My thoughts lately have been going back to the mid 1980's and my life in Italy.
We moved to Italy in the summer of 1984. Being an army brat it was probably my fifth or sixth move in my life. People say moving around that much at a young age is a hardship but to me it was just the way things were. People moved. Either my father or my buddies father was getting a new assignment in the next six months so friendships were mostly kept on a basic level. Yeah sure, most people have that one or two friends they can say they have known since kindergarten. Not me. Not most of us army brats. Of course by age 9, when I moved to Italy, I could say I have lived in more places and seen more things than most adults ever get a chance to read about. The next two and half years would almost double those experiences.
When your in the Army overseas, as a dependent or in the service, you have two options as I see it. You can live in the Department of Defense created little America and have as little contact with the natives and their culture as possible; or, you can embrace the chance you are given and expand your mind and soul by learning as much as you can of the place. Many American families took the former option. Luckily my parents were adventurer's at heart.
I remember vividly the tours of Venice, San Marino, Firenze (aka Florence), Vicenza, Madrid, Roma, Pisa, etc etc. I saw Michelangelo's David in all its glory. I gawked at the detail and magnificence of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I was strangely enthralled at St. Anthony's tongue in Padua. My interest in chess was started by the Human Chess game in a small town called Marostica.
Of course the tours weren't the only way my family experienced Italy. Mom and I took an Italian language course as soon as we got there. Mom became quite fluent and I came quite proficient myself. Dad relied mostly on his Spanish in the Northern area where we were first stationed. (Spanish could be understood by the northern dialect speakers, he only had problems when we moved to central Italy.) Our willingness to learn the language helped us live on the economy outside of "little America". And of course that fact that we attempted the language and didn't get embarrased by our gramatical mistakes lead many Italians not to treat us as your typical arrogant ignorant American.
The food was excellent when you learned to eat the Italian way. Imagine our surprise at our first meal when after a huge bowl of pasta, the waiter asked what we would like for our second plate. Three courses was the minimum even at your dive restaurants. We gradually adjusted. We started eating all the courses. Restaurants didn't open till 9pm usually so our dining times changed as well. (Surprisingly the whole family lost weight during this time. Now that is one hell of a puzzle for those Atkins die-hards. Eating late and lots of carbs) One of our rules in the family was if you didn't recognize a menu item you ordered it. It was in Venice that this rule came back to bite me in the tush. We had just finished looking at some of the sites in St. Marks square. Being 9 or probably 10 at that time, much of my time was occupied feeding some of the millions of pigeons there. So here at the restaurant, I saw "piceone" on the menu for the segundo piatta (second plate) and I ordered it. Looking back I should have realized, the word structure is almost identical in English. But there I sat as the waiter served me a roasted pigeon. I guess it wouldn't have been so bad, but the head was still on the sucker and these beady little eyes were looking at me saying "Ahhh, so when you were feeding me you were just plumping me up for the kill". After that I learned my lesson and if I saw something on the menu I didn't recognize I kept my mouth shut. If I was really interested I talk my dad into ordering it. He is like Mikey in the old Life cereal commercials. He could eat anything.
A favorite past time in Vicenza (our northern Italian station) was getting a couple gelati (ice creams) and watching some of the old men play bocci ball. See "little America" housing and the base were seperated by this classic little Italian town. Many times we would walk from one to the other through this town, which for the life of me I can't seem to remember the name of it. Most of the Americans would just walk through. But we would stop at the bar which was right next to the gelateria and right next to the bocci ball courts. Dad with his grappa or wine and me with some weird flavor of ice cream would watch these old men play bocci.
Mom, just came in, reading over my shoulder she reminded me the town was Stanga. She has an uncanny way of remembering little details that Dad and I tend to just blow off. The point of the story was I remember those times fondly. Well perhaps more on Italy tomorrow. Mom needs the computer and Dad is giving me the evil eye saying "Get the hell off now". Till tomorrow.
Leo 4
14 November 2004
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10 November 2004