(rare in Italy) was singing in a charming, rich voice to a very appreciative audience.
Pisa: My eyes were fighting my sense of balance as I walked the winding staircase to the top of the Leaning Tower, where my cowardice at heights was fully aroused by the feeling that if I got too close to the lower edge, the whole thing would topple over.
San Marino: In the mythical kingdom of my youth, streets were so steep a mountain goat would be challenged, but then so were the many armies that tried to conquer it, but it remains after 1300 years the oldest republic in Europe. Also, in Charlie’s Bar and Grill in a room full of British voices, we ate fish and chips that would not have passed muster in any sidewalk stand in England.
Rimini: The gang and I were sitting on the steps of a church eating hot chestnuts from a corner roaster as we watched the promenade.
Padova: I was impressed at being in the cathedral in which St. Luke is buried since, to the best of my knowledge, he’s only been buried in three other cathedrals. I mean, after all, that’s not bad—one-fourth of a saint. St. Sebastian is claimed by nineteen cathedrals.
The pastas continue good, and we still eat more than our fair share. The wines continue excellent, and we now know which ones to look for in the stores. So we continue to be content with our lot.
Love, Dad
Aviano, Italy, October 1978
Dear Jeril,
This is a special, limited edition letter with the inside information on what it is really like for a family of four to be ripped from secure moorings in mid-America and set adrift in a sea of foreign faces.
One area of deprivation that is a cause for concern is the lack of TV for a TV addict. How does one deal with the withdrawal symptoms? I personally have handled it by a change in my dreams, and I now have reruns, commercial breaks and trouble with the color adjustment.
It’s been hardest on Stephanie (twelve). When an attack is coming on, she starts to sing TV jingles and then goes on to recite a beloved commercial. But this does not hold, and when we can no longer restrain her, she goes to the base thrift shop and buys big piles of old comics that she eagerly devours by the hour. After that she loses some of her tensions and is relatively normal for awhile. Rosie (fourteen) is less of a problem since a weekly PG movie seems to hold her. Carla doesn’t seem to notice that we don’t have a TV set.
Our life has fallen into a pattern now, and we can pretty much predict what will happen on any day in at least a general way. Much of the pattern revolves around food and eating. The theory is that when man’s basic needs for food and shelter are taken care of, he turns his mind to higher things. Our capacities in that direction must be limited since we find ours turning right back to food.
Tuesdays are market days in the village, with street stalls all over the main square. Among the half that don’t sell shoes (Italians are evidently mad, crazy for shoes) are stalls selling great fresh vegetables and fruits and others selling a wide variety of Italian cheeses. The fruits are evidently tree ripened and are much sweeter than anything we’ve eaten in America. Our cheese consumption has also gone up markedly.
Wednesday night after the girls’ gymnastics class is pizza night. Each week we go to a different place to eat pizza. The different place is usually closed for vacation or out of pizza so we come back to Mario’s in Aviano and eat local pizza.
Pizza here is cooked in an oven with the wood burning right alongside the pizza. This gives the pizza a nice charred edge and ashes on the bottom that adds a special appeal to its taste. We find the pizza much better now than we did in 1973. We think they’ve been studying American methods of cooking it and have finally found out how to do it right.
Thursday, and if we’re in town Friday, are the family’s days for experimenting with Italian cooking. The girls have been practicing with new recipes they find in the armload of Italian cookbooks that Carla dragged home from the base library. A little chopping, a little tasting, a little panicky screaming for mother’s help, and we are served Italian food fit for Mama Mia.
Weekends are for exploring the Italian restaurant cooking. We still find ourselves fixated at the pasta level, rigatoni, linguini, spaghetti, tortellini, ravioli, lasagna, and on and on. We particularly enjoy some of the cream sauces they put on them.
The other day we did get a mad craving for American bread and baked up a couple of loaves, and one does need an occasional hamburger or piece of fried chicken in order to not to lose touch with our American roots.
By the way, the general rule here is, “Don’t drink the water.” We carry all our drinking water from the base. It seems that the water here is mostly good, but the use of fertilizer from sewage brings problems when the rain runs off the fields carrying various odds and ends into the water supply. We understand the water can go from safe to dangerous in hours.
The weekends are mostly for seeing Italy. Driving our yellow Volkswagen station wagon, we have sped through many a village. Many because they sit shoulder to shoulder on the back roads. Italy has a very dense population.
There are sections on the map with no roads. We took one of these the other day and found ourselves crossing a two-mile-wide river bed marked in places with just sticks. It seems that northern Italy gets by with temporary rivers. When it rains or the snow melts in the mountains, they have a river for a few days, then nothing but a dry rocky bed.
I’ve fallen into the bad habit of reading about places after we’ve visited them, This allows me to say, “Damn, do you know what was just down the street from that square we were in last week?” Speaking of last week we were in a town fifteen miles from here with many of the main buildings still being held up by large braces—the consequence of the last big earthquake in the area. The buildings that fell down have been cleared out, but those about to fall down have yet to be rebuilt.
In looking at picture books of Italy we have been surprised to see how much we have seen of the major sights between our travels in 1973 and now.
Two comments before I close. Italians in the north are remarkably individualistic looking. The men wear different amounts of facial hair, clothes that are often striking in style but don’t look like the next person’s. And faces abound that would delight any movie casting director looking for clowns, heroes and bad men.
The other thing is Italian drivers—they turn two-lane roads into three-lane roads. The passing here will take your breath away. They allow small tolerances and cut in sharply and don’t know what a safe following distance is. If you have a two-car-length between yourself and the car in front, it will soon be filled with two cars from behind. If you have a half-car-length, a midget Fiat will fill it. It’s a bit like being in a constant road rally.
Love, Dad
Aviano, Italy, November 1978
Dear Jeril,
Usually getting on and off this base is easy, but today the armed guards are out checking everything very carefully. The Red Brigade has threatened to blow up one of our bases so we’re back to maximum security.
Our most recent travel experience has been Yugoslavia. We didn’t know much about the country since it’s not the kind of place that we spend much time reading about, and Time magazine seldom mentions it. As a result most of what we saw was a pleasant surprise or at least unexpected.
Once you get your visa, the border crossing is easy, but at Trieste it’s
