(no subject)
Once upon a time there was a guy who went to Italy and spoke no Italian, or he spoke such unhelpful things that he may as well not have known Italian. He said things like "prociutt-" no "o" or "mozzarell-" again, no "o" or "Buon Giorno" even in the late evening because he wasn't sure what time consistuted "sera" or "notte" and did anyone say "Buon Pomeraggio?"
And such a guy went there and they called him Valentino.
Valentino... I never realised I could spell my name with the name of a saint before. I was confused, but nonetheless glad to visit a place that had been idolised my mother who had never been to Italy, but who had also grown up with an idolised notion of it from her father, my grandfather, who was born in the United States, but visited it a couple of times, and whose parents were both born in Italy. My great grandmother could not speak English. She pretended to read the newspaper in the window so that everyone would think she was very scholarly, though unfortunately it was usually upside down. My great grandfather used to grow his own tomatoes and praise the goodness of Mussolini until my grandfather (who was a marine in WWII) got angry over this praise.
Italy. It was spoken like the name of God, the Father from whom all our ties belong, the dearest connection we may have. Forget the fact that I am also from other ancestries. No, Italian heritage was the most important. Even my father, who is not Italian, gives into this ideology. It's important to have a pot of sauce every Sunday, like going to Church (which we do not do because my father is Protestant, mother is too busy and I am a Catho-Wic, a Catholic-Pagan of sorts). It is important to call Italian things by Italian names (even if it means making up Italian-sounding names which mean nothing). We must be Italian, and so I came to Italy to learn the true way of Italians.
To be Italian, I decided in the first few days of my arrival, I needed to walk a certain way. I needed to walk like I was very important, but not be too showy. I also needed to walk slowly, like I had not a care in the world, but make good time from one place to the next, not take too long to walk so that the gods forbid the real Italians see that I am not Italian, or even worse, that I do not look important enough to have somewhere meaningful to go. Combining these elements were extremely difficult. Indeed, I still have not mastered the Corso Italia walk. I practiced there, time and time again, beginning at Piazza Grande and going down to Via Roma. Sometimes, I would be ambitious and go back up, but I have not mastered that careless grace with which other Italians can traverse that all-important road. And this is just in sneakers. I dread to think of the day when I must try it in better shoes, and toss my hair and laugh as if I am drinking champagne instead.
And such a guy went there and they called him Valentino.
Valentino... I never realised I could spell my name with the name of a saint before. I was confused, but nonetheless glad to visit a place that had been idolised my mother who had never been to Italy, but who had also grown up with an idolised notion of it from her father, my grandfather, who was born in the United States, but visited it a couple of times, and whose parents were both born in Italy. My great grandmother could not speak English. She pretended to read the newspaper in the window so that everyone would think she was very scholarly, though unfortunately it was usually upside down. My great grandfather used to grow his own tomatoes and praise the goodness of Mussolini until my grandfather (who was a marine in WWII) got angry over this praise.
Italy. It was spoken like the name of God, the Father from whom all our ties belong, the dearest connection we may have. Forget the fact that I am also from other ancestries. No, Italian heritage was the most important. Even my father, who is not Italian, gives into this ideology. It's important to have a pot of sauce every Sunday, like going to Church (which we do not do because my father is Protestant, mother is too busy and I am a Catho-Wic, a Catholic-Pagan of sorts). It is important to call Italian things by Italian names (even if it means making up Italian-sounding names which mean nothing). We must be Italian, and so I came to Italy to learn the true way of Italians.
To be Italian, I decided in the first few days of my arrival, I needed to walk a certain way. I needed to walk like I was very important, but not be too showy. I also needed to walk slowly, like I had not a care in the world, but make good time from one place to the next, not take too long to walk so that the gods forbid the real Italians see that I am not Italian, or even worse, that I do not look important enough to have somewhere meaningful to go. Combining these elements were extremely difficult. Indeed, I still have not mastered the Corso Italia walk. I practiced there, time and time again, beginning at Piazza Grande and going down to Via Roma. Sometimes, I would be ambitious and go back up, but I have not mastered that careless grace with which other Italians can traverse that all-important road. And this is just in sneakers. I dread to think of the day when I must try it in better shoes, and toss my hair and laugh as if I am drinking champagne instead.