By now we had found our way into the parking lot, hot as Hades, we stood as good-byes, very emotional, very demonstrative, were prolonged beyond all belief. I have to admit it was a good experience enhanced by our discovery of the gallery and the journey through the universe. Apparently this reunion was a regular affair and I could anticipate attending each August. Perhaps next year we might arrange to spend the spring and early summer here and be back in Canada in August!
Ultimately, I was quite happy that my friend, now returned to Canada, had encouraged me to go to the reunion and by the same token it was only thanks to her that we “did Florence”. She insisted that we pack up our backpacks and spend four days there. When we arrived at the Florence train station we went to the tourist office there (as prescribed in our tour guidebook, like good tourists) and entered the throng of backpackers waiting to find accommodation. When we finally had our turn it proved to be a good idea. Tell the staff how much you want to spend, which area you want to stay in, and they phone and do the rest.
We ended up after a fifteen minute walk, on the via Zanobi, at a private four or five story walk up, as befitting the area. When we gained admittance after talking to the lady in the speaker on the wall, we wondered what might become of us as we entered dark cavernous narrow hallways, thousands of round and round iron stairways! Would we be swallowed in the Renaissance and appear again as 15th century beggars or princesses? Finally on the fourth floor we were greeted with illumination and the lady of the house. She explained the light switch system of energy saving. Press the switch on the first floor and the light will come on giving one enough time to reach the room. Of course we could never get it right and just as we approached our door off went the lights making contact between the key and lock almost impossible. We found our very own “room with a view” through the lines of swaying laundry, across the wonderful red rooftops iced here and there with tantalizing falls of bougainvillea and geraniums. We could not see the Duomo but its close proximity became obvious a little later.
My energy was depleted and I collapsed on my lovely little bed and fell fast asleep while my friend went out to explore, loaded with three cameras and sketchbooks and bottles of water. It seemed only minutes later that an earthquake hit. The whole room shook as the offenders, all the bells in Florence, with the Duomo crashing like a huge gong, signaled some ungodly hour and I was shaken from my bed like a rag doll. By this time my friend had returned; we leaned out thewindow in awe of the bells and the setting sun.
But it was wonderful. How we enjoyed our stay. We walked and walked and entered every church and climbed to the top of Bruneleschi’s dome, and marveled at frescoes, and stood in awe of David, and paid only for the Ufizzi. So much is free if you bypass the tours and special museums, although we did pay for and almost passed out at the beauty of the Chapel of the Medici princes in the Church of St. Lorenzo. The black marble floor set with other brilliant colors of marble in a wonderful mosaic. Marble adorned the walls and pillars, the sparkle and reflection was truly overwhelming. We spent hours in the huge market spending our last lire and then, totally overdosed on all the culture, we left that beautiful place and headed back to the peace and quiet of Rovinaglia.
* * *
Luigi was always planning something. With four days of freedom from a wife who always knows best or at least will often say so, who knows what gargantuan changes may have been undertaken. Completing any work is an enormous challenge when the choice of tools is limited to the archaic array of grandfather’s tools. Luigi had spent his “time off”, gathering, cleaning ad displaying the old tools on the walls of the now sparkling clean cantina, as if in a museum. There were iron pointed shovels with a foot-pegs on the shafts designed specifically to smash your shin; wooden rakes with thick wooden pegs for teeth so heavy only Charles Atlas could drag them, a cast iron wheelbarrow with an iron rimmed wheel that jambs among the rocks and refuses to move like a stubborn donkey, cement trowels with broken points and wooden handles so old and split they come loose at just the wrong moment and hammers so heavy that if you could just hit the nail with the worn old head you would drive it home with one smash and numerous hand-held implements that might be more at home in the torture chambers beneath Bardi castle.
Luigi’s four days of freedom had given us a greater appreciation of the history of the house and where it stood. The cantina was now more airy, opened up and lighter, at first I could not see how this could be, but the proud “curator” gave us the tour of his museum.
His most exciting moment had come when he demolished the bricked up piece of wall housing a door-shaped opening, built within the archway. It was now possible to see the whole length of the cantina with the end half framed in the gorgeous archway. He had discovered a deep rectangular rock-lined hole at the bottom of the archway on the east wall. As cleaning progressed he found a five-foot long chestnut board stretching across the floor beneath the archway, securely set between the flat rocks and earth. Thinking it might be a casket, he was wary to search further not wanting to disturb the remains; however, his curiosity got the better of him and carefully prying the chestnut up he discovered the hollowed out tree trunk. Further excavation revealed the trunk stretched across the floor from one end of the archway to the other. He was thrilled to learn from a passing hiker, also an historian, that this was a drainage system to allow ground water seeping down between the rocks in the hillside behind, to drain away into the fields. The system followed the Roman design and the historian, after examining the rock structure of the archway and the cantina, said that it was probably built about six hundred years ago.
The same wall in which the archway was set, reached up beyond the top of the cantina to form the end of our kitchen and sitting room, then on up into the loft, shaping into a central point. Luigi had been digging around in the loft, doing whatever it is curious Italian men do in lofts, when he discovered this was actually a double wall, confirming our idea that Nona’s house was originally half its present size and butted up close to another house. In cleaning the rocks, some came loose and intending to secure them with cement, he removed them. Behind was the original end wall of the other house and built into what must have been a high small end window was an inscribed rock. The inscription was impossible to decipher but we were very excited about it. We intended to keep this little secret. Perhaps we would share it when we discovered the relevance, perhaps not.
With his bruised shins and knees, aching back and elbows, I wondered at the insanity of being too mean or stubborn to buy nice new, modern tools with which to accomplish the necessary jobs easily, almost pleasantly. The scythe, a monster thing with a long wooden shaft and halfway down a peg to grip, and a blade that would make the grim reaper look like a wuss, was responsible for the only space age entry in our ancient menagerie, a weed-eater. Having paid through the nose to have the old iron brute sharpened(not for the want of trying with grandfather’s famous old whetstone) and almost slicing himself off at the knees, Luigi stomped away to the car and with gravel spitting from the screaming tires flew down to the hardware store, coming home with a weed-eater.
Unfortunately for the wild flowers and weeds the man with his new tool spelled doom. Everything growing fell prey to the blue plastic cord, spitting from beneath the roaring yellow machine. Wild roses, poppies, nettles, brambles, young sprouting oak seedlings, all was massacred as a swath was cut across the landscape. A little bunch of scarlet poppies, nodding their innocent heads from between the rocks of the piazza, were off limits though and continued to smile sweetly, defying death. My sister Jennifer’s favorite flower, Luigi will not go near them having once felt the wrath of his very own wife as he and his machine came too close to these scarlet beauties. Others were not so lucky and fell prey to the hungry machine; however, I am quite convinced that the gods are on my side. Almost every time the weed-eater is prepped for its rampage, as it disappears down the hill with its owner to “tidy up”, the clouds come ro
lling in, the rumbles start and the floodgates open.
Never one to waste a moment of peace, as the man and his machine disappeared down the hill, I set my yellow chair and drawing stuff out on the veranda and prepared my coffee, contemplating the merits of modern machinery. I was a strong hold out against the metal detector Luigi wanted to buy to hunt for the fabled gold cache left behind by the Germans after the war. If it had not been found by now, it never would. Besides with all the bullets which flew around this area, who knows how much live stuff might be lying in the underbrush just waiting to be detonated by a man with a metal detector. I had no sooner sat and sipped and thought, than the sun was obliterated as huge wafting indigo clouds rushed over the hills. I could still hear the weed-eater puffing and popping in the distance. The drops of rain began and I just managed to escape inside before the deluge. The time wore on, the rain continued. Eventually, when it weakened to light intermittent showers I set out on my rescue mission. Along the top road I met Paolino beneath a huge black umbrella. He asked where was my umbrella. I explained that I am a tough Canadian girl, that we do not use umbrellas, that I love a fresh shower. Five minutes later, with my tail between my legs, I rushed back to the house, soaked. Passing Paolino on his return journey was mortifying, I did not understand exactly what he said but obviously he thought it was very funny as he laughed his way on down the road.
Eventually a very wet, bedraggled, weed-eater operator arrived home, happy as a sandboy. Having cleared the footpath down to the piece of land called Banshoele he had sheltered in the old barn there, enjoyed his bread and cheese and occupied his thoughts with all sorts of ways to restore and utilize the barn. I did not tell him that I had plans for the numerous fallen, undamaged tiles. I thought I would save that for another time.
Beyond Banshoele there is a footpath that winds down through the woods along the perimeters of different fields and on down to San Vincenzo. In the past we have hiked the path through nettles so tall they can sting one’s face, and brambles from which it is almost impossible to escape once snared by their thorny, grabbing tentacles. The intrepid mountain man would lead the way with Nona’s old hand scythe and whack away at the undergrowth. I would bring up the rear very helpfully calling, “Mind that primrose; oh don’t cut that lovely dog-rose;” how my head remains on my shoulders I do not know. Two hours later, stumbling out of the jungle we would arrive at the village just behind Uncle Angelo’s house. Angelo is the only remaining brother of Lorenzo. The nicest, sweetest old man I have ever met, he is a joy to be with. I will collapse here on the old kitchen bench as the family, Uncle Angelo and his daughter Rita and son-in-law Angelo proceeds to chat away with Luigi, so happy to see us. When our daughter Melody ventured forth with her friend for their first international travel experience, they spent a few days with Angelo and Rita and her husband in their winter house in Parma and were treated royally. Even with her great love of Sicily, Melody still says Parma is her favorite city.
This trail has now become almost a simple stroll, thanks to the hungry yellow machine. We use the footpath frequently. A lovely walk through the old oak trees between the banks and hedges draped with wild roses, primroses and daisies. Given a new lease on life they peek out along the edges. I can now make the journey alone without fear of being swallowed by the Italian countryside never to be seen again. Luigi will meet me at Uncle Angelo’s, and I can then be driven home up the tortuous road from San Vincenzo back to Rovinaglia. Of course one or two seasons of neglect and the trail will disappear, as nobody is interested in maintaining a footpath. There is more important work for the villagers, and I am sure each evening with breaking backs and aching shoulders, the old footpath would be the last thing on anyone’s mind. With our imminent return to Canada, we did not again traverse the trail I now call “Primrose Lane”.
Before we left, the usual sequence of shutting down No. 17 went smoothly and it seemed once again just a flash in time as we drove away down the road towards Borgotaro and our planned two-day trip to Munich. We intended to use the main route north as opposed to the autostradas so that we could enjoy northern Italy and the Tyrol. The weather was beautiful, we found a lovely little albergo in which to stay the night and Munich airport was as pleasant from which to depart as it had been for our arrival.
CHAPTER V
1999
We have spent both spring and summer seasons in Emilia. The autumn might be colder but we could harvest our walnuts and apples, and gather enough chestnuts to be ground into flour, all to be stored for the following year. We would also be able to cut our own firewood, enough for two years at least. Perhaps we are taking a lot for granted. Who knows how legalities regarding ownership of Nona’s house will work out. My heart would break if I could not return to my beloved Emilian cottage.
This year will be a summer visit, my ill health the reason once again. A real winter of discontent as my bilirubins and white count misbehave and my body slumps to a very low, low. My heart and soul are strong. I know I will be well enough to travel in the summer, I just know this. We soldier on, my wonderful husband especially, running to the store to buy something to tweak my fancy, off and running again when whatever it was yesterday that was palatable tastes like poison today.
Anticipating legal fees, maintenance and utility bills for which we wanted to take responsibility (so sure were we that this year all would be finalized) we set up a bank account in Borgotaro from which Roberto could draw funds on our behalf and also, to ensure that Rosetta went to no expense of her own for keeping the house aired and clean. She is a darling and it was a long battle Luigi endured over the phone to persuade her to accept payment.
We booked the trip in anticipation of my recovery. I felt well by June and with medical permission granted, we sallied forth once again. The little house at the end of the rainbow waited. Continually planning this reno, that landscaping, we whiled away the flight to Europe fairly comfortably and Munich greeted us once again. After twenty or so hours of travelling and holdovers, we gratefully sank into the welcoming puffy duvets of Hotel Maria and slept like logs.
Driving all day was tiring but I did not want to linger. The draw, the anticipation of Rovinaglia was immense. And once again after the full day’s drive, we pulled into the lane behind No. 17, safe, sound, and exhausted! Rosetta and her daughter Lorena had worked very hard. We unlocked the door and entered a little palace, sparkling clean with fresh flowers on the table. Two or three days recouping and we would be ready for action and adventures. Bedraggled as I felt I looked forward to Luigi’s first discovery of a waiting castle.
He loves his newspapers, our siesta time will often see him outside on the sun chair beneath the shade of one of the walnut trees reading the local paper, “Gazetta Di Parma”. It is a brilliant paper, the usual cross section of politics, highway slaughter, festivals, and Mafia reprisals seducing its readers into the pages. Most interesting to me are the weekly profiles of lesser-known historical sites. Castles, churches, palazzos, priceless artifacts and artwork hidden away from the general view but there to see if one knows where to look. Some of our most interesting adventures have had their origins in these informative newspaper articles.
We will set off in the morning and head down to the “Forno”, the bakery where we choose our picnic for the day. My favorite, a local specialty is “Torta di Erba” a flat thin layer of crispy brown flaked pastry, covered with a mixture of leafy dark green vegetables, Parmesan cheese, egg, salt and olive oil. Throw in a couple of pieces of pizza, some real focaccia, and along with our apples and water, a fine feast fit for a king.
The simplest, most innocent discoveries are often the most memorable. One day, we set out for a 12th century castle and community out towards Piacenza, Castell’ Arquato. The country roads led us through villages and farms, fields of alfalfa and wheat dotted with the ever-faithful scarlet poppies and blue corn flowers. Sometimes the poppies were so profuse they resembled scarlet carpets stretche
d over the hills between swaths of the early cut hay crops. Other fields of sage green, emerald, jade, lemon yellow, butter colored patchwork quilts of the most exquisite beauty, the squares joined together with seams of hedge rows, lines of Poplar, irrigation channels and the old dry rock walls. The views were too much, my eyes were not big enough. I needed more ocular capacity to take in all this wonder.
We often get lost when we are out looking for somewhere in particular, the roads crisscrossing and bending, unsigned junctions. We know in this particular instance we need to maintain a north-westerly course. The sun rises back there and sets over there. No problem, anyway, half the fun is trying to find these places. Eventually, we emerged from the maze and arrived about 11 o’clock in a small town we knew to be en route to Castell’ Arquato. The church looked interesting and we needed some shade and a rest so we parked under some deliciously smelling trees hung with creamy white trumpet-shaped blossoms. Usually unlocked when in the center of the village, the churches offer a cool haven. We lingered inside, never tiring of the architecture, the historical significance of stone floors embedded with tomb stones, and steps worn by many feet, crucifixes, Virgin Marys, altars draped with intricate lace and red velvet, frescoes, domes, pillars and archways. Whether elaborate or plain, I always love the quietness and tranquility. I feel no guilt for being irreverent. I simply enjoy these churches for what they offer me. Museums, providing a look back in time.
In Love With Emilia Page 11