentation, and a month later I received a document showing that Maggiore had received a request for information from the police, so my fears were confirmed. Now, six months after the camera flash, I have received my speeding ticket. It states that at 6:11 a.m. May 3, I was near Pisa and going 121.6 kilometers an hour in a 90 kph zone, or 76 mph in a 56 mph zone. It further states that I must pay 240.27 euros within 60 days of the fine notification. Otherwise, the fine will be 454.27 euros.

Okay, so how do I pay, and what happens if I never pay? How is Italy going to collect from all the foreigners who are accumulating traffic tickets under these relatively new traffic cameras? Right now I am too busy to look into this, so the bill sits on my desk while I take care of more important issues, or at least less unpleasant ones.

Next: Traffic cameras a common complaint in Italy

Finalmente! Ho il passaporto italiano

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

After a futile attempt to obtain my Italian passport in Italy last spring, today I have an appointment in the Italian Consulate in San Francisco to try again. I am encouraged by the fact that the Consulate has responded promptly to my email requesting an appointment for me and daughter Sandra. They will see me at 10:30 a.m. and Sandra at 11:15 a.m. Yesterday Sandy and I went to Walmart to have our passport photos taken, and then we went online to fill out the two-page application and print it out.

I show up at the Consulate around 10 a.m. and check in, and am further heartened to notice that the line is short and the lobby is not crowded. When I came here in 2000, I had to wait in line for almost an hour, and I remember some of the people ahead of me having long arguments with officials who seemed to be low on patience. Apparently, much has improved procedurally since then, and I hope this impression will soon be confirmed.

However, I wait for nearly an hour until I am called into the office of Sr. Giuseppe Penzato, and when I do, he tells me that the computer system appears to be blocked. He was able to process the passport application of one man earlier today, but when he tried to process the man’s wife, the system refused to respond. He will enter my data and hopes that the problem has been resolved. He collects my cash fee of $113.10, makes copies of my American passport and drivers license, takes three imprints of each of my index fingers and enters my data into his computer, which operates extremely slowly and has to be restarted once. The problem, he explains, is that the data has to be sent electronically to a computer in Rome to be authenticated and approved, but there is no response from there. He can’t call to find out why because it is nearly 9 p.m. in Rome, and the offices are closed.

After nearly a decade of stumbling through this process, I am mentally prepared for more obstacles, and I am not in a hurry, so I take this latest delay in stride. Sr. Penzato explains that he has entered my information, and he can finish the process later today or tomorrow and mail me my passport, which is fine with me. He can do the same with Sandra, who is next in line.

We are left with one more curious encounter with the Italian bureaucracy: I must provide Sr. Penzato with a stamped, self-addressed envelope for the mailing of our passports. The receptionist gives me the address of a stationary and mailing store about five blocks away, and when I arrive there, I meet the lady who had the passport appointment before me. She is in a hurry, she says, because the Consulate will close for lunch in a few minutes, and then we will have to wait at least an hour to give our envelopes to the receptionist. I sprint back and make it with three minutes to spare. Meanwhile, Sandra has had her fingerprints and data entered, and we are off to enjoy the rest of our week-long trip to California. (Additional note: When we arrived home, the passports were in my mailbox!)