Italy                                                                                                                                 

Immigrants

“Where will you go,” I asked them. “Will you go north to France? Will you go south to Africa? Will you go west to Portugal? Or will you go east to Italy?”
 
“We are going to Italy,” Flat Stanley said. “They have rigatoni in Italy.”

 lying on the sand kataroma

The road less travelled    Leanne

You want a purse, lady?    Fern Driscoll 

The ladri are coming, the ladri are coming!  Fern Driscoll

         lying on the sand kataroma


Lying on the sand at the beach. Or even better, lying on a beach chair under a beach umbrella while reading a book at the beach. While I've been told that public beaches do exist somewhere in Italy, most beaches are rented out by the local municipality to "stabilimenti" which, in addition to running a small bar at the sand's edge, provide beachgoers with beach umbrellas and beach chairs evenly spaced on the sand around 1.5 metres apart. Do not even think of bringing your own beach umbrella to an Italian beach or just sitting on the sand as this will catch the attention of an irate, deeply tanned man in a banana hammock who will march over to you and demand in thick romanesco that you pay 10-12 euro and sit under one of the stabilimento's beach umbrellas. For this fee you're provided with a beach umbrella and seat for the day as well as (sometimes) raucous beach entertainment to distract you from your seaside reverie (animazione). Sometimes hot showers (another thing usually provided for free at Australian beaches) are also thrown in. kataroma



A Beaches in Messina are free. There are miles of free beaches (interspersed with the paying lidi). There are even a couple of *gasp* free public showers on a couple of the beaches. Pity though there are no trash cans nor toilets! Lidi here cost around 3-5 euro per head. Apparently by law the first 6 meter of the beach are free. Ie from the water line up along the whole beach. Once i had a huge argument with one of those said brown banana slinger men about this. In the end i moved on as it wasn't worth wasting my 2hrs of beach time to call the police etc but if I'd had more time i would have stuck it out.

 

                                   Fern Driscoll        Whose beach is it, anyway?

August 28, 2008

“A man may stand there and put all America behind him.” Henry David Thoreau.

He was speaking about the great Outer Beach on Cape Cod, which is now a  national park which includes forty miles of sandy beaches.  That’s right - forty miles.  There is lots of beach access, and if you’re willing to walk for a while you can have a stretch of beach all to yourself.  Even the ‘crowded’ parts of the beach are spacious by Italian standards - if you don’t believe it, check out the Coast Guard Beach webcam here.

If Thoreau were to visit my favorite beach in Paraggi, he might well have written, “A man may stand there and have all of Italy beside him.”  Public beaches in Italy are crowded.  With 5,310 miles of shoreline you might well wonder why. One reason could be that for every Italian there is only .47 feet of shore, whereas each American has 1.58 feet of his shore.  But the real reason is simple: most beaches are not public.

Let me correct that last sentence.  The State owns all the shoreline, and grants access to the public for 3 meters from the water’s edge (tides are not a huge issue here).  But the State also leases most of its beach property past the 3 meter mark to concessionaires who put up hundreds of gaily painted cabanas in which clients may change clothes.  They also cover every square inch of ‘their’ beach with beach beds fitted out with umbrellas.  It’s a wonderful way to go to the beach, if you like lying next to who knows whom and don’t mind paying for the privilege (in Paraggi it’s E30 for one day).  On the other hand, the amount of space given to public beaches is, in many areas, very small, so you will be lying on your own beach towel next to who knows whom anyway, but you’ll be lying on the sand (or stones) without an umbrella, unless you’ve cleverly remembered to bring your own. (It was only recently that a law was passed decreeing that there must be any free public beaches at all.)

In the photo above the public part of the beach is hard to see - it’s between the aqua umbrellas on the right and the almost invisible furled up white umbrellas.  This photo was taken about 8:45 a.m., early by Italian beach standards - but one must go early if one wants a patch of sand.  Here’s the beach an hour later:

 

  

Kind of narrow, isn’t it? It’s still early.  In another hour people will be leaving disappointed because there literally won’t be a square inch of space left in which to put one’s fanny.  Meanwhile, the private beaches surrounding this postage stamp are three quarters empty.

We’ve been told that we can put our towels down anywhere in the 3 meter ’safe zone,’ but we have also been assured that we’ll get some very bad looks.  Anyone who’s received an Italian ‘malocchio‘ Evil Eye knows it’s a good thing to avoid.  Being a feisty American, though, I’m tempted to test the system.

 What really seems too bad is that the public’s view of the beach is completely obliterated from the street.  Here is the view from Paragi’s seaside passagiata:

 

 Nice cabana color - but I’d rather see the water! 

The sea here is incomparably beautiful, a color somewhere between aqua and emerald, and it is full of little fish that like to show off for snorkelers.  Everything about a visit to the sea is a joy, except for the sitting around on your towel part.  And in fact, even that isn’t so awful once you’re used to it.  In general other beach-goers are respectful of your property and careful not to kick sand on your towel.  And it’s a great way to meet people. Just as everyone shares the narrow roads, they also share the narrow beaches, with a minimum of complaint or pigginess. 

Disclaimer:  Paraggi is very beautiful and many people like to go there; other beaches may not be as crowded or be as encumbered with cabanas… but many are.  There are also half-way beaches - they have beds but no cabanas.  We’ve been told one is welcome to sit on the sand at these places, but we haven’t tested the hypothesis yet. We have been guests three or four times at private beaches, and it is wonderfully comfortable to lie on the beds and fun to chat with the neighboring sunbathers.Fern Driscoll 

On the Sand             Lucy Pepper goes to the beach in portugal

 

      

Sunday, September 30, 2007

   Stories from the South: The road less travelled    Leanne

Most towns and villages go all out for the festa, especially the ferragosto celebrations in August. Last year I remember spending the ferragosto in Policastrello my dad’s tiny village inhabited by 150 hobbit like people.I had taken the bus from Rome, which takes 7 hours and leaves you literally in the middle of no where. It was my second time to the village, and the first time I had ever taken the coach. My hobbit sized cousin like family friend whom we shall call cugina had told me to get off the bus at Altomonte somewhere high up in the mountains as there was no actual bus stop in Policastrello. If you have never taken a bus ride through the south then you are missing out on a merry affair. Everyone becomes friends; the old ladies get out their food and share it around to those poor young foreigners, or just the one poor foreigner, who has not packed supplies for the journey south. The driver plays music and we even watch a D.V.D while everyone swaps stories about where they are going and what they are doing. Luckily I befriended some people as I did not really know where I was going, or where to get off.

 

 

It was night time and the scenery for the past half an hour had been a pitch black vastness. I was daydreaming, staring out the window as we drove down another dark stretch of road. I do not know what I was staring at since there were no street lights but I was shaken from the addictive game of trying to spot something in the dark by some commotion from up the front. The bus driver was talking to some of the old ladies and I managed to understand that we were here at my stop. I looked around confused as the bus had pulled up on the side of the black, nothingness road, claiming it to be Altomonte. It was night time by this stage, but being the courageous foreigner I got off the bus, thanking the driver and the old people telling them to have a nice night.

Signornina che cosa stai facendo? Vieni qui!

This is the south don’t forget, and the further south you go, the more friendly they become. I the ignorant foreigner was expecting the bus to leave me on the deserted highway. On the contrary! The bus driver jumped off, as well as a few of the younger passengers while the old women continued to yell caution to me from the inside.

This road is unsafe, no place for a young girl to wait alone. Is there not someone coming to get me? Is what I think the bus driver said. What ever dialect he was speaking, I could hardly understand him.

In very, very bad Italian I motioned to my mobile and called cugina. She is very worried and is waiting at the bus stop in Altomonte and wants to know where I am. Without a word, just a big smile I hand my phone over to the driver.

I watch on as there is shouting (is it just because the line is bad?) now there is some laughing (ok, good – I think?) and now the old women are nodding their heads and smiling. (Ok, the old women are smiling, this must be good.) I stand silently, and smiling, waiting to be updated. Since the ferragosto is the next night, festive feelings are in the air. Soon everyone is out of the bus, lighting up cigarettes or stretching their legs. Even the old ladies have stepped out for a bit of air. I am quite embarrassed when I manage to understand that cugina is on her way. Everyone is talking at once, wanting to be involved. They are all yelling, patting me on the back, smiling and smoking. The bus and all the passangers are staying right where they are until cugina comes. She is apparently 10 minutes away at the ‘day time’ Altomonte bus stop. By night the drivers don’t like to make the de-tour into town. Therefore the bus will wait until cugina arrives.

After living in London for so long, I had forgotten the kindness of some people. I was imagining the bus would dump me onto the side of the road, and speed off with dust blowing into my face. But no! This is southern Italy and the whole bus will wait with me.

We spot headlight on the road and a car abruptly pulls to a halt. Cugina jumps out and after a lot of hand shaking, waving, some more handshaking we are able to leave the bus and the nothingness road behind...

There is nothing quite like hospitality in the south.

Leanne

 An Expatriate in Rapallo Fern Driscoll          

  You want a purse, lady?

August 9, 2008 ·

 Haven’t you always wondered about the African guys selling purses, dark glasses and CD’s in every town in Italy? Me too! I always imagined there was some kind of Organization of African Vendors, with a capo who brought young men into the country (legally? illegally?) and then directed them where to go to set up shop. This evil capo, of course, would take all the profits, thereby effectively enslaving the fellows doing all the work. And he was probably running all the prostitutes as well.

Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong. A couple of weeks ago we were on a morning train from Rapallo to Celle. At one of the stops on the outskirts of Genova a whole bunch of Africans with bags of merchandise got on our car. The most picturesque arrival was a woman in a printed African dress, the kind with a long skirt and a top, with matching turban. She had a huge hand-rolled cigarette dangling from her mouth and an I-dare-you expression on her face – wish I’d gotten a photo (I didn’t dare). I did sneak an in-back-of-me shot of a couple of the gents.

After a pleasant day we boarded our train to return to Rapallo, and I ended up sitting next to a young man, clearly of the African vendor fraternity; let’s call him Franco. He turned out to be about the pleasantest person you could imagine, and didn’t mind my pumping him for information.

So here’s what I learned: Almost all the vendors come from Senegal, on Africa’s west coast (formerly a French colony, so French is the official language of the country and the language used in school). Wolof is the official Senegalese African language, and is the native language of about 40% of the population, though there are many other languages. Franco said it was like the different dialects in Italy – someone from the north of Senegal wouldn’t necessarily understand the language of someone from the south. All these languages are based on a different sound system than western languages – which is obvious when you hear it spoken. Franco had to get off before the language lesson got very far, but we both learned ‘man’ = I, and ‘moom’ = he, she, it. That last raises some gender questions.

There is no empire of vendors under the evil thumb of a capo. All the vendors come over independently, usually joining friends or family members who are already here. Franco chose his selling locale because a friend who had been here for 20 years said he did well there. He commutes daily from Busalla, north of Genova, to Pietra Ligure, west of Savona, for his day of work. In the winter he works in Viareggio, well to the south. Unlike sleepy, beachy little Pietra Ligure, Viareggio is still moderately active in the winter. The things he sells are almost all made in Italy, he said. (I did doubt that.)

What surprised me most was that Franco and his friends are legal entrants to the country. He said that he went to the Italian Consulate in Dakar and got a visa to come to Italy. I believed him, in spite of the fact that some studies suggest that up to 50% of immigrants in Italy enter illegally (Senegal accounts for only about 2.5% of immigrants to Italy).  (There are a lot of Pakistani vendors in Italy, too; they seem to specialize in silver jewelry, fabric items and pinwheels, leaving the dark glasses and purses to the Senegalese.)

Another thing that really surprised me is that Franco buys his merchandise from a wholesaler – actually another Senegalese whose ‘warehouse’ is his apartment in Genova. Far from being told what to sell by someone else, it turns out Franco is an entrepreneur!

He’s been here working for two years, but he does get home to visit occasionally. He would like to work and save for another few years and then return home for good.

How brave to leave your homeland, move to a distant country (though not that distant really – 2500 miles or so, about the same as New York to San Fran), hastily learn enough of the language to harangue passers-by, invest your savings (or money borrowed from family and friends) in a stock of dark glasses, and then go stand under the beating sun to sell your goods. Phew. It’s no wonder Franco has such a winning personality – he has to in order to succeed in his line of work.Fern Driscoll

 

 

The world famous Italian poet Dante Alighieri going to hell in 14th century A.D. to see with his own eyes what they do to the Italian sinners. All the people he met there were Italian, shame on them!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                           The ladri are coming, the ladri are coming! Fern Driscoll

August 1, 2008 ·

It’s not “if”, it’s “when,” all our friends have told us. You will be robbed. The ladri (thieves) will visit you and will take whatever gold and money they can find.

“No, no!” we cry, “we do not want to be robbed.” Well, obviously. Who does? But the fact remains that here in Italy breaking and entering is standard operating procedure, and for a number of rather complicated reasons it appears to be officially condoned (it is not).

Our friends the B’s, who live across town and up another hill from us, have been broken into three times, the first 20 years ago, then 9 years ago, then two weeks ago. They practically shrugged off the last outrage – there was nothing left in the house to steal.

Our friends J and M live in a beautiful, large villa in Santa. In spite of having lights and custodians on the premises, they have been broken into twice. The first time M’s jewelry was not stolen because she had cleverly hidden it in the cavity of a frozen chicken. All the other meat from the freezer was taken, but not the lowly chicken. Ha. In the later robbery their special paintings were not taken because they had hidden them in a very clever place which I’m not allowed to mention. Suffice it to say they were in such an obvious place they were not seen (no, not on the walls, not that obvious) (no, not under the beds either. Stop guessing; I promised not to tell.)

Our friend S was smart. He had a heavy steel safe installed in a wall behind a painting. About 2 months ago while S was out for the evening thieves came through his garden, picking up S’s iron pry bar on the way, and forced open the metal gate guarding the glass kitchen door, which they then broke. Insult to injury: at least they could have the courtesy to bring their own tools. Somehow they knew right where to find the safe. I can see visions dancing in your head, the intelligent, handsome and clever robber placing his ear next to the door of the safe as he delicately spins the knob, listening for the click as the tumblers fall into place. No, not these guys. They just used the pry bar to smash up the wall and remove the whole safe, which they carried away with them.

And lest you think the wealthy are the only victims – two years ago our cleaning angel L and her husband D were victimized. They lived at the time on the fifth floor of an apartment building in a modest residential section of Rapallo. The back of their building was bare except for a small gas pipe that was fastened directly to the wall and which passed near their kitchen window. It gets hot in Rapallo in the summer, and they left their kitchen window open for a little ventilation. Someone, somehow, shinnied up that half-inch pipe and sashayed into their small apartment. The thief was bold enough to creep into the bedroom where L and D were asleep and relieve L of her purse and cell phone. (D’s was too beat up; they left it behind.)

If one is lucky, as the B’s were this last time, the thieves are courteous; they come when you’re out and though they look everywhere, they don’t leave a huge mess behind and they do not engage in gratuitous destruction. If you’re less lucky you will have a big mess, as S did, and if the thieves are frustrated by lack of goodies they may start breaking things. One can only hope for Gentlemen thieves.

Everyone protects their windows with shutters and/or grills. Doors are always locked. It doesn’t seem to matter. Even having a fierce dog doesn’t help. Our friends J and G thought their large dog would be a deterrent (oh all right, poodles aren’t terribly fierce, but this one at least was large and had a good bark). Someone took the trouble to get to know the dog, bringing food as a treat ahead of time. J and G know this because the dog had a delicate tum and the strange food made her ill; they wondered at the time what she had eaten. A week later it became clear when thief was able to gain entrance to the house without setting off the doggy alarm.

This last was a very troubling event because it happened at about 6 p.m. and J and G’s teen-aged daughter came home alone shortly after the thief gained entrance to the house. Evidently she scared him off and he left by a back window, but what if he hadn’t? Breaking, entering and stealing here are not usually accompanied by any kind of physical threat, nor are people on the streets often mugged. The pick-pockets will cheerfully lift your wallet from your back pocket and the thieves happily take all your jewelry, but they don’t often seem to want to stick a knife into you or shoot you or even find you at home. So far.

The police come, but it seems not much happens. Thieves are rarely caught, and if they are they may not go to prison. In Elaborations over on the right, there is an entry called a Policeman’s view, which explains in a little more detail why this is so…

Last week as I was typing away at about 11 p.m. I heard an odd rustling at the nearby door, a sort of scratch, scratch, scratch - pause - scratch, scratch, scratch. Animal? I wondered. But no, it was too regular. After about the 6th series of scratches I tiptoed over to the door and turned on the overhead light outside (we have no peep hole in the door, alas). Immediately the sounds stopped. I didn’t hear any other noise, and when I was bold enough to open the door a minute or two later there was nothing to be seen. Nothing, that is, but a new small hole on the inside edge of the door, as if made by a punch. Probably, our friend the policeman told us, someone just testing to see if the door is wood or steel. It’s steel. Double steel with treble bolts. But we’re resigned. Although we’ve taken all the precautions we can, we believe our friends: the ladri are coming.Fern Driscoll

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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