Venezia Carnevale fascinating, and the city itself is just as appealing

The legs on this costume are fake.
The person's real legs are under
the egg.

Thursday, February 16

Living in San Salvatore last year, we were only 50 minutes from Viareggio and were able to view the amazing animated floats of the city’s Carvevale in February. Now we are only 30 minutes by train from Venezia, and so we are off on the 8:30 a.m. train to take in the other of Italy’s two most famous Carnevale celebrations.

I continue to marvel at the bargain prices we can obtain on Italy's regionale trains. We purchase round trip tickets for 3.50 euro each and arrive at 9 a.m. sharp. Since the corso mascherto, the parade of masks, is not scheduled until 11 a.m., we decide to hop a traghetto for the island of Murano, famous since at least the 10th century for its exquisite glass artists. A one-way boat ride to Murano is 6.50 euro, and although one could probably get away with using the same ticket to get back to the train station, we end up buying a return ticket as well.

This is one of the options if you don't have a
mask or costume.

Lucy has been to Murano before, but this is my first time. Previously she was able to watch a glass blowing artist for free, but now we are asked to pay 3 euro to watch at one of the shops. We decline, as we saw a demonstration in Venezia some years ago. Today, we are content to stroll the nearly empty sidewalks and watch as the Muranesi go about their daily business. Murano is much like Venezia, except the buildings are not as large and the sidewalks are less traveled. No gondolas here—the diverse boats and barges going to and fro in the canals are carrying fisherman, construction workers, mail and bundles of cargo. After we feast our eyes watching canals, boats and people, we stop for some gelato and then catch a boat to Piazza San Marco, the heart of Carnevale.

Look carefully and you
can see this lady's real
eyes just below her left
arm.

Viareggio has the most spectacular floats we have ever seen, but in keeping with the long history of Carnevale in Venezia, the focus here is on elaborate individual costumes. The Venezia celebration dates back to at least the 1100s, and Carneval become an official city holiday in 1296. Masks have been the trademark, and it is said that it is a time when the rich and poor rub shoulders because the masks hide people’s identities.

Lucy enjoys her wine and
frittella in front of the
fountain of wine.

Revelers who neglect to bring their costumes can purchase masks on site, or else they can have trucco, face makeup, applied by local artists. The parade of masks is not a formal parade, as far as we can see. People just mill about the piazza adorned with everything from simple masks to intricately designed full-length costumes. Those with the best costumes are besieged by tourists asking them to pose for photos. We see an old lady who is very short but has a costume which extends her height an additional two feet. We know she is short because we can just see her weathered face peeking out through the midriff of the costume of a fair young maiden. Lucy comments that this is a time when people can be who they want to be.

Italians start participating in
Carnevale at a young age.

We buy a glass of wine and frittella at the fountain of wine. Behind the booth, a fountain spouts a deep red liquid, but the actual wine we drink is poured from a bottle. A stage at the end of the piazza has musicians, dancers, actors and acrobats performing, and after a while the master of ceremonies and his assistants round up a dozen of the most interesting costumes and bring them up on stage for judging. The winner for the day is dressed as Marie Antoinette, accompanied by Il Re Sole, King Louis XVI.

Tourists love to pose with
the costumed characters.

And the winner is . . . Marie Antoniette, along with the Sun King, Louis XVI.

We take a train home at about 3 p.m. Overall, we would say that though the costumes were beautiful and interesting, the floats in Viareggio make last year’s Carnevale far more memorable and impressive. But given that Venezia itself is one of the most fascinating cities in the world, I would be hard pressed if asked to recommend one over the other.

That's Lucy on the left and Paul on the right. Yeah, sure.

King Neptune and his bride attracted a lot of attention.

Lady acrobat applies her makeup while
being held aloft.

Finding my place in free Italian class

Wednesday, February 15

It turns that my first free language class for immigrants today is just a placement test. After a 20-minute bike ride, I find the right government office and join some 30 plus students who listen to Ilaria speak rapid Italian, explaining that we must fill out a form listing our names, addresses, passport numbers and cell phone numbers. Then we will take a two-page exam, which we must do entirely by ourselves, and we will be placed in a class appropriate to our level that meets next Monday and Wednesday in the afternoon, or Wednesday and Friday in the evenings, depending on either which is more convenient for us or how we do on the exam. That last part I am not quite sure about.

She pauses a couple of times to say, “Avete capito?”  Have you understood? A couple of people nod, so she continues, but my experience as a teacher and with human nature informs me that a number of people probably don’t understand but figure they can just follow along to see what other people are doing.

When she passes out the information forms, she calls out a number of different languages, because the questions have been translated to accommodate various immigrants. There are forms in Chinese, Arab, French, English, Romanian and a few others. The test is only two pages long, but it has a number of irregular verbs, nouns, prepositions and adjectives, so it will probably serve its purpose and be quick to evaluate.

While the classes may be large and I will only be in Padova long enough to take four lessons, it is something I feel compelled to do. It will at least give me some closure for my efforts of 10 years ago, when I tried to sign up for this class but was denied by some ironical regulations. I couldn't take the class without a permesso di soggiorno, but in the office granting this permission to stay in Italy, the officials did not speak English, meaning that I had to speak Italian to obtain permission to take a class to teach me Italian.

In any event, Ilaria does not ask for a permesso di soggiorno or even to see our passports, so it seems the government has relaxed its requirements.  “Ci vediamo lunedì,” she says as I hand in my test and leave. 

At home in Padova

Tuesday, February 14
Today we help Steve and Patti by painting the inside their new home, which they will be moving into at the end of February. We started this last Saturday and by the end of today, we have painted two bedrooms, a bathroom and the living room. Now we head back to our cozy quarters for a delicious Valentine's Day dinner purchased at a nearby rosticceria.

We are thrilled with our little Padova appartamento. Though the temperature outside is consistently below freezing, we are mostly toasty warm, except for one day when the freezing wind was howling and the central heating couldn't quite keep up. Our appartamento is owned by our church here, International Christian Fellowship, and it is two floors above the church's office. The church uses it to house short-term missionaries and interns, but it was going to be unoccupied this month, so our staying here helps the church maintain some income while saving us a little money over the rate we would otherwise be paying in the San Salvatore agriturismo Casolare dei Fiori.

If we put our laptops by the window of the bathroom or the small bedroom, we can just manage to pick up the wi-fi from the church office, though we sometimes lose the connection and have to wait a few minutes and try again. If we need to use Skype to call home, we just have to go down below and unlock the church office to get better reception.

One of the best features of this place is the location. Just across the piazza is the Despar grocery store, so we can easily buy our food fresh for the day. The farmer's market in the centro is open daily and is only a five-minute walk, and the stazione is only 10 minutes a piedi. However, the church has loaner bikes, and we can get to most anywhere we need even faster. If we have to go farther, we are right next to many major bus routes.

We could happily stay in Padova for the next three months, but it is too easy to keep our American identities here. The church community is definitely international, but it is not particularly Italian. Most of the members are African or Eastern European, with a smattering of American, Italian, Filipino and other random nationalities thrown in. True, the sermon is translated into Italian, which is helpful for our language development, but we end up speaking English most of the time. Living in San Salvatore takes us out of our cultural comfort zone, and we are more likely to have encounters with Italians, some of whom are my relatives. This is more in keeping with my purpose for living in Italy. But meanwhile, we are enjoying every moment of our three weeks in Padova.

Learning our lessons the hard way

Monday, February 13

Finding the best language class is proving to be a difficult venture. When we lived in Padova in 2001-02, we tried two schools, Inlingua and Bertram Russell. Inlingua offered pricey individual instruction that quickly threatened to break our budget, so Lucy, Suzye and Lindsey took group lessons at Bertram Russell. Because I was working, I could sit in on only an occasional lesson.

They went to school four hours a day and five days a week in the beginning class, with instruction entirely in Italian. While total immersion has its advantages, it can be a daunting experience. The proprietress and staff were friendly and helpful, but the classes moved too quickly, with much time spent listening to the teacher talk and little time to practice one concept before moving on to the next. The insegnanti are obliged to cover all the curriculum, and they forge ahead regardless of the level of befuddlement of gli studenti. Some students give up and stop coming. The more persistent repeat each level numerous times before passing the tests to advance to the next level, which is what happened in my family's situation.

On Friday, Lucy and I walked into the office of Bertram Russell and were surprised to be greeted warmly by the head of the school, who seemed to remember us as if we had only been away one year instead of 10. We sat in on the last hour of the intermediate class, currently in its fifth day of 20 sessions. We were given the study guides for both the beginning and intermediate classes to peruse. By the end of the hour, we drew two conclusions: That there were some concepts in the latter stages of the beginning study guide that we needed to review, and that we would not be able to bear four hours a day of listening to the teacher. She seemed nice enough, but she did 99 percent of the talking in class, except for the long pauses when she wrote sentences on the blackboard. This did not seem the place for us.

Before coming to Italy, Lucy had purchased the Rosetta Stone interactive computer program at Borders Books closeout sale, and on the weekend, we took our first Rosetta Stone lesson. The first lessons, though too basic for our skill level, kept us fully engaged for an hour. In comparing the group class with the computer program, we concluded that an hour with the Rosetta Stone is worth at least two hours of group lessons.

This morning I check into two other options. First, I sit in on 20 minutes of the Bertram Russell beginning class, which as we thought is much too elemental for us, and once again there is much time taken to write on the board or listen while other students struggle to answer questions from the instructor. Worse, of the nine students present, only one has done his weekend homework, which was to write a paragraph on one's own hobbies and interests. The other students either didn't understand the assignment or just didn't want to do it, so the class spends most of the time listening to the teacher. I find it strange that people would spend $600 on a class and not do their homework, but I leave knowing that this is definitely not the place for us.

Leaving Bertram Russell, I pursue our final option, hunting down a government office that I had looked up on the Internet over the weekend. It offers free classes for immigrants, classes I had tried to take 10 years ago but was rebuffed because I didn't have a permesso di soggiorno (a story I will tell another time). I explain that I am a dual citizen interested in the free classes, and the man at the information desk tells me I should just show up at one of the classes and sign up. The classes are offered twice a week for an hour and a half, a total of only three hours a week. He circles the location that is closest to where I live but warns me that none of the classes are in my neighborhood. He doesn't give any indication whether or not my legal status here is important to my eligibility for the class, so I will have to see what happens when I show up for the next class, which is two days from now.

Three hours a week is not going to teach me enough Italian, but 20 hours a week of sitting and listening to the same voice at Bertram Russell is more than I can take, so I am not thrilled with either choice. Private lessons of about two hours a day might be ideal, but that will cost more than I want to spend. It seems Rosetta Stone is the best choice, but I will also see what the free classes are like.

The problem with Rosetta Stone is not the program but the student and the weaknesses of the flesh. I know it will be too easy for me to choose to read, write, take a walk or just snooze instead of doing my daily lesson. Hopefully, though, I will be a different person here, without the distractions of running a business and my many home projects. With the added incentive of having Italians all around who expect me to understand them and make myself understood, I have the incentive to make it work.

My goal will be eight hours a week of Rosetta Stone and three hours with the free government classes. If the free classes are not for me, then I can increase the Rosetta Stone hours. I’ve been told that the very best way to learn Italian is to get an Italian girlfriend or boyfriend, but neither Lucy nor I have an opening in those positions, so we’re just going to stay disciplined and stick with our lessons.

African problem runs deeper than American attitudes of discrimination

Friday, February 10

Although yesterday I pointed out a parallel between U.S. racial relations in the 1950s and 60s and Italian attitudes of today, the roots of the situation here are much different. First of all, the blacks in Italy all came here by choice, with a majority sneaking in illegally. They are resented by the Italians for a variety of reasons: They take away jobs, they put a financial strain on the social, medical and education systems, and they change the culture and tone of a society that is hugely dependent on its cultural appeal for its number one industry of tourism. Seventy-five percent of Italians also think that immigrants are responsible for an increase in crime in the country, according to a 2000 census survey.

I find all this out in conversations with Jeremiah, a Nigerian member of our church here, and Steve, the pastor, as well as from on-line sources. Jeremiah has been here for seven years, without documentation and without a regular job. He has a wife in Nigeria whom he supports by selling cheap products on the streets and picking up the infrequent odd job. In order to obtain a permesso di soggiorno, he needs someone who will guarantee his support and health care while he is in the country, and none of his Nigerian friends are wealthy enough to do this.

Nigerians like Jeremiah are caught in a Catch 22-like situation, Steve says. “They can’t get a job because they don't have work permits. And they can't get work permits because they don't have jobs.”

To get a work permit, immigrants have to find someone who will stand up and say, “I need this man for this job because he has a special set of skills.” That very rarely happens, and so Jeremiah lives perpetually in poverty. Some Africans in his situation give up and go back home, but he remains, hoping that one day his situation will improve.

Italy cannot possibly afford the extra military protection needed to guard its coastlines from the flood of illegal immigrants. While Italian citizens cry out for the government to find a solution, it seems that for others, the unofficial policy is “We can't stop them from coming, but we can make it so miserable here that they won't want to stay.”

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.