WHERE WE FIND OURSELVES, PART 2

N.B.  After weeks, possibly months, of difficulties with this site I think it’s fixed, thanks to lots of IT help.  I know many of you have not been receiving every post so, two things.

1. The following post is Part 2 of an essay.  For those of you who didn’t receive Part 1, scroll down to the end of this part and you will find it. 

2. It would be extremely helpful, and much appreciated, if those of you who receive this Post would leave a comment – it could literally be one word – so that I, and my IT person, can get an idea of how many subscribers are back in the loop.  Thanks so much.

PART 2

After a few days of mild weather an icy wind has arrived robbing the sun of its warmth but leaving its brilliant light to dazzle Spring’s emerging greenery. The air vibrates with burgeoning growth and gives a much-needed lift to our spirits. Life is challenging here in Europe at the moment; between rising Covid cases and an almost nonexistent vaccine roll-out it is easy to give in to despair.  In many ways it feels like March 2020; like it’s been March for a year.  We are all disappointed and tired which leaves less energy to focus on the positive, but focus we must.

I do find an occasional temper tantrum to be of help.  I had a doozie yesterday evening.  Having spent weeks navigating the Immigration system here in order to get us permanent residency and healthcare, plus picking up the slack of running the house in order for Joel to have time for his many projects, I find myself with little time and energy for my own creative life.  If I don’t show up for myself creatively, be it writing or drawing, I start to feel suffocated and eventually the last straw arrives.

Last night it was a log.  Yup.  A log. I had started the evening fire; got it going nicely.  Then I added a good size log with the intention of not having to babysit the damn fire and maybe, just maybe, be able to grab 30 minutes to write before making dinner.  So I put the log on the fire. It rolls off scattering all the others which had just got going. I threw down the tongs and let rip. “I’m so fucking tired of this. I’m tired of….” and I ran down the list barely skipping a beat midway to assure Joel it was nothing personal.  Then I was done and I felt great. I do try to avoid clichés but ‘letting off steam’ is such a good one: the image of coming to the boil in a pressure cooker is, I’m sure, one we can all relate to these days.

In Part One of this essay, I talked about trying to get an appointment at the Immigration Office in Siena.  Mission accomplished. I am now a legal permanent resident with a National Health Card, so, once my age group becomes eligible, I can pop into town and jet my jab.  Now we have to go through an even more complicated process to get Joel the same rights.  More complicated for him because he’s American whereas I, as UK Passport holder living here before Brexit, am automatically entitled.

Having spent years in America, first as a Green Card holder and eventually as a Naturalized Citizen, I had many experiences with the US Immigration, none of them pleasant, some of the nightmarish, from being pulled aside when returning to the US from England, to being escorted out of the New York Immigration Center by two uniformed guards. I witnessed the abuse of power more than once, but will give only one example here.

At that time, only a fixed number of people each day were allowed into the immigration center in lower Manhattan.  In order to be one of those people you had to start lining up at 5 a.m., for entry at 8:30 a.m. Once inside you were given a card depending on why you were there, e.g., first-time applicant, renewal, name change etc. The card indicated to which holding room you had to go.  You would be in a series of these rooms of the next several hours. You were not allowed to eat or drink. On this particular day about 20 of us had arrived in the final room in which we would be processed. A young child, hungry and crying, was given a snack by the mother.  The Immigration Officer, who I’m ashamed to say was a woman, yelled at the mother and then, as punishment, confiscated all our passports for an hour. This meant that the office would close before we could all be processed.  Half of us fell into that category and had to start all over again the next day.  That’s right, starting at 5 a.m.

And now let’s go back to focusing on the positive. In the 7 years that we have been living in Italy we have had to interact with the local police station and Mayor’s Office as well as the tax office in Siena. In all of these places we have been treated with patience, respect, and kindness, sometimes being given private phone numbers to call if we needed further help. Monday last was my appointment at the Immigration Office in Siena. I practiced a lot of deep breathing in order to relieve the anxiety of past experiences. My appointment was for 10:30. There were 10 applicants ahead of me. Most were refugees, either alone or with family members.  We stood, distanced and masked on an ancient backstreet from where we could look out to the Tuscan countryside. The sun was bright in its immaculate blue sky. Over a high medieval stone wall an olive tree shivered its branches in the breeze.

As each applicant was called, their temperature was taken before being gently ushered inside. After 45 minutes it was my turn.  I asked the guard if Joel could accompany me.  “Ma Certo,” (but of course.) My Immigration Officer was a woman.  My heart was pounding. I’ve been told I have a winning smile but of course these days it’s invisible behind a mask. I smiled vocally in my best Italian and asked her how she was. She seemed surprised to be asked…and grateful.  It took 5 minutes to be registered as a long-term resident. When I was finished I asked if I could enquire as to what Joel needed for residency as my husband. She talked to her Supervisor and returned with a sheet of instructions and wished us well. Two days later my Health Card arrived.

Walking back to the parking lot we stopped to take in the view of Siena, one of the most beautiful cities in the world.  I stood there weeping; I wept with relief for having been treated so kindly and I wept because the city was silent; the cobbled streets empty, the Campo, that exquisite brick beach from which Siena radiates in ever widening circles, normally filled with students and workers and tourists laying in the sun, now lay deserted.

So here’s a brief look at Italy. Its regions only became a unified nation in 1871. It’s a land of peasants and paganism, plurality and pride and, of course, aristocracy. It’s a land of generosity and robbery. It is futuristic and cutting edge in fashion and design and hopelessly intimidated by the renaissance when it comes to creating contemporary art. It is culturally rich in its traditions, its produce and its honour of the importance of family. The sense of time here is not linear but layered and one feels the presence of all time in every moment. The daily rhythm is slow…until you put an Italian behind the wheel of a vehicle whereupon it would seem that a mania for speed is fully unleashed.  We are no longer surprised – or terrified – to find a driver up our ass where only seconds ago the rearview mirror had reflected a traffic-free road as far as the eye could see.

Living here is operatic.  Drama is valued.  People yell at each other and move on. Problems are created where non exist so that the creator can be seen as the rescuing hero. You will be given 20 reasons why you cannot do something and then be told to go ahead, no problem. Testicles reign supreme.  They are publicly jiggled, rearranged, or checked to make sure they’re still there.  They are cause for daily lament by men and women alike who gesticulate how heavy they are; how they’re being broken; and who is the bastardo or stronza who is twisting them.

It is a culture in which grown men are permitted to weep, even sob; where women rule quietly even while considered inferior. If ever there was a land that proves the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, this is it. The Vatican is second only to the kitchen. Italy is a land of generous thieves, of hard-working people strangled by their government and, like everywhere these days, it is a land filled with disenchanted, apathetic youth.

Here in Tuscany, the attachment to the land is profound. Tuscans know what they have and are proud of it; from their Etruscan heritage to their modern vineyards. And like all culturally rich, exquisitely beautiful places in the world, it teeters on the edge of abuse by second-home owners and tourism.

I have written often of Libera and Fortunato who live on the farm just up the road from us. They are some of the few remaining contadini, (peasants), living in the self-sustaining manner of centuries past; growing their own produce, raising just enough hens and chickens for eggs and roasts, pigeons, too. Together with Fortunato’s brother Roberto, they tend the vineyard, the olive grove and the organic garden.  They husband the woods and grow enough grain to feed their animals. In their 70’s and 80’s they work at a steady rhythm throughout the days and seasons. We consider ourselves lucky to have known this way of life and fervently hope that some of those despairing youth will return to the land.

I will end this essay with an example of how the old world mingles with the new, here.  Up this isolated country road, in the opposite direction, is an old house on an Etruscan hill. It houses recovering addicts from the big cities. Here, as they let go of their addictions and deal with the pain which that involves, they learn how to build and tend beehives and how to produce honey of a superior, organic quality. To witness people recovering from addiction to the poisonous drugs of today while producing one of the purest and most ancient substances rich in medicinal properties is, for me, an example of a culture able to retain the best of the past while accepting and helping the worst of the present.

That Italy is about 15 years behind the rest of western civilization can be frustrating when dealing with bureaucracy and just about anything online, including a wi-fi signal that is wont to fail right when you’re in the middle of binge-watching something on one of the streaming platforms.  But the flip side is that there are valuable priorities still intact here; like family, friends, food, community, respect for the land and, in the case of Covid, respect for the laws. Human interaction is still valued more than saving time.  You can either harrumph at waiting in line to buy your groceries while the shopkeeper chats with the customer ahead of you, or you can join in the conversation and enjoy the sense of belonging you gain.

I have lived in 5 countries:  the first 19 years in England. 4 years in Canada, 40 plus in the USA, a year in France, and now 7 years in Italy.  None of them are perfect, all have their pros and cons, but for all-round quality of life, Italy is my #1.

I admit that there are times when I stand in my garden and look at the rolling hills that I long for the English countryside.  And then there are times, like today, when Gianni comes through the garden gate with a bag of our favourite salted chocolate biscuits from Montalcino.  An hour later Silvia arrives with a Colomba, the traditional Easter Cake, this one made up at the Rehab Villa…and there is nowhere else I’d rather be.

Wherever you find yourself today I hope that you are safe and well and that all that is positive stays alive in you.

With love, Maggie