Mamma Mia... That's Life!

by Valerie Barona

  “What’s a pesca?” I’d never come across the word before other than in the context of fishing.

  “It’s like – ‘ow you say? – I know, a sort of lucky dip,” he replied.

  I found out that in actual fact, it wasn’t really a lucky dip at all. You could buy as many tickets as you liked and then, in the church hall, you handed them over to volunteers who found the objects which were stacked on shelves, each with a corresponding number to the tickets sold outside. Supposedly, you were given your matching number – but – if a child came in with a handful of tickets and an expectant smile, only to have won two pairs of extra-large, thick, black tights, a bar of soap, a headscarf, and an empty biscuit tin, these in turn were switched for suitable items or toys. Obviously, such goings-on sent the well-prepared set-up into utter chaos. The more serious volunteers behind the table were thrown into total panic as numbers mysteriously disappeared and they had to use their initiative by giving a substitute gift and behaving as if everything went according to plan. Now and again, sharp looks were given amongst the helpers, answered by helpless shrugs… all very civilised and all very Italian.

  People involved in the festival organised games, weather permitting. One year, someone lent out their guinea pigs for the afternoon’s entertainment. Children chose a numbered bucket and if a guinea-pig ran into it, they won a prize. Both Alex and Elisa came home with a prize and a smile. There was also a sack race and a tug of war for the children. A tall tree near the church, provided amusement for the men: they strung a salami high up in the boughs and had to guess the height.

  “It’s got to be 4 metres at the most.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s not less than 5 metres.” The arguing and raised voices were all part of the fun. The winner usually cut it into slices there and then and shared it out with homemade bread which one of the older women baked for the occasion. One of the farmers donated a huge, round cheese which people had to hold and then guess the weight. Again, the winner, if from the parish, put it together with the salami and offered a spuntino to anyone who was peckish. However, should the prize go to a Milanese, then the cheese was carefully wrapped up and taken home. Just by looking at the forlorn faces of the contestants who had lost, perhaps only by one ounce or two, you could almost hear such comments as: what a waste of a good cheese!

  At 5pm, all activities stopped for the lottery which proved to be a very serious business. The prizes were always good quality, donated mostly by local shops, and the first three consisted of an electrical appliance of some sort, for example, a television or microwave or washing-machine, a coffee table or a dinner service, a set of suitcases or a bicycle.

  “Wow,” I whispered to Michele. “If you were the winner at my church fete at home, you’d get a bottle of wine and box of chocolates.”

  “Ssh, it’s about to start,” he replied as lottery tickets were pulled out of pockets and wallets, reading glasses appeared and a group of young children were chosen to pull the winning numbers out of the bag.

  A round of applause followed each prize and the tension grew as the last three numbers were called, then, all too soon, it was over and time to say goodbye. The organisers cleared away and the priest gave them a hand. Comments were made on the amount of money collected and whether more people had turned up this year than the last. We made our way back to Michele’s family’s house and the conversation during the evening meal was about who we had spoken to, and who had won a lottery prize and how Zia Alma had a winning streak because she always won something and Gina had won three prizes and it wasn’t really fair to the others… and we didn’t see the Barona cousins from Nuova Olonio, wonder why they hadn’t come. The more excited they became, the louder they spoke. I still had to get used to the fact that no-one waited for the speaker to finish before replying, but everyone had their say regardless.

  *

  Over the past twelve years, together with four other women, I’ve been helping to clean the church on a regular basis and have become a fervent member of the group preparing for the June festival.

  “Sembra un po’ sporco,” Lory said one year, inspecting the statue which had been placed on a table near the altar ready for the following Sunday.

  “E’ meglio se lo pulisco.” And off she went to get a damp cloth.

  Looking at the statue more closely, it did seem a bit dusty so while Lory cleaned Sant’ Antonio, we got on with our chores. All of a sudden, we heard a shout.

  “Oh no, la tunica è diventata rigata,” Lory said. The rest of us couldn’t help laughing as we saw that the brown tunic now sported fashionable stripes at the side.

  “Meno male che abbiamo tempo di metterla a posto,”she added. “Sono sicura che ho un po’ di pittura marrone a casa.”

  I still had to learn that all good Italian housewives had not only a mini pharmacy at home but also a D.I.Y. kit containing anything and everything. In my case, I was lucky to find a tube of glue and some Sellotape. Half an hour later, Lory had finished painting and we stood back admiring Sant’ Antonio’s make-over. He in turn, looked down on us benevolently, as if to say: No one will ever know.

  Since my initiation into the circle of helpers, every May, armed with papers from the priest authorising our appeal, I joined Lory and two other women on our quest for lottery and lucky dip prizes. This involved trips to Sondrio, Morbegno and Colico and although I hated the idea of asking for free items, the generosity of the shop owners never failed to amaze me.

  On one occasion, my sister, Diane came over the week we’d decided to go to Sondrio and so she joined the party. She watched, fascinated, as we went from shop to shop asking for items for the church festival and couldn’t believe how many bags of various articles we accumulated.

  “It’s incredible,” she said. “People are so kind.”

  “I know, we’re really lucky. Our lottery and lucky dip are the best in the area. Everyone talks about the prizes.”

  The five of us had an ice cream before struggling back to the car with our goods. It usually took us a while to pack everything in the car and it was no different on this particular occasion.

  “I never thought you’d get all that in the boot,” Diane was suitably impressed.

  We settled into the back seat with the remaining bags at our feet and discussed which places we still had to go to in Morbegno. We hadn’t gone far before a police car caught up with us. From where I was sitting, I could see them in the wing mirror. Wanting to, they had the chance to overtake us but they didn’t. Lory looked in the rear mirror and caught my eye. She looked up again and then checked the speedometer.

  “No, non sto superando il limite di velocità,” she said, “Allora, ci stanno davvero inseguendo?”

  “What’s the matter?” my sister asked.

  “Nothing, it’s okay.” I tried to put Diane’s mind at rest but she sensed that something was wrong.

  Twisting round, she saw the Carabinièri car at a distance.

  “Are they following us?” she demanded.

  “Of course not, have they set their flashing blue light in action and waved us down to stop?” I wanted to make light of the matter but at the back of my mind I couldn’t help but wonder whether it was a coincidence or not.

  “A Morbegno, giro a sinistra e andiamo a Dolce Forno,” she said, having noted that the police car had been behind us since leaving Sondrio.

  Diane naturally expected a translation so I told her we were going to turn left at Morbegno and go to the Dolce Forno Bar for a drink. As we went round the roundabout and took the exit on the left, so did the police car.

  “Ci stanno seguendo sul serio,” I joked and the others laughed – except Diane who was too busy craning her neck to see who was behind us.

  “I have to get the flight home tomorrow,” she said when she realised the police were still there. All of a sudden, she had visions of bein
g locked up in a small cell until her case came to trial – and what would her case be? Aiding and abetting the locals collecting for Sant’Antonio? She shivered despite the warm May afternoon.

  “Don’t worry, you will,” I assured her, not in the least bit worried. Having lived in the Valtellina for nearly thirty years, I considered myself a veteran where Italian drama was concerned. However, as Lory parked the car and the Italian police stopped directly behind us, we stopped smiling as the seriousness of the situation hit us. One of the uniformed officers walked up to the car door and opened it, while the other stood a short distance away, watching us. Now what was going to happen…and more to the point, how would we explain the contents of the boot and the overflowing bags of brand new articles for the lucky dip and the lottery at our feet?

  “Buongiorno,” Lory said getting out of the car. “Ho fatto qualcosa di sbagliato?”

  “Buongiorno. Patente e libretto, grazie.” Without answering her question as to whether she’d done something wrong, he asked to see her driving licence and log book and then went to speak to his colleague. We decided to join Lory and with difficulty, we managed to extricate ourselves without revealing the bags and watched in silence as one of the officers made a phone call.

  “Chissà cosa vogliono,” Milena said. At that moment, we all wanted to know what they wanted.

  “Ma non abbiamo fatto niente di male,” Anita reasoned, but knowing we hadn’t done anything wrong still didn’t help.

  After what seemed an eternity, the police officer returned the papers to Lory and explained that they were looking for a grey Passat just like hers but the phone call he’d made confirmed that the last letter of the number plate was different.

  With a curt: “Buongiorno”, the police climbed into their car and drove off. We visibly relaxed.

  “Sorry I didn’t explain what was happening,” I apologised to my white-faced sister.

  “I don’t need a translation, I need a stiff drink!” Diane whispered as we made our way into the bar.

  “Chiedi a tua sorella se si è divertita questo pomeriggio e se verrà ancora,” Anita asked, but Diane had already got the gist of it and managed a small laugh.

  “Yes, I enjoyed it until the episode with the police and no, I don’t think I’ll be coming with you again. Once is quite enough.”

  I somehow got the impression that there would be no tearful goodbyes when she left the next day.

  25

  Grannyland!

  After our impromptu holiday in Rome with Dina and Angelo, they asked us if we’d like to go to the Adriatic coast with them the following year. We accepted without hesitating. I still missed the sea terribly and despite Michele’s attempts at counteracting my Baker Moments by taking me to Lake Como, it couldn’t compete with Sandbanks or the Dorset coastline. Our week by the sea was the first of our annual summer holidays together.

  To date, Michele and I had only gone for a weekend on the Adriatic coast one April with our friends who had a house in one of the Lidos and the weather hadn’t been warm enough to actually spend time on the beach or in the water. Instead, we had whizzed along the coastal roads on bikes enjoying the sea air and scenery, visiting places of interest. This time, we booked into a family hotel in Igea Marina in August which faced the Adriatic Sea.

  “Wow, we’ve even got sun-loungers and an umbrella,” I said to Michele as we walked over to find our bagnino who was in charge of our comfort as well as our safety.

  “Ben arrivati, sono Daniele,” he smiled as he showed us to our places and told us to ask him if there was anything we needed.

  “Ciao, grazie,” we answered. Daniele couldn’t have been more helpful.

  I remembered Michele telling me years ago when we were sitting on the beach at Eastbourne one afternoon that in Italy beaches were private and only small areas of sand were left for any non-paying visitors.

  Rows of sun-loungers stretched along the beach under multi coloured umbrellas and the gentle lapping of the waves rolled in from the horizon. Sheer bliss! Each bagno had a name and number with a play area for children and a strip of sand cordoned off for bowling to keep the adults amused. While Michele and Angelo competed in friendly bowling tournaments, Dina and I went for long walks in the water, chatting about anything and everything. Then we’d relax on our sun beds and chat some more.

  “Cocco bello! Cocco bello!” A shrill voice cut through the air and I jumped inadvertently, wondering what was happening.

  A tanned young man came into sight strolling along the sea edge holding a wicker basket laden with slices of coconut, a watchful eye for any customers and a ready wink for bikini-clad females.

  “Cocco bello! Cocco bello!” he called out again before disappearing from view.

  “In England, they sell ice creams,” I told Dina.

  “Ah.” She didn’t seem too impressed: what was ice cream compared to fresh coconut?

  Our hotel was a family concern and we couldn’t fault the quality of the food or the attentiveness of the staff. However, I have to admit to being fascinated by the behaviour of the guests when it came to the self-service buffet before the waiters served the meal we had previously ordered.

  “Look, it’s like a race to see who reaches the plates first,” I whispered to Michele as an elderly woman deliberately elbowed me out of her way.

  Then I watched another spritely pensioner delve into each dish on display.

  “Goodness, that woman is never going to eat all that!” I stared blatantly at the amount of food piled onto her plate.

  “Maybe she ‘as a big appetite,” Michele reasoned. “Don’t forget we are by the sea.”

  “Well, that would be my lunch not my starter – sea or no sea.”

  When the hotel changed hands, we moved farther down the coast to Bellaria where we found another very good hotel and here, Dina had to practice self-control to the full. We all teased her when it came to the dessert trolley. She had an extremely sweet tooth and had great difficulty choosing just one. The Riviera Romagna is well-known for its characteristic dishes and in this particular place, every week there was a menu based on the specialities of the area with a large selection of mouth-watering desserts.

  “Guardate che bontà!” she said, ecstatically.

  I taught her the phrase: Food, glorious food!

  Every morning, we joined a group of keen women on the beach for three quarters of an hour to practise Ginnastica dolce. I wouldn’t have described all of the exercises as being exactly gentle but I enjoyed the challenge and I loved the choice of music. Our young instructor’s enthusiasm proved contagious and at the end of the week, we all decided that our bodies had definitely become more toned and tanned. Just before lunch, the girl in charge of the Baby Club, organised the Baby Dance which delighted grannies as well as children, and Dina and I took part, happy in the knowledge that our children and grandchildren couldn’t see us. Swaying to the left and to the right in the water, splashing each other as we tried desperately to copy the various actions, we laughed and giggled our way through the songs. Most evenings there was some sort of entertainment in the hotel but the four of us preferred to go for a walk into town to see the market stalls and watch the street entertainers.

  After a week of relaxing in the warm sun under a crystal blue sky, we came home happy and ready to work. I prepared English lessons for my ever increasing number of students and became more familiar with modern technology. I tried teaching English to Dina but if it didn’t have anything to do with the Beatles, she forgot it immediately.

  *

  When my aunt and her friend went to Lake Garda for a week, I suggested driving down to see them.

  “Do you want to come with me?” I asked Michele.

  “I would, certainly but I ‘ave to work.”

  “I know, I’ll ask Dina. She’ll come.”

  Sh
e readily accepted the invitation as she’d never been there before and like me, was excited at the prospect of a day trip. We discussed the route suggested by Google Maps and printed off the directions – how I had managed to function without a pc and the Internet up till now I’ll never know – and we ignored the general reaction from the family and friends.

  “Won’t you get lost?”

  “Will you be alright driving on the motorway?”

  I reminded them that I’d been doing airport runs for years, including English airports, and had driven various members of the family to Switzerland and back.

  We had a smooth journey and Dina proved to be an excellent navigator and typical backseat driver. She made sure I kept my eyes on the road.

  “Watch out! There’s a lorry in front.”

  “Yes, I know.” I had trouble keeping a straight face. No way could I not see the juggernaut.

  “I’ll overtake if you like.”

  “Sì, sì. Ah, now I can see the motorway signs. We turn off at the next junction.”

  We had no problem finding Malcesine and the hotel where my aunt and her friend were staying and we thoroughly enjoyed our day in Lake Garda.

  *

  I loved my role as Granny and naturally, I spoke English to Giulia and Fabio, which caused a few raised eyebrows but I was more than used to it by now, and although my grandchildren, when younger, answered in Italian, they understood everything I said. If anything, as the years slid by, I was busier than ever and when my family came over to visit, they invariably met some of the students either at the house or when we went out and about.

  It would have been impossible to get bored teaching because I had a varied assortment of students: some still went to school, others worked and needed English for their job, and then there were retired people who wanted to learn the English language for their holidays abroad. Several students are unforgettable for different reasons: one attractive woman in her twenties invariably got the day wrong – sometimes she came for a lesson a day early and other times a day late. Once she walked in and said: