Fascinating Authors

The Youngest Son, Memoirs from the Motherland

July 5, 2003

Una Esperienza Brutta. [An Ugly Experience]

It is required by Italian law that all Italian visa holders report to the local questura [police office] within 8 days of arrival to apply for a Permesso di Soggiorno [permit to stay]. Since we are living in Marlia, the closest local questura is in Lucca, about 6 miles to the south. We arrived in Lucca by bus, a trip of approximately 30 minutes. We recognized instantly that this was a jewel of a city. We were very pleased that we would be living in close proximity to this ancient municipality, constructed by the Romans, which is completely surrounded by a 15 foot-tall fortress wall that extends
2 1/2 miles around the centro [historical center] of the city.

Upon arrival at the questura at 9:15am, we were immediately escorted to a hot small room containing about 100 people. There were 6 sportelli [glass windows] in the room, but only three were open to conduct business. Above each enclosed glass window, a sloppily handwritten sign in Italian was posted, but we couldn’t recognize a single letter of the alphabet. It was all Greek to us. It appeared as though the lines to the 3 open sportello windows never moved. Nothing was happening, but each moment grew more stifling. There were no fans, no functioning windows, no air-conditioning and no movement of air.

This morning the population at the questura included representatives from all over the world including Romania, Slovenia, Libya, Japan, Mexico, India and the USA. Many brought their families with them, including small children in carriages. As the time passed and more people arrived, the standing became more uncomfortable and people began to push in ill-mannered attempts to enhance their positions in line. The three quasi-formed lines slowly disintegrated into a mass of humanity. An aggressive Indian man proved to be especially obnoxious. I wanted to punch his lights out. In my mind, I visualized the delivery of an overhand right-hand blow to the left side of his face, like Rocky Marciano to Jersey Joe Walcott in 1952 at Yankee Stadium. Jersey Joe Walcott was an underrated heavyweight boxer that lost to the great Joe Louis by a narrow margin. Now, in my personal impatience more than a half-century later, I was able to conjure a vision of the Marciano blow that traveled all of 12 inches and sent Jersey Joe to la-la land. An aggressive Japanese lady behind Marti tried to enhance her position in line by trying to stick her leg between Marti’s to push her forward. The weeping and wailing of the children grew louder. A foul odor was detected. Heat, as you know, precipitates sweating. Sweating causes odor, especially if one hasn’t bathed lately! Anxiety and tension mounted. I thought, “Is my Italy, the land of my parents, being invaded by the rift-raff of the plebian class? I concluded that obnoxious behavior is trans-cultural, and in fact, transcends all age groups.

Perhaps a silent “Our Father” may relieve the anxiety and discomfort. That didn’t help. Then I remembered something that my mom told me. “Mary is the head of the party machine, and praying to her will help,” was the core of her message. After a few “Hail Marys,” I could feel complete muscular relaxation. The muscle relaxant Skelaxin never worked as well.

As we continued to stand in line, I began to think of my parents, relatives and all immigrants to America. I knew they had stood in line at Ellis Island. For how long, I wondered? How unnerved were they, not knowing a word of English, in this new land, America? So today, based on this experience, I developed a sense for how it might have been at Ellis Island for these brave people. History records that the immigrants moved from Ellis Island to New York and points west to fuel the industrialization of the USA – a fortuitous development for the immigrants, their children and for America!

At noon, we finally arrived at a sportello. The clerk greeted our arrival by picking up his pens and rubber stamps and exiting into a side room. He did not utter a single word. Did he go for coffee? A cigarette? The restroom? Was he going to return? We had no idea. Thankfully, he reappeared in 20 minutes. The clerk was separated from us by a 2 inch- thick pane of glass. There was barely sufficient space at the bottom of the window to slide a passport. The clerk was talking to us in Italian into a microphone. A little speaker was on our side of the window, but the microphone was not working properly. We were only hearing every third word or so from the speaker. It was all so surreal. We managed to comprehend that we had more forms to fill out and would need to return with the completed forms and a special stamp on October 8 at 11:00am. The special stamp would cost 20 euros. Later, when we examined these forms, we noticed that these were the identical questions we answered earlier in the visa application process. How’s that for bureaucracy?

What a relief finally to leave the oppressive heat, the mass of congestion and the draconian attitude of the questura toward their visitors. There are quarterbacks in the NFL that escape the pummeling we endured today. We were free at last. It was a great feeling to be outdoors. I would be walking by the site of the questura many times in the next 6 months, and I will always associate it with my introduction to the Italian bureaucracy on that very hot morning. It imparted to me a certain sadness, like the time Sid Bream beat Barry Bonds’ throw to home plate in the seventh game of the National League Championship series, or when United Airlines lost our luggage at Dulles International Airport.

We were very happy to return to our residence in Marlia. At the Casa Etrusca, a new washing machine, as promised, was installed and ready for use. Marti found that the front-loading machine required 2 hours to do a wash cycle; that was for the short cycle. The regular cycle took 3 hours! We found this to be ironic in a country where electricity is imported from the neighboring countries of France and Switzerland and is therefore, very expensive.

This is ITALY.

August 20, 2003

Bruno Bandoni stopped by this morning for a brief visit. He told us that he would be going to court soon.
“Why?” I asked.
“I must have the Sicilians out of here.” Bruno retorted.
“Everyone has to live somewhere.” I said
Bruno responded, “Yes. They can live anywhere but here.”
I didn’t say another word; neither did Bruno. It was the first time, however, that a Bandoni revealed his hostile feelings toward the Sicilians. We know what the Sicilians think of the Bandonis!

We departed from the Casa Bandoni for Lucca at 2pm. If we are to make connection tomorrow morning with a 6:20am tour bus departing for Naples and vicinity, we had to spend tonight in Lucca. There is no way we can leave Marlia tomorrow morning and arrive in Lucca prior to 6:20am: bus service doesn’t begin that early. This rationale led us to make reservations at the Hotel Napoleon in Lucca. Conveniently, our tour bus would be picking up passengers at the Hotel Napoleon parking lot in the morning.

Our spacious hotel room provided CNN headline news and was even air-conditioned. Its stunning bathroom, however, possessed a major defect: the ‘shower’ was equipped with a hand-held shower attachment in a bathtub. In my hands, these devices invariably lead to more water on the bathroom floor than in the tub. The receptionist at the hotel recommended dinner at Ristorante Al Porto. He was certain that the restaurant was open. In August, the traveler never knows who is open [aperto] and who is closed [chiuso]. Indeed, Al Porto was aperto, their Ferragosto already completed. The restaurant offered inside and outside dining. Inside, the mosaic-patterned floor, the wrought iron and hand- painted wall murals made for an inviting atmosphere. However, we elected to dine outside in the spacious and shady garden. We were seated under an elegant wrought iron pagoda draped with flowing sheer white fabric and were warmly greeted by a waitress. She offered us a glass of Prosecco dallo casa [on the house]. The waitress hovered over us like a mother hen to her chicks. We were instructed to eat fish because it was so good here. With the fish, we were told to drink white wine, not red. Red wine, she explained has tannins that are incompatible with fish, and though rose wine is acceptable, it is not the best choice, when consuming fish.

My time to order arrived. Since I really wasn’t in the mood for fish, and didn’t like being told what to order, I cantankerously proclaimed, “I want spaghetti allo scoglio” [Spaghetti with a red sauce and crustacean seafood].
“You can’t have that,” the waitress responded.
“Why not?”
“That is too much for you to eat. You’ll need to share it.”
“Fine, I’ll share it. It’s one of Marti’s favorites. So, I’ll have spaghetti allo scoglio with a bottle of wine.”
“You can’t have a bottle of wine.”
“Why not?”
“That is too much for you to drink. Half a liter is plenty for you.” “OK,” I said, I’ll have spaghetti allo scoglio with a half liter of red wine.”
“You can’t have red wine,” the waitress rebutted, “you are eating fish and must have white wine.”
“Please!” I begged, “bring me whatever you want.”

Some time later, the waitress and additional staff returned with platters laden of seafood including spaghetti allo scoglio. We enjoyed a sumptuous feast and attentive service for several hours. Just when we thought we were finished and should be heading back to our hotel, our waitress appeared with a small piattino [plate] of dolce [sweets] and 2 glasses of an apricot brandy – the perfect antidote to combat the frustrations of an overly protective waitress.

This is ITALY.

PLEASE NOTE: The book consists of 374 pages divided into 21 chapters. Since the memoir is smartly organized in the form of a daily journal, two dates, July 5, 2003 and August 20, 2003, approximately 2000 words, are presented.