In Love With Emilia

by Virginia Gabriella Ferrari

  After my sister-in-law’s search for Mr. Toad, it was time to head off for a visit to the hospital. Surrounding my drugs in cooler packs and fitting them between all the paraphernalia I had hauled along last week, I certainly did not expect to be bringing it all back at the end of the day.

  Arriving promptly for my ten o’clock appointment, I, that is Gabriella, was once again ushered into the doctor’s office quite quickly, despite once more running the gauntlet of the eyeballs. I was in and out in a flash and then had my blood drawn. Completely unnecessary I tried to explain, monthly is appropriate, but it was not to be. I thus waited until the afternoon for my chemo and the delightful lunch in the glorious cafeteria became a regular event.

  Having a leisurely walk down a shady tree-lined avenue, we came across an amazing spectacle, at least for naïve, country folk from Canada. Roaring down the quiet tree lined avenue came four police cars escorting a prison wagon. Carabinieri disgorged from the cars, Uzis ready, eyes everywhere. From the prison-cum-ambulance van a stretcher was pulled upon which lay a portly man, a stereotypical looking mafioso. Annette and I thought he must at least be the godfather! Not wanting to hang around in such a situation we removed ourselves quickly from firing range. I fully expected Luigi to march into the fray and ask all about it but he did not this time, much to my relief, although he loitered. That ever present urge to see something more, as with most Italians, they tend to congregate at accident sites, appearing curious about what might have happened to the poor victims.

  Finding another way back because the avenue was now closed off, we returned to Oncology. I handed over all my medication and medical paraphernalia and was very sweetly informed that they would use their own lines and needles. After being infused the first time via a larger needle than I was used to I had a huge bruise at the needle site that stayed with me until we returned to Canada. No amount of asking the nurses to use my Canadian needles would change their minds. We had hauled all these supplies from Penticton to Parma for naught.

  My mind was conditioned to the lovely open area with comfy lazy boy chemo chairs at home. Lots of windows and bright happy daylight. I was staggered at the condition of the chemo rooms. This particular room was a square off-white windowless box with three ordinary dull colored plastic padded chairs, one in which I sat. Three other patients were receiving their treatment dripping from glass bottles. They look amazed at my plastic drip bags of saline and my drugs, just as astonished at their appearance as I was at the archaic drip bottles. On one wall was a plain small table and leaning across it, seated on a wooden chair with her arm outstretched containing the intravenous line, was an elderly woman who had fallen asleep with her bald head resting on the table against her other arm. Another patient sat bolt upright in a hard plastic chair receiving his goods. Knowing how one can sit for three or four hours or even a whole day being infused, I could not imagine how these poor people endure such cold, unfeeling conditions. The only moments of sunshine arrived with the nurses, who though rushed off their feet circulating between several different treatment rooms, managed continual smiles and happiness.

  I was surprised at how much control the patients had over their own intravenous lines and soon learned that I was allowed to regulate my own flow and when the time came, switch from saline to chemo, if there was no-one around to do it for me. Although the connections were different, I was glad I had learned how to administer my own chemo if necessary. I had been worried about that aspect because all procedures at home were so precise and sterile and secure. There is never any danger of being given the wrong drug as we are always asked to verify the computerized labels on the bags. I noticed here, however, that names were just scrawled on bottles with a felt pen. I was glad therefore, that I was the only person with the very distinguishable Canadian intravenous bags.

  Because of the value of my particular medication I was reluctant to leave it at the hospital and always had the problem, small though it was, of keeping it on ice, not easy in the burning heat of a tiny car with no air conditioning. I was always glad when the individual vials, which provided three treatments, ran out because then we were free to roam the city and not worry about getting home to the fridge.

  Parma is a beautiful city. Its spacious elegance is due in part to the Farnese family whose foresight in planning and development left a legacy of beautiful parks and avenues and accessible medieval areas. We discovered a beautiful park on one sojourn from the hospital. A circular plan with a grand palazzo at the meeting of several wide walking paths. In the center is a lake and in the center of that an island where many birds and water fowl make their homes. Swimming around in the somewhat green murky water are turtles and fish and we discovered that some of the original turtles were abandoned by people who no longer wanted to have them as pets. Some poor things struggle around with only three flippers or half a nose. Perhaps they are territorial or perhaps there is a bigger abandoned pet lurking in the depths, but it is all very pathetic set against such a beautiful backdrop of green serenity.

  Having put Parma on the map and developing a Duchy of impressive political force in Europe, the Farneses’ century of rule came to an end in the 18th century when Elizabetta assumed the throne of Spain, upon her marriage to Philip V of Borbone. When Maria Luigia, wife of the Emperor

  Napoleon arrived to rule the Duchy, at the time of his exile, she brought with her a dedication to the arts and a love of music, her passion, as it had been with her aunt Marie Antoinette. During her rule the opera house was constructed and so began Parma’s dedication to the arts and culture. Maria Luigia’s administrative abilities encouraged a thriving commercial center and her love of Violets, which have always been Parma’s prize, established its famous perfume industry. Promotion of Parma ham, first produced in Roman times, created the region’s main export, and the local cheese, parmigiano, which continues to appear on every Italian table, together with many around the world.

  Later the opera house provided a venue for Guiseppe Verdi and a place of pilgrimage for opera buffs which exists to this day. During the warm, quiet evenings, the strains of music can often be heard floating across the squares and down the avenues from the open windows of apartments and houses, Parma is truly a city of music lovers.

  Our experiences with Parma are always times of enjoyment. People-watching provides entertainment as we enjoy a plate of pasta at an outdoor restaurant. It is known as the city of bicycles as well as the city of music. Deference to cyclists is a way of life in Italy, even in the high traffic areas, no cutting off, no squeezing out. Unfortunately, pedestrians are shown no such courtesy. In Canada we are used to stopping to allow people to cross the street at lights or designated areas, however, we tend to treat cyclist with disdain, “Get off the road,” we roar, “you don’t pay taxes.” At first by habit, in Italy we would show courtesy to pedestrians. They would almost fall down in catatonic fits of shock unused to such polite drivers, and the honking of horns behind us, as vehicles have to wait, is incredible. We soon learned when in Rome… to hell with the pedestrians.

  As with many towns and cities in Italy, the old central areas are off limits to cars and provide a safe haven for those on foot. The tinkling of bicycle bells is constant as every manner of persons pass by atop their rattling steeds. Clattering by over the pebbles, go the people of Parma. The signorile, the beautiful people, perched in elegant manner, posture perfect, erect, silk skirts flowing above long brown legs, gold-sandled feet and painted toenails, gentry propelling old pedals, fingers dressed in gold, bracelets sparkling on wrists. Manes of rich blond tresses, chestnut, brunette, and copper framing calm, placid faces. Old wicker baskets filled with bread and poodles. Ancient, professorial men, lost in their worlds of music, science, riding by dressed in tweed jackets, pants cinched at the ankle with bicycle clips. Heads adorned with wild white hair and faces filled with lines of time and learning. Old leather saddles, creaking their way along the street. Students on their way t
o or from the university, harried and stressed, or late for class, flying by, baskets full of books, weaving an intricate path between the pedestrians and bicycles. Others, stopping to greet a friend, remaining steadfast and unaware of those rushing around and past. Young men about town, white shirt sleeves rolled up, jackets stuffed in baskets with briefcases, secure in the knowledge that Versace never yet designed a piece of clothing that creases, sockless feet in Gucci loafers. Mothers with small children stuck in the basket, pudgy little legs hanging over the front, or perched on a cushion on the crossbar with Papa. Young women sheathed in clinging lycra, bell bottoms coming the full circle here as well as in the new world. Brown midriffs bare, and tight revealing tank tops, cell phones pressed to ears, vital continual communication with friends, mothers, sisters. The latest in technology and fashion carried by on old faithful bicycles, painted pink with matching skirt guards, brown and rusty, polished and shiny. Nuns, billowing habits, now and then revealing a white knee, crucifixes swinging, head dresses floating behind clinging faithfully around faces, at peace.

  As we sit at a café, we are intrigued with the elderly man sitting at the next table. Not a word has passed between him and the waiter. Provided with a newspaper, a bottle of wine, he awaits his first course and reads the newspaper. Upon its arrival the paper is refolded perfectly and set aside. Eating delicately he replaces his knife and fork after each mouthful and dabs his lips with his napkin. He savors each mouthful of wine and continues in complete silence as second and third courses are served. Two slices of melon arrive with his bill. With the hint of a smile, he enjoys his melon. Leaving his money on the table, he rises, tucks the paper under his arm and walks away, disappearing from view behind the Romanesque cathedral. Luigi’s curiosity gets the better of him and upon inquiring about the elderly man, the waiter tells us that he comes everyday at the same time, sits at the same table, eats the same food and spending precisely two hours, he leaves at the same time every day. Luigi’s ever curious nature prompts the waiter to tell him that he will gladly ask the boss for more information about the man. “Non, non faniente,” (it does not matter) I say, kicking Luigi’s shin beneath the table. “Respect the man’s privacy, please,” I tell him. The feeling that the man’s patronage is timeless, is far more meaningful to me.

  One of the oncology nurses had recommended that we visit what I now call the Chapel of Angels. It is a small church, squeezed into part of the old hospital, which now houses the archival center. We decided to walk; never believe an Italian when she says, “Oh, it is only a five minute walk, at most.” Half an hour later we crawled like people from an arid desert into the beautiful cool haven of the chapel. It was astounding, with many pillars from which dripped cherubic faces, pudgy little arms and legs and beautiful wings, each one different and hewn from marble. The angelic frescoes were equally as beautiful and we lingered long in this cool, amazing sanctuary. Loathe to leave, we knew we had a long, hot walk back to the car.

  * * *

  Parma lies on the Via Emilia, a life-line of immense historical significance. Originally a Roman road, it was devised by Marcus Aemilius Lepidus in 187 B.C., to join the ancient City of Piacenza to Rimini on the Adriatic coast, opening up a major communications and trade route for the Roman empire. At that time Emilia and Romagna were separate regions, linked only by the Via Emilia. For two thousand years they retained their own distinct cultural personalities. For centuries Romagna was part of Rome, the people distinctly Roman in nature, an aloof aristocratic race, reserved, proud, cultured, and very unwilling to allow assimilation of non-Romans into their society. Emilia was comprised of many small colonies providing a more diverse population, considered plebian by the Romans, her people were more open and natural, working a region of plains spread at the feet of the Appenines.

  Despite the union of Emilia and Romagna in 1860, these separate identities of character were never lost. However, the unique blend of cultures, of art, architecture and history, and Epicurean delights have complemented the areas. The Via Emilia became the backbone of the Region, and continues to be a major factor in the economy of Emilia Romagna.

  Exploring cities along its route such as Piacenza, Parma, Modena, and Bologna will reveal the beauty and splendor of different architectural styles. Romanesque cathedrals, Byzantine and Baroche arcaded walls, towers, window forms, brick, rock, stucco colored in every shade of ochre, sepia yellows, bright and dull finishes, new and rich, old and crumbling.

  Venture off the Via Emilia and it is very likely that you will become completely disoriented amongst all this beauty. Foot travel along miles of arcaded walkways through the center of a city such as Bologna, will aid in a complete loss of bearings. City maps are essential if you are ever to find your car again. Unless one has supreme navigational skills, becoming lost in this or any other Italian city is very probable, but the experience is always worthwhile. Even the city maps will not always afford you the opportunity to find your way through a medieval maze of streets, or two way streets indicated on the map last year which will have since become a one way system, causing much confusion and chaos to tourists.

  However, the intrepid Canadian is never deterred. We once drove straight down a no-entry street anyway, even mounting the wide, shady, sidewalk to the blessed relief of an elderly oncoming cyclist. His head twisting like an owl, he watched as we did an amazingly fast and accurate u-turn, considering the traffic and the Plane trees, and sped back past him in the correct direction, smiling sweetly as we did so. Having French license plates on our car made me feel a bit better. He probably thought, “Oh, those mad French,” not knowing that we are Canadians. It is also helpful to be obviously foreign when arriving at the place where five roads converge at a round-about. Being trapped on the inside circle of three or four lanes of traffic, and clipping round and round at sixty kilometers per hour is great fun. Coming to a stop, somewhere in the bowels of Bologna on one of these circles, with a million honking horns behind us, Luigi emerged holding his hands out in a “We’re lost” gesture. From nowhere appeared a policeman, out came the map stretched on the hood of the car and Luigi, in halting French asked for directions. A red lollipop sign was produced and the screaming, honking traffic was brought to a standstill as the policeman cleared a way though it all and we made our escape from the circle of hell.

  Somewhere else in the world all roads lead to Rome but we have since discovered that in this part of the world, all roads lead to the Via Emilia. Asking for directions can be futile but ask for the Via Emilia and everyone knows exactly where it is and will point you immediately in the correct direction.

  The journey back into the present has its eye openers and along this Roman road now dressed in tarmac, parade the prostitutes. Very often black, or of obviously non-Italian origin they stroll along knowing that their seductive yet innocent demeanors will entice customers. I wonder if their income provides the resources to dress and carry themselves with such class, or if they are schooled in the art of fashion and posture? When compared to the women who walk the streets of Vancouver, they are certainly, in my estimation at least, the most elegant and beautiful of their trade.

  Once we are on the Via Emilia, no problem. We are bound to reach Parma, and thence home. Hopefully the sun is shining and we can establish East or West as the case may be. We have been known to head off in the wrong direction, and ten or fifteen kilometers down the road enter a lovely little village, but not the little village we should be entering.

  On one of these occasions we pulled into a square in front of a church to turn around, deciding to stop for a cool break. We parked and went to look inside the church. The cleaning lady was sweeping away and Luigi began to ask her about the history of the church. Not saying a word she held her broom in two hands in front of her, almost in a defensive manner and rushed away through the door off to one side of the altar. A few minutes later a fellow appeared. The most unlikeliest looking priest, he wore a black leather jacket, a
Polo sweater and blue jeans, packing a pistol in a holder on his hip. Behind him came a clone, both drop dead gorgeous and I twigged at that minute that they might be police. The questions began. Who were we? Did we have our passports? Why were we here? What I thought was absolute nonsense, went on for several minutes before Luigi was given the opportunity to explain the who, what and why. Their tense demeanor became a little relaxed as the clone explained that two “Albanese” had just made off with all the gold stuff from the altar. Come to think of it the altar did look a bit bare, dressed only in its pretty lace cover-up, and upon which stood a lonely looking Virgin Mary. Under their guidance and scrutiny we were allowed to look round, all the time being steered towards the door. These men, whom we discovered to be secret police, apologized profusely for their harsh attitude and hoped that it would do nothing to affect their reputation as law enforcers, or our appreciation of their beautiful Country. After we left we had a good chuckle and then debated, as always, the issue of the “Albanese,” the Albanians.

  I never win this discussion. Most Italians whom I know are strong in their belief that the Albanians are responsible for everything bad. Every robbery, assault, car theft is perpetrated by Albanians. It appears these crimes did not exist before the boats began arriving in Bari, bearing these illegal immigrants. Every street vendor is an Albanian selling stolen goods. Every panhandler is an Albanian sucking off society. I have heard it all before at home, where the seasonal influx of transitory fruit pickers into the valley are blamed for petty crimes committed during the picking seasons. Years ago in England, the “foreigners” of Latin decent were blamed for everything, every petty crime imaginable. Luigi himself, at that time a legitimate immigrant to England, was treated like dirt by employers, customers and strangers alike. He had to report to the police station every month with his immigration papers, as did all immigrants. If he did not, the local bobby would arrive at our house on his bicycle to check him out. I am still at a loss to understand this pathetic attitude towards the Albanians, most of whom are desperate to settle into a life of peace and hard work. Those thieves who robbed the church certainly did not leave their calling cards. I have heard many disrespectful remarks from enough Italians about the wealth of the churches to understand that anyone might be capable of such a crime, not necessarily the immigrants. Debating controversial topics with the Italians I know, is a waste of time; their minds are closed to anything but what they perceive to be the facts. What continues to amaze me is how I can fall so easily into the trap of a discussion, which quickly becomes a free for all, like a Canadian political debate. Woe is me, such a glutton for punishment. Familiar names begin to appear on road signs, as we head home once again, with yet another experience to store away for future retrieval in a Canadian winter.