My Christmas holidays in Italy with family and relatives,
December 2009.
We landed in Rome, Ciampino airport, safe and sound at 10:30
GMT on a sunny Wednesday, the 23rd December. Myself, my husband, my two teenage
children, my twelve year old son and
Valentina, my autistic daughter.
It was so warm we took off our heavy coats and scarves and
realized a T-shirt was all we needed. We had caught the flight from Liverpool
at the last minute, delayed because the red and golden candles I had bought for
the great-grandmothers had a ‘strange shape’ under the scanner. (Mind you never
travel with candles in busy times).
Dark green maritime pine trees against a pale blue sky
welcomed us outside the airport while we were waiting for my father-in-law to
pick us up. A mild breeze ruffled my short dark hair. What season was it? I
felt confused. A silver Fiat Punto was parked near us. The windows were down,
the radio at full blast, the driver was singing along at the top of his voice,
“I wanna beat you”. He got out, turned his back on us and looked towards the
exit of the airport, waiting for someone. He wore violet sunglasses and an
emerald long sleeve polo-shirt. With a swift motion he pulled his jeans down
and his underpants up. I had a sudden thought: he must have had a cheerful
chubby mum waiting for him at home with steaming plates of spaghetti with
tomato sauce sprinkled with parmigiano
ready on the kitchen table. For him, and for his friends of course.
Just like my mother-in-law waiting for us at home. For
lunch: homemade fettuccine with ragù,
beefsteak and chips, salad, seasonal fruit and a delicious crostata (a sort of jam tart) for dessert. We hadn’t had time for
breakfast so we didn't leave a single crumb, though the news on TV was full of
warnings about Christmas foods. Marron
glacé with cockroaches, torrone
and panettone made in factories and
sold as home-produced at thirty euros per kilo, and doughnuts fried in liquid paraffin. I have
always thought that sealed supermarket food with the expiry date clearly
printed on the label is the safest.
Living in England we had got out of the habit of watching
Silvio Berlusconi on TV every day, even more than once a day. Especially after
a dramatic event that happened before
Christmas. Some crazy bloke threw him an iron miniature of the cathedral of
Milan and hit him on the face, breaking two teeth. The Italian Prime Minister
had forgiven him with a heart-breaking speech.
A joke was going around Facebook:- Dear God, this year you
took away my favourite singer: Michael Jackson. You also took away my favourite
actor: Patrick Swayze and my favourite actress: Farrah Fawcett. Also my
favourite TV presenter: Mike Bongiorno and my favourite poet: Alda Merini. I
just wanted to tell you that my favourite politician is Silvio Berlusconi and
the year is not over yet.
Pope Benedictus XVI was often on the news as well. On
Christmas Eve, at Midnight Mass in St Peter’s while he was walking along the
aisle, an over-zealous woman in a red coat jumped over the fence to hug him. It
was very enthusiastic of her but quite alarming for the Security. The
bodyguards grabbed her and they all fell on the floor like puppets. They showed
the scene again and again on the news:- red coat jumping and hugging; the Pope
down. Luckily His Holiness was fine. Only a cardinal got hurt in the fall,
breaking his thigh-bone, the cardinal Etchegaray, one of my favourite, God
bless him.
We had our little accident at home as well. Valentina gave a
shove to my frail little mum, who will be eighty in May. No broken bones but
she banged her head against a door. A
bit of rest and a bag of ice saved the day. Phew.
We were flooded with food day by day: half-moon shaped
ravioli filled with ricotta and spinach, smooth gnocchi, lasagne, mountains of
fettuccine, different kinds of fried fish on Christmas Eve, tender lamb chops,
crusty schnitzels, small meatballs with tomato sauce and mushrooms, fresh sweet
cheese, overflowing bowls of salad, olives and salami, grissini and white warm
pizza, juicy oranges and crisp apples. And all kinds of Christmas cakes:
panettone, pandoro, torrone, delicious homemade regional small tarts made of
marzipan or filled with dried fruit. For the toast: an unforgettable recioto.
Between meals we
played cards and Tombola together.
My eldest son was obsessed with beating his dad and granddad at Scopone, Briscola and Gin Rummy. They let him win from time to time and he
learned a lot of new tricks.
My teenage daughter had a fierce competition with her little
brother at Tombola. Both wanted to
win at any cost. I had to draw the numbers from a plastic bag while my daughter
was shaking my arm in an attempt to make me choose the ‘right’ number. She said
it worked. My son instead threw his dad’s scorecards to the other side of the
room every time my husband was on the point of calling “Tombola!” to win the
final prize. Needless to say we did nothing and they won most of the time.
But I also had some leisure time. Nightclubs? Frenetic
shopping? Hard-core films? No. Art Expositions. Modern and contemporary art to
be precise. I knew I couldn’t miss ‘Surrealism and Dada’ at Vittoriano in
Piazza Venezia and ‘Caravaggio-Bacon’ at Galleria Borghese. After long hard
negotiations with my husband and children I managed to arrange a visit to the
Vittoriano exposition with the whole family and some friends as well. But only
my parents would accompany me to Galleria Borghese.
‘Surrealism and Dada’ had an extraordinary display of
drawings, sculptures (sort of) and paintings from great artists like Picasso,
Mirò, Magritte and Hans Arp to less famous ones. Valentina was so impressed she
started to scream and spin around. Luigi decided to avoid such masterpieces
(admittedly he found them pointless) and went out with her before she could
change the characteristics of a Mirò with a
chance blow. The security guards escorted them to a safe distance.
In Piazza Venezia the seventy-foot Christmas tree was
outstanding, with droplets of blue lights falling from the branches and covered
with golden sparkling tinsels from top to bottom.
Francis Bacon’s huge triptychs and disassembled portraits
among XVIII century frescoes were face to face with Caravaggio’s masterpieces
at Galleria Borghese. I was mesmerized once more. I had never realized before
how much the two artists had in common in their quest for truth and reality,
their superb drawing skills and their similar lives, from Caravaggio's powerful
contrasts and vivid details to the last scream and inner sigh of ripped agony from Bacon.
A great experience. I
had a well-deserved cup of hot and strong tea in a bar before going home.
Finally, the latest news about Italian families. Seventy per
cent of Italian young people stay at home with mum and dad till they are nearly
forty. No living with a partner, no marriage, no children, no commitment and no
independence. Sometimes no job or low wages as well. In an interview on TV two
of them said they were happy to do so
and got on very well with their parents. That’s why I saw only a few children
around and no babies. I had a disturbing vision of the country shrinking. I
could yet live to be one of the last few examples of Italiana Denominazione d'Origine Controllata (Native Italian).
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