For better or worse, I love to consider myself a veritable man of the people, if you’ll allow. In fact, when asked about my favourite parts of any journey, my typical (and not-condescending-at-all) answer is, “why, the locals, of course!” And genuinely, I am curious about the everyday lives of the inhabitants of any place I find myself, especially here in Italy.
Surrounded by so much natural, historical and architectural beauty and spoiled by centuries of being at the pinnacle of the arts and sciences, it’s no wonder Italians themselves might feel pride in their heritage, if not in their legacy.
The great thing about living in an apartment in a post-war block of flats just barely on the right side of the tracks is that one is able to enjoy all the quirks of living amongst their fellow man. Poor heating, no cooling, squeaky everything, half-pane windows, and ultra-thin walls composed of spackle and bubble gum notwithstanding, my favourite single quirk of living amongst my own fellow man is knowing precisely how anyone feels at any given moment about their aforementioned heritage and legacy.
“Are you sure they’re not fighting?”
Most often, despite a pensive moment and a gentle “no,” I remain unconvinced.
It’s happening right now. Adult mother and son. He a father and she helping with the grandkids, are currently discussing the topic del giorno at the top of their lungs while the kids wail in the background with the same cadence, tenacity and shrill pitch as their doting nonna.
I’m told that the reason we can hear the rest of our building so clearly is because we ourselves don’t make much noise. Mea culpa.
Perhaps I’ll crank up the tunes when the Brescian bulldog downstairs has finished leaving aggressive-aggressive notes on people’s cars and begins vigorously arguing the finer points of where to air one’s dirty laundry late into the evening.
I wonder if there’s enough white whale noise on earth to drown out the Sicilians partying on the patio, in the garage, the stairwell and in their living room with the door open.
Thankfully, one amazing saving grace are our delightful Sri Lankan neighbours downstairs. While having just as much presence in the condo as the others, they are mercifully quiet, yet not any less lively. It’s especially nice for me since some of the adults are also learning Italian, so we can exchange the bits and pieces we know without fear, since we all make the same mistakes. As well, a couple of the guys learned English in school and they miss speaking, so I’ve been lucky to exchange a quiet conversation for some delectable curried delights. The older child seems to get on well in the neighbourhood (I’m definitely not jealous of his accent), and he has so far been willing to accept my poorly worded bicycle adjustment advice (for some reason I just can’t remember all the cycling vocabulary).
Speaking of Sri Lankans and Sicilians and spice (oh my!), I was coming home late one evening when our Sicilian friend manhandled me into his party garage, which just so happened to be filled with our Sri Lankan neighbours and their family and friends. Since the ambience was quite congenial, I sheepishly agreed to stay for a drink to get to know everyone a bit better. I was promptly handed a full plastic cup of gin.
It turns out one of them is quite an accomplished cook and we all enjoyed a taste of what he had brought, which I can’t begin to properly describe, as my memory is a bit gin fizzy, but I do remember it being just great. During this chitchat, of course, without quite realising what was happening, my drink never seemed to shed its shimmering meniscus despite my sustained sipping. Naturally, feeling quite buoyant, it seemed only fair that I should agree to teach our Sicilian friend and his family the entirety of the English language since I had so graciously accepted the offer of a drink.
At first I was a bit nervous. I should want to repay his overwrought and unwelcome hospitality with at least one token lesson of useful phrases, if only to maintain convivial condo living. However, when I approached him the next day in the same garage, now listening to Queen and back at the gin (at least he parties in English!), he had seemed to have completely forgotten!
In fact, when I noted that we had reached an implicit agreement the night before, he took me deeper inside and became quite stern. But how much would it all cost? I reminded him that his debt had been previously prepaid, and we could continue on a quid pro quo basis. Unfortunately, he’s consistently unable to schedule a proper time to meet, so he continues to insist that we have an ad hoc lesson should we encounter each other in the coming days.
We have been successfully avoiding each other for about a month now, both wary of each others’ scams, I suppose.
Until today! Once again I arrived home to see him working in his garage, now on a bicycle that he had rescued. I commented on how it was going to be a nice fixer upper and could probably get a decent return on his investment (the cost of gas to the nearest dumpster?) if he’s good about it. It simply needs new brakes new gears new peddles and a new saddle, which are all words I definitely remember in Italian. Easy peasy! Naturally, I’m an expert and am clearly lusting over this long lost treasure, so he promptly picks up the bike, demands I open my garage, and puts the new relic next to my own. Of course I’m free to use any of his tools at any time and not to be afraid I can just come and go as I please please please prego dai dai.
And now I have a brand new very old foldable bicycle fit for a child.
I’ll keep you posted on the cost.
A Nix in Brixia 