some important treaties and to get the area organized so that the mail ran on time.
Italians practice the art of keeping up a good front (far bella figura) and we visitors expect them to act happy and festive for our benefit. Sad is only allowed for women who are singing for the benefit of said visitors. It was therefore a bit disconcerting to have one of the young guards at the palace let the basic sadness and frustrations of his life show. His English was limited, but he had obviously studied the palace and its history. But he found the job dull, leading nowhere and for someone of intelligence allowed little use of his talent.
We live in one of the very few tall buildings, four stories, in Aviano. This may be a mistake. Within moments of meeting several Americans here, they were telling me the story of their experiences in the last major earthquake two years ago. It is a preoccupation with many, even those who feel Aviano is probably the best place in Europe to be stationed.
The whole earthquake experience was so shocking that they were left with many cues that now create anxiety. A rumbling sound, rooms with hard-to-use exits, driving along a cliff face—all bring back memories of the quake and send their hearts racing.
A number of my students who had lived in apartments first moved into tents, then at great expense in breaking leases moved into one-story houses. Their concerns now have me waking at odd hours of the night to contemplate quick exits from our fourth floor apartment.
Speaking of the apartment, it is an interesting mix of class and harass. We have real tile with beautiful designs in both bathrooms, the floors are made with very striking tile, we have generous hallways, three bedrooms and every room opens unto a balcony.
The harassment comes from water being off at odd hours, sewer smells in the bathrooms, and echoes so that it is difficult to talk from one room to another and be understood. We also have an elevator that attempts to maul passengers—that is, when it is working. If you don’t move briskly on exit or entry, it may close its doors on you and you must argue with it awhile before it lets you go. The girls have taken to moving in and out with a minimum of lost motion.
Besides fighting the elevator, we keep in shape with a daily run/walk. Weekends we join the Italians for a marcia (march) or group run with medals for all competitors. There is a charge for entry, the proceeds of which go for medals and wine halfway through and at the end. What is left goes to charity.
This last weekend the girls and I went through a beautiful mountain pass, narrow, steep and scary, to a mountain village where the marcia was held. The biggest excitement of the day was at the parking lot where the first arrivals had carefully filled two rows down the middle of the lot completely cutting off the other half. The police kept directing traffic down the narrow drive to the lot expecting them to find a place to park.
This allowed us to see Italians at their most exuberant—waving arms, shouting, honking horns and generally having fun. The cheerful(?) shouts my friends translated for me consisted of “idiots,” “insane bastards” and other terms they felt would be inappropriate for the girls to hear.
Anyway, eight hundred Italians and many Americans were led off by a full Italian military band for a 14k (8.5 mile) walk. The band dropped off after four blocks and went back to wait for our return two and a half hours later.
Small change is a chronic problem in Italy as anything less than a one hundred lira piece (thirteen cents) is rare. As a result some strange things turn up; telephone tokens, sticks of gum and small candies are used for change. My baker just takes turns with me taking the loss my turn today, her turn tomorrow. The bread as expected is great so I’m out of the bread baking business for this year. Their pizzas are tasty and cheap so ditto on that.
I certainly can’t complain about being overworked with my teaching assignment. My three classes of three, nine and fourteen students respectively have been a problem to instructors in the past. The students are very close knit and had evidently worked out ways to manipulate instructors, who were seen as outsiders unless they became part of the local party cycle. My predecessor, who saw the conflict of interest in this, seems to have shaped them up since I find them a hard working, cooperative group.
There has been a real problem in our getting organized to see Italy. I’ve been like an addict who has just discovered a new source of drugs, except its books to read and the time to read them. I’ve probably read a dozen books in the last two weeks. I’ve just had a long talk with myself and expect we’ll be moving out to some real adventures in Italy this weekend.
Love, Dad
Aviano, Italy, October 1978
Dear Jeril,
Italians are people watchers—sitting in a sidewalk bar or café, standing in a group on the corner—they watch. They have even organized, unofficial and somewhat spontaneous, their watching into a promenade. We’ve been involved in these promenades that take place in the main public square and streets in at least four cities. The women get dressed in their best, and where we’ve been their best is very nice. They wear high narrow-heeled leather boots, well-cut dresses and marvelous makeup, and parade in pairs and threes.
The young man and woman who have found each other walk with arms around each other showing off the magnificence of their catch. The young men who parade in groups are not as well dressed, but are better dressed than the men who stand with their motorcycles on the corner and look masculine.
Everyone looks and admires and is admired. In spite of the stories I’ve heard about Italian men as rather aggressive women watchers, I have only seen the most polite behavior.
The beach appears to be something else. Our time on the Italian Riviera, after the official season, allowed me only minimum chance to watch the watchers. Italian men wear the briefest of jockey bikinis. Women also leave little to the imagination. But here there is little staring except by American males who wear walking shorts or long bathing suits. In fact, if you want to talk to an American, just strike up a conversation with the man in the long drawers.
As a consequence of some of my watching here and there, I have drawn some conclusions. While women in Italy are rumored to know their place and to give appropriate respect to men, here are some of my observations.
1. There appear to be many women disk jockeys and announcers on the radio.
2. Even older women ride motorcycles and Vespas (motor scooters) cutting in and out of traffic with the best.
3. You do not step ahead of Italian women in a line at the market, else you will see what a few assertiveness training programs do for women in America.
4. Women do not wear slacks or shorts; younger women do wear bright colors and shoes with high platforms.
5. As Italians put on weight they seem to distribute it fairly evenly over their bodies as opposed to Germans who put it all in a few places.
As Italians still like demonstrations, in both Florence and Venice we were treated to protest marchers. In Venice the hospital workers for the area were on strike and paraded. Since there was no vehicle traffic to block, they blocked the grand canal with small boats.
We’ve really been traveling the last three weeks and have touched base in a fair number of cities. We are still overwhelmed by the number of things to see and the richness of art, architecture and history in even small cities like Lucca, Ravenna and Rimini. I’m too lacking in observation skills and knowledge to deal with all I’ve seen in any meaningful way; instead my memories are of sharp little moments such as these examples:
Venice:
