Being a foreigner means that a certain measure of dissonance will
always remain, hiding in wait, no matter
how much time, effort and understanding you put into your adopted culture. This subtle conflict will arise in various
moments, usually in the guise of an inexplicable discomfort, mood swing or bout
of sadness and frustration ignited by being misheard, talked-over (always happening with many chatty Italians), and plainly misunderstood altogether. It is hard to barter with this aspect of your expat life and yourself, but it is even harder for those around you, who are not living as you
do, never have and never will, to really understand, or even want to understand you. In
other words, you must manage this burden on your own in a creative way, so all
of us foreigners/expats/strangers, call us what you like, have our own private
coping mechanisms.
Beyond blogging, calling Mom, emailing buddies, badgering my native husband, I've found that a real resource, a living, breathing refuge, other than my fuzzy cats and my new semi-adopted, loner dog, are the lovely, wise, experienced women of this country. Women like my mother-in-law, Maria, who calls during the day when she hears that I'm not feeling well or that I've had an exam and knows that her only son and "sun" will not be the one to answer the phone. She’s the woman, who, despite this culture's style of trading quick pecks on the cheek as a sign of greeting and affection, embraces me and squeezes a little longer and a little tighter than expected. These tiny gestures are not lost to me; I notice each and every one and take comfort in their warmth and closeness, things that are incredibly fleeting and were completely taken for granted in my past life.
This is why meeting Emmelina was such a pleasure. Something in her demeanor felt so familiar that even though our language abilities created a barrier it did not manifest in awkward expressions that could and would only widen the division between us. I anticipate this division from experience. The difference with Emmelina, I cannot take credit for, this endowment; it was something she possessed in her person and spirit, her confidence in age, time, humanity and herself. And she gave it to me freely. Perhaps a woman of a certain age identifies the loneliness in being misheard and has had her fair share of being "talked-over".
I met Emmelina on a day trip to Valmontone and Anagni to have lunch with her at her home. It is the home she's lived in all her life, with land and dogs and chickens and goats. It boasts a yard with laundry hanging on a real clothes line with a permanent position not too many steps from the front door, a house with a long dark, high ceiling hallway that has a telephone on a table with a chair nearby, the telephone that you still literally pick up and hang up. A screen door hangs on the exterior of the large solid, wooden one, the perfect creaky object to slam in and out of with baskets full of wash, that lets in breeze and light to the gloomy hallway. And best of all is the kitchen. The kitchen is still a separate room with a door off of the main corridor, but it's the first room and it's large, so roomy by Italian standards that it houses a round table, a little divan, a sideboard, a cast iron fireplace, and a very old, incredibly rustic, Italian cabinet used for storage and bread that was assembled with only wooden joints and pegs. And the haphazard collection of copper pots hanging on the wall, worn from years of dependable use is the best touch of all.
Emmelina prepared perfect roasted potatoes, stewed lamb, homemade fettuccine pasta that she of course woke at 6 am to prepare (she said she had slept in that day) and the eggs were fresh from her chickens. The sauce was perfect tomato with bits of flavorful meat and she did all of these things like breathing, and I didn't mention yet that she's over eighty. When she came out to greet F and me, I thought she was a relative, a younger sister perhaps. So jaunty and light on her feet, she came over and clasped my hands in greeting, with sparkly, mischievous eyes and I knew then that I liked this woman.
She told us many stories. Something I find so inspiring and fortunate, to be her age and full of energy and stories with the breath and heart to share them and to be able to listen. She talked about the German Occupation in Anagni during WWII and how hungry and miserable all the German soldiers were. The way she described it revealed the reality of war, the bodies of men employed like expendable machines, forgotten and abandoned by those in power. Listless, cold, and hungry, her father would give them half the bread that her mother would bake for the week. Emmelina was young, around 14 or 15, yet remembers distinctly her father showing the emaciated German soldier that he would give him one half of the loaf while the other half must be kept for his family, his arms stretching and hand passing in the air over the children and his wife. Emmelina said that she did not understand all that was happening, but had felt very sorry for them.
When we left after a long meandering afternoon, Emmelina made sure to wrap six fresh eggs in newspaper for me. She said that they could be eaten fresh, meaning raw beaten with milk, sugar and cocoa. Something F remembers fondly from childhood and something I can’t yet fathom ingesting. Oh, Texas girl. Emmelina didn't mind me though. She fixed her glittering eyes on me with a penetrating gaze over a bowl of salad as I raised my camera and said, "I like that, people only take pictures of me preparing food, not enjoying it".
Beyond blogging, calling Mom, emailing buddies, badgering my native husband, I've found that a real resource, a living, breathing refuge, other than my fuzzy cats and my new semi-adopted, loner dog, are the lovely, wise, experienced women of this country. Women like my mother-in-law, Maria, who calls during the day when she hears that I'm not feeling well or that I've had an exam and knows that her only son and "sun" will not be the one to answer the phone. She’s the woman, who, despite this culture's style of trading quick pecks on the cheek as a sign of greeting and affection, embraces me and squeezes a little longer and a little tighter than expected. These tiny gestures are not lost to me; I notice each and every one and take comfort in their warmth and closeness, things that are incredibly fleeting and were completely taken for granted in my past life.
This is why meeting Emmelina was such a pleasure. Something in her demeanor felt so familiar that even though our language abilities created a barrier it did not manifest in awkward expressions that could and would only widen the division between us. I anticipate this division from experience. The difference with Emmelina, I cannot take credit for, this endowment; it was something she possessed in her person and spirit, her confidence in age, time, humanity and herself. And she gave it to me freely. Perhaps a woman of a certain age identifies the loneliness in being misheard and has had her fair share of being "talked-over".
I met Emmelina on a day trip to Valmontone and Anagni to have lunch with her at her home. It is the home she's lived in all her life, with land and dogs and chickens and goats. It boasts a yard with laundry hanging on a real clothes line with a permanent position not too many steps from the front door, a house with a long dark, high ceiling hallway that has a telephone on a table with a chair nearby, the telephone that you still literally pick up and hang up. A screen door hangs on the exterior of the large solid, wooden one, the perfect creaky object to slam in and out of with baskets full of wash, that lets in breeze and light to the gloomy hallway. And best of all is the kitchen. The kitchen is still a separate room with a door off of the main corridor, but it's the first room and it's large, so roomy by Italian standards that it houses a round table, a little divan, a sideboard, a cast iron fireplace, and a very old, incredibly rustic, Italian cabinet used for storage and bread that was assembled with only wooden joints and pegs. And the haphazard collection of copper pots hanging on the wall, worn from years of dependable use is the best touch of all.
Emmelina prepared perfect roasted potatoes, stewed lamb, homemade fettuccine pasta that she of course woke at 6 am to prepare (she said she had slept in that day) and the eggs were fresh from her chickens. The sauce was perfect tomato with bits of flavorful meat and she did all of these things like breathing, and I didn't mention yet that she's over eighty. When she came out to greet F and me, I thought she was a relative, a younger sister perhaps. So jaunty and light on her feet, she came over and clasped my hands in greeting, with sparkly, mischievous eyes and I knew then that I liked this woman.
She told us many stories. Something I find so inspiring and fortunate, to be her age and full of energy and stories with the breath and heart to share them and to be able to listen. She talked about the German Occupation in Anagni during WWII and how hungry and miserable all the German soldiers were. The way she described it revealed the reality of war, the bodies of men employed like expendable machines, forgotten and abandoned by those in power. Listless, cold, and hungry, her father would give them half the bread that her mother would bake for the week. Emmelina was young, around 14 or 15, yet remembers distinctly her father showing the emaciated German soldier that he would give him one half of the loaf while the other half must be kept for his family, his arms stretching and hand passing in the air over the children and his wife. Emmelina said that she did not understand all that was happening, but had felt very sorry for them.
When we left after a long meandering afternoon, Emmelina made sure to wrap six fresh eggs in newspaper for me. She said that they could be eaten fresh, meaning raw beaten with milk, sugar and cocoa. Something F remembers fondly from childhood and something I can’t yet fathom ingesting. Oh, Texas girl. Emmelina didn't mind me though. She fixed her glittering eyes on me with a penetrating gaze over a bowl of salad as I raised my camera and said, "I like that, people only take pictures of me preparing food, not enjoying it".
