nazzarenaarman's posterous

This is about discovering my identity as an Italian living in the UK; unveiling my culture & preparing for the future; finding my place in the world as an events professional in relation to this all.

Nonna M

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Nonna M was born during the last summer of WWI, in Austro-Hungarian Trentino. Sixth and final child of the brood, she was one of only two to survive childhood. She grew up in an enlarged family, amongst a sister, a step sister and 2 cousins, lovingly looked after by two aunts, one uncle and a devoted father, who never left anything go amiss: 'He was both a father and a mother to me!' after the Spanish flu took mother away.

Being raised a girl in a house full of women, M did learn to rely upon her own abilities, free from the constrains of a male dominated world, as she filled in for the male jobs in the fields as well as carrying out what she was expected to fulfill as a young woman.

Age 14, she was sent to work in Lombardy. M spent over 10 years working as a maid for wealthy middle class families. Ironically, she had received more schooling than all the women and most all of the men she was employed by. Having reached financial security, she moved back home and took charge of the househld, the fields and looked after her sick father.

M quickly realised that a little grappa smuggling on the side was going to help a long way. She then embarked on a number of journeys 3-4 times longer than the competition would dare in order to raise 3 times the market value.

Marriage came about only in her early thirties, when, tired of treating the vines all alone, she decided to tie the knot and earn herself a helper. But so you know, she did not shy away from physical work: together with her sister, she gathered heavy stones from the river Avisio and transported them on her back all the way to Maderlina, 1km above sea level in the mountains, to fix the roof of the animals' hut.

I wish not to hazard what she was like as a wife to Nonno M and mother to their two cildren. I imagine she must have been quite something. To me, she was the best nonna ever to grace this earth and I owe so much to her I could bore you to tears.

Nonna M used to make an outstanding savoury potato cake in her wood fired stove; but she always kept an endless supply of amaretti biscuits available in her house... her zelten and crostata always were a bit too high and too tough, so she would make them only for special occasions.

Age 89, she came over to England to visit us. It was the best week ever. When we visited the Sandringham estate, she looked every bit like a queen to me.

M had a long and healthy life with a swift exit. She cought tetanus in the veggie garden she was still attending to at 93. When she was leaving her house for the last time, 24 hours before passing away in hospital, she made a point of greating all the neighbours who over the dacedes used to meet on her vast terrace as if it was a public square, and said: 'I could not have hoped for a better life, much enriched by your company'.

Over 500 people of all ages, from near and far, came to give the final farewell to Nonna M, the oldest lady of the village. It was a sunny afternoon this last September and we are all missing her very much.

 

 

 

 

 

Smells Like Teen Spirit, 'Cause It Is

Kurt Cobain, my hero, died in March 1994. To claim that music died with him, does not even scrape the surface of the blob of dark desperation that sent me into. For four days in a row, I cried and cried. Mind you, I am not one that way inclined... not now, nor ever. In those days I had very little room for self-indulgence: school was the one and only real way of life. My father also had a very smart, sharp and short way of keeping me on the straight an narrow: 'Now now, do not try to me more of a teenager than you already are!'

Ironically, I came into direct contact with the Punk movement via my parents. Back in 1991 they had taken under their roof an 18 year old with serious drugs problems. For a month, they tried to give him a different prospective on life and keep him away from his pusher. What I think that well meaning spell of family life achieved, was to plunge A into the conviction that life his way was the only way out for him... But to me, that month with A was just the perfect initiation to a lot of things. Oh no, you are thinking he might have pushed a spliff or two on me, right? - Think again: the young man imparted the strongest anti-substance-abuse message on earth, both directly and indirectly.
What A did, magisterially, was to show me that boys have their issues and are not always as strong as they wish to appear... he was decorating a shoe box with biro drawings whilst he was telling me pills of wisdom: lots of little men killing each other or themselves was the theme. He taught me how to make hair stand up properly: carpenter's glue! He also encouraged me to consider anarchy as a viable way. I personally gazed at the wide range of implications anarchy in the real word and decided that knowing one's mind and being naughty at times is as far as I was prepared to go. But the really interesting thing was the music collection A's kept in his bag, to the spacial detriment of much needed garments. He had a quite eclectic taste from the Sex Pistols, via lots of punk punk punk, right down to Italian acoustic-folk music. I was keen in going through the whole lot and he indulged me!

A concluded that the best option for me would have been to step away from punk music, as it was too non-commercial. And so, Metallica's Black Album appeared one Saturday afternoon in my bedroom, after a sneaky after Scouts stint into the records shop in Trento. A laughed and said: 'Do you really think you can stomach this?' and I replied 'Of course, I bought it, I will cherish it for the rest of my life!'

My parents ended the experiment with A after a few weeks. I am not sure what role Metallica plaid, but my Punk teacher was asked to leave after a series of episodes I shall not describe here and now. The hole A dug by hand and left in my imaginary soundscape was huge. Metallica could not fill that up by themselves... and then, the next Spring, something amazing started coming out on RadioRai late at night: Mirvana!

Mirvana!!!!! I even wrote it on my backpack: Mirvana with an M. Then, I bought the cassette and discovered that Nirvana is spelled with an N. Still tentative, I inserted the tape into my player one Saturday afternoon (you guessed right, after Scouts in Trento). What came out was Smells Like Teen Spirit and life changed forever. It was pure joy that filled the room in an instant and kept in there till the end of side B. It was something of an epiphany, too beautiful and overwhelming to explain in words. It was a gloriously sunny spring late afternoon, the days were getting long enough to make me hope in a swift Summer. Suddenly, the 8th grade exams, due in a couple of months, seemed a doodle and I could not help but jumping up and down on my bed with the volume as high as possible, just below distortion point. Lucky me mum and dad were not at home to stop me!

After a week, I did lend my Nevermind, tape to a friend... I saw that tape again almost 1 year later. In the meantime a huge number of people did copy it, over and over. But eventually, it found it's way back to me, undamaged. I could not believe people older than myself could like what I liked, musically. It was extremely pleased with myself, even though I had done nothing. But I kept all subsequent Nirvana albums close to my chest.

Then, Kurt Cobain committed suicide for real. Not only was the event broadly broadcasted in Italy because of his earlier botched attempt in Rome. It was participated by many in a non-medited way. To me, his death resonated inside with the same power the entire Nevermind album had. Except, this time, it was in the opposite way. And it hurt like hell...
Looking back now, I realise my feeling bereft was not only about Kurt, the man. It was about that period of my life initiated by A and concluded by the Seattle man, with a desperate and irrevocable act of self-destruction. It was my teenage that had come and gone, just like that. But I learned so many things, I would never change anything of it. That is the age when if you think it Smells Like Teen Spirit, it is simply 'cause it is!

R.I.P. Kurt and A.

Going To...

I used to hear this song by Led Zeppelin barricaded in my room, on top of my parents' house, in Italy. It stirred feelings of sadness, warmth and freedom inside of me. Back then, I could not understand any of the lyrics because English would not register in me brain as an intelligible language. I loved this song, because voice and guitar blend in effortlessly; yet, it must be a very hard song to master, vocally, that simple fact I could appreciate for sure...  and their sound stuck with me in the same way the instrumental music did... but the real pleasure for me was that the words gave me hope thinking that one day I was going, going to understand English and not come back.

This afternoon, my ears met Going To California by chance. It gave me all those sensations back, right away. The flow was exactly like 17 years ago. But this time there was a complete attention to the vocal detail and the meaning of those words I had memorised as my ears could, just blossomed in my head. 

Suddenly, everything fell into place and the emotion of understanding, not just hearing, I tell you, was nothing short of an epiphany... over a decade spent trying and finally, it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems... English and life, I mean!

In Loving Memory

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Italy remembers the people who are no more on November 2nd, every year. There is no official Remembrance Day, on or around the 11th of this month, as such. So, today I wish to remember the 29 soldiers of my village, Lisignago, who fell during the two World Wars.

Almost all, have been laid to rest  in our village cemetery, which has a commanding view of the village itself and the valley. They each have a place on their family headstones, even those soldiers whose bodies never made it home. A special mention has been created in the central chapel of the cemetery, by the community. The two rows of photos, on opposite walls, face each other, as to say we had a common home, belong to two different eras, fought for separate countries and share a sad end. The glass doors of the chapel reflect the shapes of the houses where generations of villagers were born, grew up in and lived a full life. The school were we all learnt to count, read and write are also nearby.

Nineteen young men fought during the 1914-1918 conflict, as soldiers of the Empire, the Austro-Hungarian that is. By the end of that conflict, their families became Italian and begun their journey under the King of Savoia, then Fascism and now the Republic. Note that the plaque carrying the 19 photos and names does have no inscription to mark the exact dates of the Great War they took part in. At the time when this unprecedented, yet demure, tribute was displayed, such important detail was completely overlooked. Their story, alongside that of thousands of other soldiers from Trentino, is passed down from generation to generation informally, but ignored by the history books and the curriculum; perhaps the reason is because they fought against Italy and, most likely, Italian soldiers killed them. How does an individual or indeed a community or a state deal with that?

Ten more young lives were taken between 1940 and 1945. Only half the previous war. Not an unusual trend in the villages of Trentino, to have a similar split in the exact same chronological order. These soldiers belonged to the Italian Army and died because Mussolini wanted them to sacrifice themselves for the homeland. They were schooled and trained to go to war from a very young age, such are the mentality, culture and rhetoric of the dictatorship with imperialistic ambitions. Surely, none of these came to be of use to parents, siblings, wives and children, who were left bereft of a dear one. The effects of these distant events had immense impact in the community and still to this day, 7 decades on, people have not only a loving memory of their unfortunate peers, but a living one... for now.

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Magic Under Water

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Playing with the sun rays under water is perfect joy and fun. Imagine yourself weightless, floating below the surface of the water and seeing brilliant colours all around you. Above your head, a crown of light, glossy and shiny, sparkles and moves. Your fingers, poking in and our of the water, form shadows, which dance with the light, in slow motion. It is one of the most beautiful spectacles you have ever seen and it fills you with a feeling that words cannot describe.

The burning sensation in your throat is quenched with a short, sharp mouthful of water, sometimes warm, sometimes cold. You imagine to be a fish and live in the lake forever, to gaze at the sunshine through the water, watching the mouth bobbles reach for the sky. But you do not catch a breath of air, because you are a fish, you no longer need to go to the surface to breathe... so, you sink, delicately, and your feet touch the sand. You jump and jump again to allow your hands to touch the light and your body to sink again and again.
It's magic... as if all the magic in the world came to you, all at once...

Then, a strong hand grabs hold of your wrist. It hurts and you want to scream, as the hand is fishing you out of the water. Something funny with your nose and ears...

Suddenly, everything becomes noise and dry... you are on the beach, with your mum lining over you, shaking you up screaming and crying uncontrollably, as you cough water.

You did not realise, you were only seconds away from losing your senses and drawn. The adults around you seem so big and agitated... what for?
I certainly loved the water of Lake Garda... I was only 4.

Photo credits Hillary Lias: http://ht.ly/335WD

The View From The Room

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Have you ever wanted to know more about what the window in the film A Room With A View overlooks?

Well, non other than Ponte Vecchio, in Florence, of course. As you can see, there are many windows overlooking the bridge on the Arno River. In September, I had a little hour to spare before boarding my train. I leapt at the possibility to grab a few pics of this iconic Italian landmark.

I know, Ponte Vecchio is at risk to appear overrated to the connoisseurs of Italian architecture and history, in some respects, because it is one of the buildings most frequented by tourists. Yet, in my mind, it still retains its character and uplifting power. I never stopped loving it since the first time I have seen it, whilst being held up by my father, as I could not reach the parapet!

Mamma & Nonna Taught Me

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My Italian Mamma taught me a few simple concepts about how to nourish myself. She did not teach me how to cook; her mother, my Nonna, did all the talking through the basics for me, during the summer times of my early teenage, whilst carrying out the jobs in the fields. She had learnt the proper way to cook Italian when she was a servant in Lombardy, in her youth. My mother, in stead, was great to watch in action in the kitchen, doing what she still regards as a duty (certainly not a pleasure) but rather well and neatly. Her home made pasta is grand and so are her Sacher Torte.

Mamma did not bother explaining much about doing the weekly shopping from a financial stand point, but she covered the practical and necessary points about making provisions. What is more she certainly did not have a romantic take on growing-it-yourself. She is just not the patient type and she would never go beyond a few words to rectify what she thinks is wrong in the cooking habits in our modern society.

I give you a practical example: Nonna would tell me on two feet how to prepare a soffritto, measure up the water and rice and how to work the risotto in the pan, before and during the mantecatura. Mum would simply land me in the kitchen and then point out not to fry the soffritto in oil or butter, as nonna told me, and use just water to soften the veggies.

Mamma taught me to have a small pasta or risotto and then a secondo from one of the following: meat, fish, cheese, egg. Never mix these 4 aliments but rather rotate them as ingredients inside of a week. Plenty of fruit and vegetables. Salads with no condiment. Piece of bread. Dessert: yogurt or fruit will do. Cakes, ice cream and patisserie delights only for special occasions. Nutella sandwich and tea between 4 and 5 pm. If you missed the window, too bad, you wait till dinner. Biscotti or a slice of everyday cake for breakfast. One small snack in the school bag for the 10 o'clock break.

It was quite insightful to hear my mother talking about vitamins, proteins, fibres, fats and carbs in simple terms: a little of everything, in season (but never turn down a good deal), no waste, all fresh and learn where to stop. I still keep these things close to my heart and when I visit a supermarket, I switch to autopilot. There are entire isles I do not even step into, because I know there is absolutely nothing I would buy there. Then, I get to the check out and I notice that my shopping selection is one of a kind amongst the others surrounding me. Most baskets or trollies have some kind of healthy food, but it is amongst a wide selection of things that I personally struggle to classify as food. These are just contents of a marketing-enhanced package, they are not real. 

Please, do not take this post of mine as a snobbish judgement on the diet of those who are not like me or my family. Mine is simply a description of nice things my mother and my grandmother have passed down to me to thank them for having taught me how to buy, cook, eat and maybe, one day, even grow for myself. I just wanted to share this with you today, because, in my mind, the two ladies deserve acknowledgement.

Pots On The Kitchen Window

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A year ago I made the executive decision that a touch of green was going to make the difference in my and my husband's lives. This conclusion was reached after finding a little shoot of aloe abandoned on the staircase of our building and feeling every bit guilty for not rescuing it for about a week. So, I picked it up and put it in a glass with water, to test its vitality. It took to water like an alcoholic to wine. 

Then came the moment when my husband said: 'Oh, my cactus at work has overgrown its little pot. By the way, our spathiphyllum [for lack of a more common word] has the same problem'. We were given that plant donkeys years ago and no matter how badly we neglected it, it always managed to bounce back to life and multiply. 

The day after our conversation, my husband turned up with not one but two cacti from the office and I bought 4 little terracotta pots and a big one for the spathiphyllum. I am very happy we did this little green step up. I am proud to report all the plants have thrived in their stylish pots and add grace and joy to our living quarters from the kitchen window. 

Hey-Ho

All is well what ends well, we say in Italy.

The ordeal of the 32 Chilean miners and one Bolivian, their families and the nation has indeed ended in the best of ways. Only a few infections, one pneumonia, eye problems and some psychological trauma to be cured with a lot of TLC.

It might seem insensitive of me to publish this clip from Walt Disney's Snow White (1937), but my motivations are all very benign, I can reassure you. After dedicating a whole day to watching the rescue of each and every one of the 33 men on TV, I just want to look at something different, without all the emotional impact. Gosh, the past 2 months have been a roller-coaster. Every day news trickled through the media about every twist and turn in the saga. One morning, as I was having breakfast, I cried because the miners were told they would be out by Christmas and they were sent antidepressants down the tube to counter the impact of such notion.

I am very happy that we have been able to witness such an event, worldwide. It is somewhat refreshing to see that in spite of the odds and the shortcomings of the case, someone has been spared a horrible death because, high up, the decision was made to invest an extraordinary amount of money to rescue, rather than just wait and compensate the families. It is quite likely that the Chilean government might end up doing both things: foot the bill and the damages. But then again, the people in charge did the right thing and for a country famous for its 200 years of almost complete non-democracy, this is a massive leap forward in front of the rest of the world.

My thoughts go to all those miners in the world that have given their lives to earn a relatively modest wage underground, in precarious and unhealthy conditions. This South American tragedy stands out in the history of mining purely because the technology, the willpower and the determination of those above ground was put in place promptly. But the harsh reality is that thousands of miners are lost every year in the world and we know nothing about it. What is more, even those who make it to retirement age, still have to deal with silicosis, pains to the back, damaged hands and other chronic conditions brought upon them by the years of working in mines and a lifestyle to match. In mines, lives are shortened or taken, there is no third option.

Both my grandfathers suffered the consequences of working in a open quarry, although they made it to old age. Nonno S in particular was famous for his temerity: he would stand up to the owner demanding wages to be increased and he would do an array of dangerous jobs like dislodging entire walls of stone by hand, dangling from a rope or placing the explosives deep down into a 5 meters hole, snaking in and out on his belly. Both my grandfathers made a point of telling their children and grandchildren to undertake other career paths. They worked hard to pay for their schooling. I guess Disney's take on working in a mine did not really cut it with them... hey-hoooooooo!

Slopes, Friends & Front Teeth

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Free falling on skates from Vic was awesome! Dangerous, but awesome!

Vic is generally the name of a place just above a village, in Trentino. In 1986, a new road was created to join Vic, to the East, to the West-most point above Lisignago. Such space could only be welcomed by all the children in he village with great enthusiasm. It instantly became our high speed track.

My yellow skates, which I got for my first communion that year, were just the perfect match for the main slope snaking through the houses, old and new. The thrill consisted in skating all the way up in a pattinato and then turn around more or less where this picture was shot. A warning was shouted downhill and then a playmate on a bike standing by the white house with a red roof would give the all clear. No incoming cars, no people to run over... go, go, go!

The lift off was usually accompanied by a couple of strokes to gather speed. Then all I had to concentrate on was to stand on my two feet all the way down. As soon as the friend on the bike would spot me, coming around the mid track bend, she or he would start pedalling on the bike, very fast. Then I would attach myself at the back of the bike and we would roll in the plane at first and then uphill, in a controlled deceleration. The whole experience was simply glorious.

I trained a few friends to tackle the slope with me. Someone persuaded parents to buy them skates just to do that. Not that the parents were made aware of the real scope behind such request, otherwise, I suspect, the skates would have been denied. It was wonderful to do it together... until one of my friends fell and broke her front teeth. She accused me to have closed her in, just after the bend, so she had to go over the gravel, which caused her to lose balance. I never told her, but I immediately thought her ego was so bruised she could not admit to herself I had noting to do with her fall. But for me, the most important thing was to find her front teeth and get the dentist to stick them back on as soon as possible, so everything would be all right again... but those teeth were never found again.