In Love With Emilia

by Virginia Gabriella Ferrari

  Another memorable “lost” occasion occurred two years ago. We had strayed far from the Via Emilia out into the hot flat plains. We came to a village snuggled round the feet of a castle, and drove round for awhile trying to find somewhere shady and quiet to have our usual picnic. The castle was private and closed and the streets although shady offered no space to park. Luigi stopped an elderly man on his bicycle to ask if there might be a park somewhere close by where we could have our picnic. Without hesitation he shouted, “Venite con me,” as he sped away on his bike. We followed along, at the speed of sound it seemed, amazed at how fast his little old legs were pedaling. Round the corner, down a narrow street, out through the archway of the city walls, down the little hill, through some poplars to a beautiful park stretched along the shore of the sparkling river. Tons of parking, and not a person in sight. Perfect! We beeped our thanks to the cyclist and began a leisurely hour of eating, paddling and poking around across the road through another archway in to the old town.

  There are also those “losts” of stupidity. Men who refuse to take maps because they know the way! Men who drive round and round in circles, unable to admit they are lost, pride not allowing them to ask for directions. It has to be a man thing; I have heard so many women say they have had the same experiences. That is not to say women cannot get lost, but we have no hesitation in admitting it and asking for help or stopping to dig out the maps.

  After reading an announcement in the paper about a Ferrari car show in a small town called Traversatolo, an hour or so away, according to the map that we did not need, which remained on the kitchen table, we left in high spirits. It became obvious to me after at least an hour on the road that we were lost. Surely the cartographer had not just popped the little black dot onto the map for fun, although I was beginning to wonder if the place existed. I suggested we stop and ask for directions, but no, we would still be able to find this elusive place. Having controlled my exasperation as we drove hither and thither, crisscrossing back and forth what seemed to be most of Northern Italy, I shut the pleasant-agreeable wife in the glove compartment and allowed the aggressive-impatient me to leap from the car as we drove slowly past a café. In my best Italian, I asked where was the Ferrari show? The magic word Ferrari unleashed a stream of incomprehensible directions from every young man at the café. Before Luigi had time to respond to my not so polite request to get out of the bloody car and come and talk to these bloody kids, a delightful young man mounted his gorgeous bright red motor bike and indicated we should follow him. We did, in atmospheric silence, heading out of the village and down a long straight road dividing beautiful fields of poppies and wild flowers and unmown grasses. In the distance I could see a wooded area. As we neared the trees the lovely boy pointed to a huge wrought iron gate and then zoomed away to be swallowed by the red poppy fields. We could now see a gravel area where some vehicles were parked so we stopped there.

  Walking through the gorgeous great gates we came into the most beautiful grounds. Acres of green manicured parkland surrounded a beautiful villa. Huge cedars with trunks as big as houses spread their boughs of dark green in huge lacy fans layered round and up the monstrous trees. Beautiful rose gardens set out among little hedges. Statues of angels and Venuses and Davids and Gods and Goddesses were set here and there throughout the grounds. Peacocks and pea hens stepped softly and elegantly on the grass. White doves and mourning doves cooed in the trees and walked among the peacocks. It was all just too beautiful for words. In front of the great Villa Corte de Mamiano, lay a spectacle of scarlet red Ferraris, as elegant as the peacocks wandering among them. The whole scene appeared to present itself in slow motion. People walked slowly round the cars, stopping often to ponder over these beauties. Even the few children were composed and well behaved. It was all quite surreal. Sixty years of sleek, glistening, scarlet machines in complete harmony with the 18th century architectural beauty as their backdrop. I was in heaven.

  Long before I attained the last name of Ferrari, I loved cars. My father was the first person on our street to have a car and he would take my friend and me for rides. I always felt so proud, sitting in the back seat like the queen. I would practice emulating Queen Mary, King George’s mother, as she would be driven past the end of our street in her coach up to Cliveden. She would wave to the little people gathered along the way. I had that wave down pat. I cannot imagine what people thought as I graciously acknowledged my subjects. When my father had business at the local car dealership I would spend hours looking round the showroom. I knew every make and model on the roads. As I grew up my passion for cars continued and I dreamed of owning something sleek and fast. Lack of money, mortgages, children, common sense prevailed, until my sleek, black “midlife crisis” sat in my Canadian driveway. Unfortunately it did not sit there for long. I generously allowed a few select others to drive my gorgeous sports car. The last driver, my son, planted it firmly beneath a semi. My son was very contrite, but at the point of viewing the wreck, I was thankful the air bag had worked for him.

  We spent a long time looking at the Ferraris. It seemed inappropriate to talk or make any noise as the other onlookers walked in worshipful manner among their scarlet gods. The Villa called us and we mounted the wide stone steps up to the area in front of the open doors, crossing the wide balcony stretched out to each side rimmed with an ornate marble balustrade. Statues stood here and there among huge potted oleanders and magnolias. From the huge vestibule, a circular marble stairway curved up from each side to the second floor level. In the center of the vestibule stood a massive stone font and I wondered how any priest could reach inside let alone pop a baby in to be baptized. Signs indicating a specific route to follow for a self-guided tour of the Villa sent us off through a high squared arch. Our next hour was spent in peaceful awe as we encountered several salons lined with beautiful 17th and 18th century paintings. We continued to roam through the villa and dream of what life must have been like for the residents of this beautiful place. I will often stroke walls or banisters as I explore these places, imagining the generations of those who went before me.

  Time was passing too quickly and before we knew it was time to have lunch. Outside we looked for a place to have our picnic, finding several cool concrete benches surrounding an outdoor courtyard, where elegant people sat at tables set with linen and crystal, the Ferrari logo prominent on menus and napkins, these were the elite. They definitely would not ask the price of the car when they buy a Ferrari. Our humble picnic would not fit in among this lot so we slunk off into the grounds and enjoyed the company of glorious shimmering peacocks as we ate our torte d’erbe and focaccia.

  Somewhat reluctantly we left this dreamlike place, driving home through the countryside, passing the old farm houses and beautiful villas at the end of long tree-lined driveways heralded by old pillars and huge iron gates or crumbling ancient archways. Many pillars are topped with the familiar “pineapple” a traditional sign of welcome. The little villages and towns were quiet, the afternoon shutdown in progress, benches occupied by the old folk watching the world pass by their doorsteps.

  Driving through the Taro valley, we follow the same route each time but the opposite side of the valley always intrigues us. The ever present churches dot the hillsides, little red roofs, some in clusters, others lonely farm houses, disappear from view behind the hill crests into the numerous valleys that drop down to the river. We often plan to find a road across the river which we can follow to explore the villages on the other side of the valley, especially the old ruined castle that appears to stand alone on an island in the river. Someone, once upon a time, must have found a way over there. But of course, we have to save some adventures for other times.

  * * *

  A great challenge is still to come as we begin our ascent up to Rovinaglia, the villagers’ only lifeline to the world. I have driven thousands and thousands of miles all over Europe and North America but for several years I fully expected to p
ass from this world to the next on the road to Rovinaglia. Whenever I meet the milk truck or the garbage truck I imagine being dispensed to greener pastures as we both try to pass on a road only wide enough for one. Meeting, as always, on a tight precipitous bend, never on a straight stretch with a nice firm field to steer into, I can see myself hurtle away over the edge like Thelma and Louise. Hopefully on the way back from town, then at least I would have had my cappuccino. Over the years, as we made our first trip up the road each spring or summer, the pathetic repairs to the surface were evident. A mickey-mouse effort is all the “Lavori Pubblici” (the Public Works department) need to keep the villagers happy it seemed. The same men in their orange overalls fix the same potholes every spring. Their shovels dispense dobs of tarmac from the truck into each hole, pat it down and move onto the next one. By the time September rolls around the potholes have reappeared, grown and sprouted lots of babies nearby. Always starting at the bottom of the six-kilometer stretch of road, the budget seems to evaporate at km three and from there onwards continues the bone rattling obstacle course to the top. Negotiating the potholes is akin to running an obstacle course. Night driving is a fun filled experience trying to follow an unlit and unlined zig-zag through the black-as-pitch night. Knowing that the few guard rails so kindly installed eons ago have sunk below road level due to constant land erosion or have completely disappeared over a drop-off, adds to one’s feeling of security and well-being! If the powers that be allot a few million more lire than usual, then the two men in their orange overalls will multiply by two. A more concentrated effort will then be made to shore up a few crumbling edges and add a bit more tarmac to small holes which might otherwise have been ignored. Some nice white lines will even be painted along the edges, below the winter fog level, of course, enabling drivers to see the edges at night. And, of course, repaving when it does occur runs out at km three with a distinct bump. We once suggested to one of the workers that should they ever reach Rovinaglia we would share a bottle of wine with them to celebrate. We also wondered if the Mayor lived at Km three.

  Listening to the villagers complain about the condition of the last part of the road and listening to Guiliana ranting about the dangers of driving in the perpetual winter fog and not being able to see the edges of the road, we were at a loss to understand why they did not represent themselves at a council meeting and convey their concerns. “Oh, shoosh, shoosh, no, you can’t do that,” they would say. “The Communale would never listen. They would stop garbage collection up here. They would send spies to catch us chopping trees or picking mushrooms. Oh no, no, we don’t want any trouble.” I almost expected someone to suggest they did not want to have to pay protection money. All this paranoia exhibited by the villagers was so alien to us. The city council are just people, like them, no better, no worse. Our frustration at their attitudes led us to an interesting encounter with “the powers that be” at City Hall. We decided one day to drop into the town hall and found the mayor’s office up many flights of stairs and through dark dreary hallways. Luigi’s theory was if you can drop by to see our mayor at home then why not in Borgotaro. Why not indeed?

  Penetrating the inner sanctum proved to be somewhat akin to breaking down the city walls. An hour-long wait, spiced with wars of words with several different minions and lesser souls, resulted in penetrating the protective wall of the mayor’s secretary’s office. Another polite but lengthy discussion with the secretary, explaining the situation went on and on. Undaunted, Luigi pressed on with his polite but insistent demands. We never did establish the breakthrough point, but visibly deflated, the secretary finally phoned into the Mayor’s office and Luigi was admitted to the big man’s inner sanctum.

  Does the mayor live on the Rovinaglia road? No he does not. Has he ever driven the road? No he has not. Does he even know such a place exists? Well, yes of course he does, but he is a busy man. He has a budget with which to work, and there is so much infrastructure within the town to be maintained and repaired, where will he find the money to repair the Rovinaglia road? “The same place you found it to pave the road all the way to Albaretto,” a wealthy little community on the other side of the hill from Rovinaglia, suggests Luigi. “The same place you found it to pave the road up to San Vincenzo church.” (The church where the priest lives). A promise to drive up to Rovinaglia was extracted from the Mayor and we left. Doubting that he would ever follow through, we were quite prepared to make a few visits to his office until something was done. We never told anyone about our little crusade for fear of unleashing the wrath of goddess Meri upon our shoulders, but a few days later, much to our surprise, a small bus was seen in the area. Important looking men in suits exited, stood, looked, re-boarded and left. The word was out. The stories, fed and nourished by the villagers’ outrageous ideas about what this all meant. Someone said they even saw an Uzi disguised beneath a long black trench coat! It could not get more ridiculous but we kept quiet and enjoyed the different stories. I wondered how long it would take for this story to grow beyond all comparison, how many versions might be created in the minds of the villagers?

  Within a week, the work crews were out. Starting this time at the church, they worked their way down the road. By the time we left in August the repairs were almost completed. Except for one hazardous corner known for the last hundred years as “la cava”, the quarry, because the whole corner just drops away into a precipitous rock fall. The road to Rovinaglia was repaired, if not repaved, being somewhat smoother and safer to negotiate. The white side lines were, however, only completed to the San Vincenzo turn-off, which of course gave our beautiful niece the wonderful opportunity to complain again about how useless the City was, because from there to Rovinaglia, the last two kilometers is where the winter fog is like pea soup. Of course, the paint crews did it deliberately to irk her. She works at the Justice of the Peace office, so she should know.

  A stop at the flower shop was in order as Luigi made a trip to town about two weeks later. I am sure he felt a twinge of guilt as he presented a lovely bouquet to the women in the town hall office. He thought he had been a bit hard on them but whether he had or not, the flowers generated lots of happiness. The orange-overalled workmen are still waiting for their wine. A similar situation occurred two years ago when Luigi was applying for the necessary papers to buy a car. The rigmarole, red tape, and attitudes of one or two people were somewhat annoying. To calm the troubled waters, he returned the next day with flowers. From then on, business conducted in that particular department has been a breeze. Flowers are a cheap and legal form of bribery! A way of life in Italy that still exists despite vehement denials from those on the receiving end. In any event the lifeline to the outside world continues to be quite well maintained.

  The end of our holiday approached. A hitch had occurred with the document signing for the land. When the papers were submitted to the City Hall, confusion arose as to why Nona’s name was still on the tax role. Also Roberto had the bright idea that if his brothers’ and sister’s names were also included on the documents, the taxes would be split six ways on the land. A good idea, but why had no one thought of it before? Off we went back to Canada, owning the lovely little house, but still no land on which to step from the bottom of the patio stairs.

  CHAPTER VII

  2001

  The coffee was tepid and the snack was a ham sandwich to which I succumbed, my strong vegetarian principles going by the wayside, I was hungry. We were sitting on hard chairs in a freezing cold parkade for what seemed like hours. Tarps hung from the concrete ceiling and between each concrete pillar, billowing in the cold wind, and as far as the eye could see there were hundreds of people sectioned into groups of about sixty or seventy, waiting patiently for their flights out of Heathrow. Our return trip to Canada had been snarled and complicated by the tragedy in New York on September 11, 2001. Having been delayed because Canadian and United States air space was closed, we had been rescued by my brother and stayed in Kent for five day
s awaiting available seats. Now the attendants were handing out blankets and I greedily took two and made a pillow with one, which I stuck behind my freezing, bald head against a pillar. I achieved some degree of relaxation, shutting my eyes and picturing my beautiful Emilia. If all the pictures, photos, drawings, postcards were piled up and burned, nothing could ever destroy the rich images in my mind of Emilia’s beauty and grace, people and architecture, her rolling fields of scarlet poppies and wild flowers, the power of her gorgeous mountains and the grandeur of the Po, winding its way at first quietly then hugely through Emilia, my forever love. I drifted back to that moment in time two months earlier, when we arrived in Italy for what has become almost a yearly pilgrimage.