Hi everyone, Spring is in the air, so I thought i would share my latest column from ‘Segmento’ – the Italian/Australian magazine that seeks to be a link between modern Italian culture and the rich history that Italian migrants have preserved where ever they have migrated.
In celebration of it being the 70th Anniversary of the Republic of Italy (and who really needs a reason to celebrate all things Italian), I wanted to take the opportunity to remind you of, or introduce you to, my book Roman Daze – La Dolce Vita for all Seasons. Please see below for a synopsis and sneek preview. This book can be purchased through Amazon worldwide (in hard copy of as an e-book), from the FAO and Lion Bookshops in Rome, or in any Australian bookshop. Links are provided below. Happy reading!
This is a book about Italy, Rome and me.
It is not a book about falling in love and marrying an Italian, running a B&B, or restoring a farmhouse.
I arrived in Italy on a whim as a result of having won an airline ticket in a raffle. The city of Rome captivated my heart and I decided to stay awhile. It was the year before Berlusconi came to power. Seventeen years later we were both still there. Much to everybody’s amazement, particularly our own (although I can’t strictly speak for Berlusconi).
Rome and Italy are places of extreme contrasts. The Italian political system, its Universities, banks, and industries are in disarray. Italy has always seemed to be on the verge of crumbling according to many economic indicators. And yet somehow life continues on a daily basis in much the same way it has for hundreds of years. The breath taking countryside, stunning islands and beaches, non- stop blue skies, excellent food and wine, art collections, fashion, family, tightly knit neighbourhoods, rituals and traditions, and the beauty of the cities make it hard to be gloomy or to reconcile the failure of so many of its institutions. It is easier to have an excellent coffee, stop and chat awhile with your neighbour.
This is a book about how seasons, food, family, architecture, nature, traditions, and weather all come together to create the lifestyle of Italians much more so than their economic well being, and why it looks like La Dolce Vita to most of us. It also debunks some myths of La Dolce Vita and shows the not so attractive side of being Roman/Italian that tourists don’t get to see.
The book is divided into four sections – Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. It describes the city of Rome, its inhabitants and lifestyle for each season and time of year – the food, rituals, events, practices and behaviour that go with each season and why. This is a fundamental key to the differences between an Anglo-Saxon culture based on economic rationalism and one which is dictated by the weather/natural environment and by human relationships. And it is a difference that has far reaching effects in all aspects of Italian society, economics and attitude.
The book also follows my movements as I participate in each season’s rituals and practices, some of which are easy, some not, some I still find bizarre and some I revel in. It highlights several key relationships I have with other Italians and ex-pats and talks about life in Italian society from their point of view.
It includes chapters about important Italian events such as the annual celebration for the Liberation of Italy from the Nazi’s. It covers my local festival which celebrates a traditionally impoverished neighbourhood where some of Italy’s most important film makers, artists and actors came from. It talks about the importance of the first sea swim of the year, what happens on Year’s Eve and why, what Italians do on the weekends, and some classic and unforgettable examples of how the Italian state is run.
It details areas of Rome and its surrounding that are not covered in Guide Books, and gives surprising and key information on how to survive and enjoy Italy. It provides little known facts and advice about Italian society, lifestyle and behaviours that enable the reader to understand, appreciate and get the most out of any experience of Italy.
It is also a personal story that brings alive the spectacular environment in which it is told. If you have ever wondered what it would be like to live in a country that insists on a three hour lunch break (in spite of it being the eighth most industrialised country in the world); or why if you are related to someone on the Police force, are wealthy, or a blonde female, the usual rules and laws of the country don’t apply to you; or what life would be like in the absence of economic rationalism, then you will enjoy this book.
This book is about what it is like to be so different from all those around you while identifying and appreciating things that were always missing in your own life. It is a book about living an unending and continuously surprising adventure, about following your heart, and living amongst people who continuously use theirs.
CHAPTER 3 – FRANCESCA AND RITA
Are our neighbours, were our neighbours. Today is a sad day. It is the first day without them. They moved out yesterday, after renting here for fifty years. It is the end of an era and everyone in the whole apartment block is sad.
Francesca moved here with her parents when she was nine. Her play mates are still mostly living here too. Their parents all knew each other, she along with her other playmates, stayed here until they were married, and then returned to live here with their husbands and wives. They then had their own children, who are now also friends.
Antonio and Gianni played together as small boys. Antonio still lives in the same apartment underneath us, and has lived to see Gianni marry Antonella who became Francesca’s best friend. Marianna’s mother and Francesca’s mother were best friends when Marianna and Francesca were children. Marianna helped Francesca nurse her dying husband, who introduced Marianna to hers.
We live in a tightly knit neighbourhood. It is unwise to get annoyed at anyone as they are usually related to someone you know quite well, or depend on (the pharmacist, the mechanic, the owner of the local trattoria – Antonio’s brother owns ours). Many people live within walking distance of where they grew up, and where their extended family lives. The inhabitants of this quartiere are polite to, but a little wary of, outsiders. They are fiercely proud and protective of their suburb, and find it a little unusual that anyone would voluntarily come and live here. For generations the traffic has been going the other way.
It probably explains why I get stared at a lot. If I lived in one of the suburbs that are popular with foreigners, I wouldn’t get a sideways glance, but here people have the look of, “but WHY would you choose to live here, with us?!!” It explains partly why, when your neighbours do get to know you, they embrace you with the fierceness and tightness of a mother about to be separated from her first born. In fact you can’t get away from them, ever again.
We have a well kept, shady, shared garden area as part of the apartment complex we live in. Our apartment complex is not public housing but was built for employees of the post office just up the road. Marianna is one of the only post office employees left that still lives here. The communal area consists of a rather large space, surrounded by trees and grass, sculptured by hedges and containing three separate sitting areas, complete with benches. It is astounding to have this kind of facility in Rome. Most apartment blocks are built one right up against each other with barely a wall between them. The last one I lived in I didn’t need an alarm clock, the man on the other side of the wall had one and it always went off at the time I needed to get up.
I was overjoyed when I first saw the garden. I imagined myself sitting there at any time of day, relaxing in my own bit of green space. But the reality is I go there stealthily. First I scout from my balcony to see if anyone is sitting in it, and then I run there as quickly as possible to avoid being spotted by anyone else. Then I sit in the part the farthest away from the buildings and bury my head in a book, scowl, or close my eyes and chant if anyone comes close.
This amount of preparation and strategic planning is necessary. I discovered early on that sitting there by myself was a beacon for anyone else in the apartment block to come down and join me. Apparently what I am communicating by sitting by myself in the garden is, “Help! I am lonely and would like some company, please come and talk to me”.
Francesca often watched me when I was in the garden, waving and smoking from her balcony. She folds boxes for a living and is also a Sarta (dressmaker). The boxes are the staple part of her income in a land where there is no unemployment benefits, or pensions for widows. Her husband knew the man for whom she folds boxes. Out of charity the work was passed on to her after his death. She is a woman who always manages to look elegant, from her fingernails to her hair. She has a rasping cough, never walks anywhere, and has laughter continually on her face. She is a chain smoker so there is always a cigarette on her face as well. The entire house smells of smoke. She is always at home, as is her twenty-five year old daughter, Rita. Rita is tiny, like most Italian women at that age, and she could pass for fifteen. She is beautiful and has the dark features of her Arabic father.
As I often work from home, and sometimes also my husband, Francesca was always coaxing us over for a coffee or a chat. It was a welcome relief for me, from a day spent concentrating in front of a computer.
What first attracted me to Francesca was that she would often ring on my doorbell wearing only her pyjamas. At midday. I would usually still be wearing mine, and the relief to find someone else that not only thought that was OK, but that it was OK to go calling in them, was enormous. Sometimes Rita would poke her head out of their door, and she would be wearing only her pyjamas too. Sometimes we would spend quite a bit of time chatting together from our doorways, drinking coffee, in our pyjamas. Francesca would always invite me in but I refused to cross my thresh hold wearing only my pyjamas. I find it hard enough to get dressed some days as it is. This never stopped Francesca though, or Rita, who would regularly come visiting in their pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers. It was a private, female world we had on the top floor of our apartment block, where we knew no one would ever appear unless we knew about it first.
I first met Francesca and Rita a few months after we had moved in, during a violent rain storm. Water had come streaming down the stairs from the roof and was forming a small lake, in the entrance hall of our apartment. Both my husband and I stood helplessly in the corridor outside our apartment watching the flow, and not knowing what to do. Next thing I knew, two women had bowled out of their apartment and were in mine, mopping my floor and stuffing towels on the stairs while shouting for the bloke downstairs to come and unblock the drains on the roof. They mopped and sopped and then went back into their apartment leaving my husband and I staring at each other and wondering what we would have done without them. We had met them once.
Yesterday we helped them pack and said goodbye to them as they drove their car out of the compound one last time. We were all crying, and smoking. Many of the residents had come out to say goodbye and for each hug there would be fresh tears and a fresh cigarette. Francesca did not want to go. The landlord wanted to sell the property and had offered her a substantial amount of money to move, two years before her lease was up. It was more than she could hope to earn in a year. She was entitled to stay in the apartment, even if it sold, for another two years but then she could be given notice without any compensation. So Francesca had chosen a new rental in a seaside town about an hour south of Rome. She could not afford to rent in Rome any longer. She would be close to her brother who also lived there. With the compensation she could afford to furnish the new rental and the furniture would be hers not the landlords.
Although I often declined Francesca’s daily invitations over the years, it was comforting to me that she was there. That if I ever wanted company, a cigarette, an egg, or to know that someone would hear me scream, she was there. I had lived some hard and sad times in this apartment and spent much time alone as a result.
I rarely spoke that much when I visited, as I usually found it a stretch speaking Italian, let alone the Roman dialect that she spoke. I rarely offered much of myself, and I gained a lot from being with her. Hanging out the washing together on the roof, talking about whether it would rain or not today, whether the supermarket was open, what kind of tomatoes were in season, what I was going to eat for dinner, gave me a well needed sense of normality. Having a two minute connection with someone living in the same space and time as me, was grounding, and somehow kept me connected to life at a simple and basic level. I felt not alone. Not in a crowded sense, but in an “I am not on my own” kind of way.
I wasn’t really on my own, I had my husband, I had friends, but in day to day living, in daily moments when I was alone, Francesca made me feel not on my own. I understood then how all the women in the Palazzo got on with things. Antonella, who lived in the ground floor apartment and was Francesca’s best friend. Marianna, whose husband left her after childbirth, nine months after they were married, twenty five years ago. Rita, Francesca’s daughter, who could not find work. And Francesca, whose husband died after a few short years of marriage, and who eked out a living, and who was never going to be able to afford to buy her own home. They were always together, the women of this Palazzo, daily visits of minutes at a time. Making sure none of them felt on their own.
In the weeks leading up to their departure, we spent most evenings with them, eating with them, going over for a chat, or just sitting together. One evening Rita read out a letter which was addressed to my husband and I. In the letter she told us that the thought of leaving her home where she was born, and where she had nursed her father until his death, had been continually traumatic and at times paralysing over the past few months, but that throughout it all she had felt not alone because of us. She told us through her poetic writing, that just our presence across the hallway, our hellos and other greetings, our smiles and our availability, had helped ease the burden for her, and that she was grateful.
We didn’t see Marianna the day that Francesca and Rita left. We saw her the next day as we were driving our car into the compound. Her face was haggard with grief, and when she saw us she lurched towards us, almost slamming herself onto the windscreen, like a leaf in a tornado. Luckily my husband had seen her and wound down the window in anticipation, so she did not have to bang on the glass with her fist. “ They’ve gone, they’ve gone!”, she bellowed. “It is the end of an era! It is not just them, it’s the end of an era. Our mothers were friends, they knew each other, who is left to remember my mother now? We left these apartments as Brides, both of us, and returned as wives. It’s a piece of our history that has gone. That bastard that kicked them out, he’s a criminal without a heart! It’s a piece of our shared history that has gone!” I didn’t get the rest as she subsided into tears leaning on our car door.
They call Rome ‘The Eternal City’. It refers to the fact that it is timeless, changeless, always there. It has indeed, in many ways, resisted much of the change that has occurred in other post industrial, European capital cities. Maybe that’s why when it comes, it is such a shock, and so hard to adjust to. It seems that when things change in the Eternal City, they do so in a big way.
Available at all bookstores nationally within Australia, FAO and Lion Bookstore Rome, and via Amazon, Kobo and ibooks.
Click here for a free download of the Prologue and first chapter.
A beautifully scenic account of one woman’s life-long love affair with Italy. Peppered with stunning imagery and interesting cultural insights, Jackson presents the country’s quirks and eccentricities with the fondness of a local. She takes your hand as she walks the streets of Rome, infects you with her passion for the city and its surrounds, and guides you to all its hidden treasures.
Independent Publishers Australian competition 2012 (IP Picks) http://ipoz.biz/News/eNews53.htm. Best Creative Non-Fiction: 1st Commended, Bronte Dee Jackson (VIC), Roman Daze
Rome, the eternal city, presents a princely setting for this cultural enquiry …. how do people live here? Bronte Jackson’s journey is one of personal discovery … a perceptive narrative about friendships found; where street markets assume seasonal differences in pasta, wines, and storytelling amongst the neighbours.
Daryl Jackson, Author, Daryl Jackson Architecture: Short Essays
Much travel writing is by experienced journalists based on quick impressions on sponsored trips. Roman Daze is the account of a 17-year love affair with a city. Written in a deceptively easy prose style, it is recommended to both first-time and regular visitors to the Eternal City.
Professor Geoff Burrows, Editor, Insights: Melbourne Business and Economics
Eat, Love, Eat – Hold the Praying! Roman Daze is a wonderful read for anyone interested in food, culture, people, travel, Italy – and especially food! The author has an exquisite ability to describe places, people, and meals so that they come to life.
Liliane Grace, Author, The Mastery Club and The Hidden Order
would not fill a book. However………..
When I first moved to Rome he began speaking to me in Italian …….
“Where’s the wheelbarrow?”, he would ask, when I phoned him.
“Is it in the elevator?”, and
“Hello, beautiful girl.”
These were the only three phrases he knew and it revealed his history of having worked with Italian labourers on building sites. (He told me once that what Italians didn’t know about concrete wasn’t worth knowing.) As the Project Manager he needed to be able to ask them these questions and many of them didn’t speak English. He also heard them often trying to chat to women passing by. I never knew my dad could speak Italian, or how much he liked it until I began living there, and he gleefully repeated all his known phrases to me every time we spoke.
My dad first encountered Italy as a young man on honeymoon in the early 1960’s. He and my mother arrived by ship from Melbourne, Australia, along with hundreds of Italians returning home to look for brides and for family visits. They docked at Naples. Dad said he had never seen men cry until that moment. He said the ship erupted with crying men, hours out of Naples, as soon as they could see land, and that the crying didn’t stop for hours until they docked and were met by crying mothers. He was very impressed with how manly Italians could be and yet how much they could cry.
As an engineer my dad was very interested in buildings, art, furniture, design. All the things Italy offered an abundance of. He and my mother toured around the major cities, he documenting everything in slides – the Duomo in Milan, the Vatican in Rome, the canals of Venice and the Bay of Naples. His love of design shows through in each of his photographs.
Several decades later when my dad and my step mother visited me once in Rome, we stopped in a piazza in front of the Pantheon, a beautiful, round Roman temple, right in the centre of the modern city of Rome. We took a seat at an outdoor cafe. The waiter arrived and my dad asked for a drink I had never heard of and couldn’t pronounce, even though I spoke fluent Italian and he didn’t. The waiter responded in the affirmative and without a glance backwards took off and brought back what ended up being an alcoholic, cherry liquor in a tall glass with soda water, and a blob of vanilla ice-cream floating in it. Something he’d remembered that he had drunk last time he was in Rome, in 1960.
He told me that one of the saddest days of his life was after that first trip when he and my mother arrived back in Australia, after spending over six years travelling and working in Europe and Asia (during which time my brother and I were born in Malaysia). He loved the influences of Europe and Italy, and felt Australia was very quiet and very far away when he first came back. He was completely understanding of my need and desire to stay and live in Italy and encouraged me to stay as long as I liked. He told me that he could walk around a piazza every day and not get bored but that once he had seen somewhere in Australia once it was enough for him. It never entranced him the way a European city could. I felt the same.
Growing up I remember Dad was very popular with his Italian employees, so much so that they gave him gifts of live birds, home-made salami’s and other incredibly smelly foodstuffs, cakes, eggs and tomatoes. Once I came home from school to find mum in a bad mood and a strange Italian bloke in our back yard hammering together a cage for the doves he had brought over for my father.
“What are we going to do with those?”, she asked my father. “We don’t know anything about birds!”
“It’s a sign of respect, darling. He wants to give them to me. I have to accept them.”
Dad provided a huge party for his builder’s labourers at Christmas with as much beer and food as they could eat. He also gave them money from his own pocket when they needed it. Once it was to pay the funeral costs of a labourer who had died at a work site he also worked at. He loved the exuberant hugging and kissing and emotional displays he got included in as one of them. He never lost his fascination for Italian men and their camaraderie from the moment he had that first experience on the ship with them.
He loved that my Italian husband Alfredo, called him Giovanni (Italian for John), and taught him even more words in Italian.
“How are you? I’m good thanks, how are you? I speak Italian. Do you speak Italian?” He would repeat over and over, every time he saw my husband. He plied Alfredo with dozens of questions every time he got the opportunity.
“What’s the name of the football team based in Turin? Where is the city with the round, white houses? What dialect do you speak? How far is it from Bari to Brindisi? Do Italians eat much meat?”
He never lost his interest in or passion for history, geography and all things Italian, and treated Alfredo as though he was a living specimen of a culture he found endlessly entertaining and inspiring. His daughter (me) who was actually a Social Anthropologist he never asked anything of. I wondered if he knew anything about the depth of my knowledge and association with Italy, the country I had lived and worked in for 17 years. I sent him postcards and wrote him emails with photos of everywhere I travelled, long before I met Alfredo. One day he got out a huge Atlas to confirm a conversation we were having, just the two of us, about a certain part of Italy. It fell open naturally at those pages and I saw inked in lines drawn all over Italy and other places I had visited. He had traced my journeys and plotted them all on the maps in the Atlas, using the postcards and emails I had sent him.
He understood my need and desire to live there but when I was back in Melbourne, towards the end of his life, he often expressed anxiety at the thought of me returning. Last year we were shopping for some dinning furniture and took him with us. We were in an Italian furniture design shop whose headquarters was in the south of Italy, the region Alfredo is from. As I touched the furniture I sighed and indicated how much I missed it. He turned to Alfredo and said in a menacing but joking way “No, she is not allowed to go back now.” My blood ran cold as the thought of disappointing him hit me. Returning was always an option for me.
My dad passed away 1 month ago. In those last days of palliative care, I sat and held his hand and looked in his eyes and told him I loved him and heard him say it back. Whenever Alfredo spoke to him and called him Giovanni, he responded with a smile and tried to speak in Italian back. I am glad I don’t have to disappoint my dad by returning to a country I love. I am glad I am now free to go. And I am glad I returned to Melbourne, to spend these last years with him.
I am glad I inherited his love and passion for travel, for history, for geography and for learning about new languages and cultures and I will always take him with me where ever I go.
Vale, Giovanni, Vale.
Hi everyone, This is a fantastic new magazine covering all things Italian. Check out my column ‘Culture Bites’, p.29.
How does a writer go from an idea/passion about Italy to writing a book about it?
Lisa Clifford is an internationally acclaimed author of many novels and non-fiction/historical books on Italy, her adopted country. Here she interviews me about how/why I came to write ‘Roman Daze – La Dolce Vita for all Seasons.
I have suggested in previous posts (and explained clearly in my book ‘Roman Daze – La Dolce Vita for all Seasons‘), that Italians can often be neatly divided into two groups, in a variety of ways:
- Those who take their annual holidays in the mountains v those who take their annual holidays at the beach (and neither the two shall meet! :))
- Those who hail from the North of Italy and those who are from the South of Italy
- Those who support the Roman football team ‘Roma‘, and those who support Lazio, the Regional Roman team
- Communists and Fascists (who are friendlier to each other than those in the above two categories are)
Now I want to introduce two new categories. Those who prefer Panettone as a Christmas dessert v those who prefer Pandoro. Both are delicious, sweet cakes and are eaten only at Christmas time. They both come in highly decorative, large boxes (sometimes Panettone can come wrapped in brightly colored cellophane instead of a box). They only come in one size (large) and will feed between 10 – 20 people, depending on the serving size.
Now some explanation about the difference. Panettone is originally from Milan and is a high, airy dome of yellow fluffy goodness studded with candied orange peel, candied lemon peel and sultanas. It takes many hours to make as the dough must rise and fall three times before it can be baked. It is never attempted by home chefs and going out to buy the Panettone (or Pandoro) is a sacred Christmas ritual.
Each household would buy up to 5 or 6 Panettone (or Pandoro) as each Christmas visit is accompanied with a Panettone (or Pandoro) for the host. In this way Panettone and Pandoro are often swapped around frequently between households until Christmas day when one is finally opened and consumed as the dessert of the Christmas meal. This can be anytime from Christmas eve to Christmas night.
Alternatives are: as soon as they appear in the shops going and buying one and eating it immediately with a cup of tea, eating it regularly for breakfast leading up to and including Christmas day, eating it regularly for afternoon tea leading up to and away from Christmas day, eating it smothered in butter (for breakfast – Panettone only), smothered in ice-cream/liquor for dessert (Pandoro only). But these are just my suggestions 🙂
I must admit to being a bit disappointed when i first unwrapped a Panettone and cut into it. Delivered of its smart, brightly colored box with ribbon handle it looked like a large brown rock and not very appetising. Looking inside it looked a little plain to me and not worth all the hype and excitement surrounding it. I was used to cream, brandy butter, and desserts that were alight with flames as part of my Christmas dessert, and this looked like it was going to be a bit of a let down in comparison. But like much Italian food, the key is in the simplicity, and the quality of the ingredients, along with the seasonal approach to food which creates a longing and anticipation.
What looked like a door stop of a piece collapsed in my mouth into quite small mouthfuls as the dough was liberated from its airiness. The tender, fluffy morsels were interspersed with just the right amount of sweet sultanas and slightly bitter peel. Towards the bottom (my favourite bit), the dough became denser and more chewy. A Panettone (like a Pandoro) is not served with a fork or spoon but is usually pulled apart with your fingers or held in your hand with a serviette and bit into. Usually accompanied by a glass of prosecco.
But what about the Pandoro? Is there any room left for argument? Plenty. Pandoro comes from Verona originally and literally means ‘Golden Bread’. It is bread dough enhanced with lashings of eggs, butter and sugar. It rises high and is in the shape of an 8-pointed star, dark golden on the outside and light gold on the inside. It comes in a cellophane bag with a small packet of icing sugar. Protocol requires that you keep the Pandoro inside the cellophane bag and sprinkle the icing sugar over it. You then hold the bag tightly at one end and shake it therefore dusting the entire Pandoro evenly with the icing sugar. You need to do this just before serving it as the moist outside will quickly absorb the sugar. It looks like a Christmas wonder, all tall and dusted in white. This is eaten in the same way and at the same time as a Panettone. Now can you see the dilemma? Luckily for me I love Panettone and my husband loves Pandoro so we always have to have one of each!
Hi everyone and apologies for the lack of posting over the past few months. I injured my neck and shoulder (too much stting at my computer!) and needed to have a complete break from it. Finally here it is, the last four reasons it is great to be Italian (and live in Italy). Enjoy!
7. There is a time for everything and everything has its time.
Italy has the same amount of time as everywhere else obviously, but somehow life seems to linger there and fit, in a more balanced way, to the 24 hours alloted to each day. I never get the sense of being rushed in Italy, or expected to do too many things at once, or that I will miss out on something if I don’t. In fact rushing (di fretta) is often used as a slight rebuke. If someone says to you ‘Hai fretta’? (are you in a hurry?), it is usually not because they want to help you out, but because they want you to chill out and stop upsetting everyone around you.
There is a timetable in Italy for doing things, from eating and shopping to working, holidaying and resting, dictated by the seasons, connected to nature, and supported by ritual. Many of the things I have already referred to – expectations that you will eat a long and proper lunch, resting, only participating in activities that are right for the current season, celebrating as much as possible. These all create the ability to live in the present, as well as expectation and hope for the seasons to come, which bring with them their own new activities, celebrations, food and rituals. Somehow by spacing things out, taking time in between them, living in the present yet being secure in the knowledge of what is to come, and by repeating activities that are connected to the natural world around us, Italians have created more room in their lives than I ever feel I have anywhere else.
8. No one talks about work outside of work.
I could be cheeky and add that often no one talks about work while actually at work, but I do not want to perpetuate the perception (mostly because of the above points), that Italians are somehow lazy. As I have said before, being one of the 8th most productive countries in the world, is not the achievement of the lazy. But I find that in Italy you are not what you do. There is always a question about work, between friends and at social gatherings, but the question is usually ‘Do you have work?’, not ‘What do you do for work?’. If the answer to the first question is ‘yes’, the conversation usually stops there, as the most important part of work here is whether you have a job or not (and it always has been).
Italians talk about politics, food, love, holidays, art, love, food, music, philosophy, love, literature, food and sport much more than they talk about work. I have known some of my Italian friends for years before I actually knew what they did for work. In Italy it tends to be more relevant how else you spend your life. Also because for the most of the decades since WW2, work has often been scarce. People tend to take what they can get. A person with a PHd in Chemistry might be working as an administrative clerk in an aid organisation, someone with a Masters degree in languages might be managing a video rental store, and a brilliant musician might be teaching Primary school. It is generally accepted that any work is good work, and that who you are and your interests, may not be reflective of that work. And that you are one of the extremely fortunate ones if it does.
Even at work, having a conversation that creates a relationship is far more important and effective in getting things done than merely discussing the tasks. I once worked with a team of people that began each morning talking in detail about what they eaten the night before for dinner, where they had bought the ingredients and how they had prepared them. Not only did I earn a wage and create an effective outcome with this team, but I learnt why my Melanzane alla Parmagiana was never as tasty as everyone elses, how to prepare Mozzarella in Carrozza (fried cheese sandwhiches), and where to find pumpkins.
9. You only eat what is in season.
Speaking of pumpkins, the first time I felt like making some pumpkin soup in Spring I couldn’t understand why the green grocer just laughed at me, or why he treated me as though I was slightly mad when I asked for strawberries in Autumn. Where I grew up, everything was available all year round and nothing tasted like the season fruit and vegetables I began to eat in Rome. The first time I ate a peach it tasted like it had flavouring added to it. I had never eaten vine ripened fruit. It is much easier to sit down to a meal of mostly vegetables, or to eat a dessert of only fruit if they taste the way they taste in Italy.
Eating what is only seasonally available means also that you look forward to eating certain things at certain times of the year, make the most of them, and enjoy saying goodbye to them as you anticipate the next season’s bounty. It provides a structure for life when certain tastes, flavours and dishes only come around once a year and contributes to that sense of space and time that seems to occur in Italy.
10. Everyone in the world wants to be you.
If I had a dollar for every person I have heard say ‘I am Italian on the inside’ or ‘my soul is Italian‘, I would be rich. Why is it that I can travel to over 45 countries and ALL of them have Spaghetti or Pizzza on offer? Why is it that everyone who can afford one buys a Prada or an Armani something? Why do 48 million people visit Italy every year making it the 5th most visited country in the world? Why is owning a Ferrari on every male’s (and quite a lot of females) secret wish list? Because the world wants to be you! 🙂 If we could bottle Italy and take it out on a grey, cold work day, when we are sitting at our desks eating heated up left overs out of a plastic container over our computer, or while we are congregating in a shopping mall full of machine-made things from millions of miles away rubbing shoulders with strangers who won’t make eye contact, or when we are walking at night across a vast and people less, council built, strip of community park or concrete play ground hurrying to get to our next appointment/activity, then life would be just that little bit better. Don’t you think? 🙂
Don’t forget to check out my book Roman Daze – La Dolce Vita for all seasons on http://www.amazon.com/Roman-Daze-Bronte-Dee-Jackson/dp/192212933X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1389659611&sr=8-1&keywords=roman+daze
or at your local bookstore. Check out and ‘like’ and ‘share’ my NEW FaceBook page too!