I Live in Southern Italy
Sunday Sept 7th, 2008
Greek Amphitheatre, Sicily
...in the auditoriuuuuuuum. Hold me Closer Tony Danzahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Today was Sicily day. I have been looking forward to going to Sicily pretty much my entire life. One word of advice if you visit the place of your boyhood dreams (read this in the regal voice of a knight), when one goes hence to bring to realization to one’s much anticipated fantasy; bring not thy bitching father and uncle.
What I had envisioned as a deep and dedicated journey into the depth of Sicily such as D.H. Lawrence and a butt load of other legendary authors have experienced was kind of like a family trip to Sizzler. First of all, we took the ferry across with the car. It is very close to Grotteria, and in about an hour and a half we were in Sicily. While in the Ferry, my father insisted that the pastries in Sicily were LEGENDARY and that I should eat one on the Ferry. I've had nowhere near the experience of Europe my father has, but it seems in my slight experience I have somewhere picked up the knowhow that food off a truck, or off a boat cafeteria isn't of the proper elk shall we say that is indicative of the urban cuisine. I of course got sick choking down the week old crap my father pushed upon me.
Mount Etna, Sicily
I don't want to come across as a spoiled brat, stomping his foot because his pony doesn't fit in his new Porsche - I mean, I of course DID get a free trip to Sicily - but if this blog isn't a way to flex my sarcastic skills then what is it? My father complained it was too hot every two minutes. My father who GREW UP in Italy. My uncle has some sort of foot problem and can't climb mountains, walk down roads, wear shoes, breath, or see an advertisement that contains feet without it causing him pain. We were in Sicily for three hours. Two of which were spent in an overpriced tourist trap where they must save their love for when you order only the most expensive of menu items - because the waiter was an asshole.
Also, to my increasing annoyment, we were surrounded by Americans. Here I am in SICILY in ITALY and I didn't hear one person speaking Italian except my father, my uncle and my cousin. I like Americans. I have some American friends. Sometimes I even choke it down when people accidently mistake me for one. But if I have to listen to one more person talk about how far the pool is from their room, how the bread isn't as good as last time they came, or carry out a conversation across an ancient Greek amphitheatre with their morbidly obese aunt rose who's fanny pack is hidden by her belly flap which is covered by a white "Who Farted?" t-shirt about how this reminds them of that episode of “Who’s the Boss?” where they went to Sicily and Tony said "Eh Oh, Oh Eh" in the same amphitheatre and it could be heard all around the Island (Joe who is now quite worked up pulls paper bag to mouth in order to fend off a stroke).
Figurines, museo archeologico nazionale, Reggia, Italy
So my time in Sicily was short and I can't really say I SAW it. What I saw of it was full of Americans, souvenir shops, and DEEP underneath the charm of a province that was once the jewel of the Greeks, the Arabs, the Spanish and pretty much ANYONE who felt like invading it. The beaches are very nice, but just as nice in Grotteria where no one will try and talk to you about Tony Danza. I hear there is a volcano there, but in the words of someone who shall remain nameless "It's hot, it's probably hotter up there and my feet are killing me".
Bronze Athletes, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Reggia, Italy
To save my sanity I suggested we see the Bronze Warriors on display in the museum in Reggia (which is directly across from Sicily). One thing I don't quite understand about the Ancient Romans - why did they make so much broken pottery? Is that what ended up destroying them? They died of thirst and disease from picking the food up off the floor? The museum is truly terrible. There are hand written notes (Seriously) throughout with IOU's for important skeletons, ancient weaponry, heads of statues, and anything else any public library has asked them to borrow. The bronze statues in the basement are quite incredible. If you don't know about them, they were found about 20 years ago by a scuba diver very near where my father grew up and they are two of the most well preserved, and ORIGINAL, examples of Greek Bronze statues ever found. With all Italy has, these statues have captured the hearts of Southern Italy.
Unamused decapitated Head, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Reggia, Italy
As we left I was treated by a very fast drive by of some fascinating Roman and Greek archeology sites as I went “WOW - oh Neat! That would be pretty amazing to stop and photograph". Eventually they did pull over - for some gelato. I held my breath till I turned purple because my gelato was a large and not a super large with a brownie and cherry.
Saturday September 6th, 2008
Broken Mechanical Watch, Italy
I found a Junk Drawer from 60 years ago containing - - 60 Year old Junk!
I decided to give myself the task of finding, cataloging, scanning and restoring all of the family photos that were in my Nonno's house. The photos are not in photo albums. The photos are ALL over the house and mostly in junk drawers. He had lots of crap in there so it isn't an easy task - we are talking at LEAST 60 years of papers. He had fix-it projects like broken watches, broken door handles that I'm sure he meant to get around to fixing in the 1970s. He also had LOTS of papers from war, letters which span over a century, documents from the Italian fascist party, bank statements, erotic photos (fully clothed) and HUNDREDS of pieces of scrap paper with phone numbers scribbled on.
Broken Alarm Clock (from China but photographed in Italy - by a Canadian who was living in Ireland)
I think of back home in my junk drawer and wonder if anyone would care enough to go through all of my old plays I wrote in elementary school about Freddie Kruger. My Nonno also wrote poetry, songs - but many of them of other people's so it is difficult for me to discern if any of them are original. They are also in Italian - did I mention I don't speak Italian. Well if I didn't, then just know that I do NOT speak Italian. It makes things quite a bit harder.
My father has very little interest in old things. My fascination for all the old broken, abandoned crap everywhere seems to frustrate my father to no end. Whenever I find what I consider a priceless treasure he screams "You are NOT bringing that garbage into my house!" What he doesn't know is that I am going to stuff his sweaters with old Italian Charlie Brown Cartoons before he leaves.
Erotic Photo (1970), Package for razors (1945)
There definitely isn't anything that anyone would consider valuable among his possessions. To me the only thing of value are the old War photos of my grandfather and the decaying Black and White photos of my family. Even if there WAS a mattress stuffed with TONS of money in it, it would be in old Italian Currency which is worth less than the stuffing that would have been in the mattress in the first place. I did find a snazzy suit jacket that fits me well. In his day my Nonno must have been my height and weight because all of his clothing fits me perfectly.
Italian Facist Registration Form (1941), IOU List (1938)
If anyone wants to go through HUGE piles of junk, may I make a suggestion? Bring gloves. I feel so gross after going through all those old papers thinking one of them might have an envelope full of polio or something. Why my Nonno would keep an envelope full of polio would be anyone's guess. He did have a number of combs - even though he has been bald since "I love Mussolini" t-shirts were cool.
Germany, Italian Prisoners of War (1945)
One thing that interests me is that there is a box of keys. I suspect that they are German in origin. Furthermore I have deduced that in Germany somewhere beneath the floor of a former church is a dusty oak chess with elaborate carvings that is FULL of even BIGGER keys which fit together to form a MAP. Now this map is of course in Latin, PIG Latin - so you must reassemble the words BACK into Italian and this leads to a museum where two Roman soldiers are preserved under glass. One of those soldiers is a FAKE because he is looking to the left and soldiers of room NEVER look to the left and when you take off his shield and hold it up to moonlight in Venice it contains an IOU for some Parmesan. Parmesan used to be VERY VERY expensive. My father says the keys are for a 500 Fiat that is rusting out back, but I KNOW BETTER!
Luigi Fuda with Son Rocco
(Between 1935-1938)
Friday September 5th, 2008
Neighbor/Old Lady, Grotteria, Italy
The truth is rarely pure and never simple – Oscar Wilde
I finally did it! I used an Oscar Wilde quote as the header of today's blog. Now I am fit to write a grade 10 essay or belong to those cannon of writers who tell chicks they write to pick up more chicks. Honestly I love Oscar Wilde, and I wish that in my lifetime I can have at least ONE of the insights that he pumped out on a daily basis.
I REALLY did nothing today. I went on a road trip with my cousin to a car dealership far out of town so he could tune up his mini cooper and sat there for three hours, then came home, ate and I went to sleep. Despite great efforts on my part I could not bring forth the effort in 6 hours to unzip my camera bag and TRY to get some photos out of my trip. I was in the sort of coma most people experience daily called extreme boredom. I thought how odd it is that extreme boredom perpetuates itself - but then I did nothing with that profound thought. I probably surfed through a good majority of the 80 gigs of music on my iPod, which I'm sure is an accomplishment to some people.
What I decided to contribute in way of a blog today are various quotes and interesting thoughts I picked up in some of my readings along with photos I have taken in the last week here in Italy. I found it interesting how many of the photos I have of children where they are holding guns. I tried my best at 12pm at night to pick out things that somehow make a commentary on human psychology because those things go very well with photos of children with guns.
Kid with Gun, Grotteria, Italy
People often forget that I have an honors B.S. in psychology - including me. To be honest I joined up on the psychology bandwagon because I am very interested in people and I thought maybe it would help me understand them. What I came to understand after 4 years is that psychology has no better grasp of human nature then a very good writer of fiction. To me, people who work with people ultimately understand people. In my opinion, if there is any hope in psychology actually delivering on its promise of understanding people it is in neuroscience and the study of the cocktail of chemicals and physiology that is truly unique to each of us. Also I would like to add how frustrating it was reading about all sorts of experiments performed 50 years ago that were crucial to our understanding of human psychology but which could never be replicated because they are immoral and wrong - but hey look how much we learned!
Now for a sort of introduction to some of these quotes; I usually am more interested in the insight then the person who says them. I thought of some of them myself, but some I don't remember if I did. I am SURE someone has made these observations before me, so you can just as easily reference someone else because it is possible I stole them. If there are any in here you particularly like, just reference me or George Carlin, or Garfield.
Cousin Orlando with Gun, Grotteria, Italy
“The most monstrous of monster is the monster with noble feelings” – Dostoevsky
Humans are the only species that can inflict pain from afar. - Me
Philosophy is a search for clarity rather than an attempt to uncover new truths about life and the world. - Philosophy book jacket of book I never bought
If talk is cheap, thoughts are worthless - me
Another Kid with Gun, Grotteria, Italy
The solution of the problem of life is often seen in the vanishing of the problem. - Maybe me, possible Captain Planet
On an easy life – what we achieve is an illusion of ease, for “Under conditions of peace, the warlike man attacks himself". - Someone
Does a mosquito have blood or is it your blood that you see when you squash it? - mosquito
Morality is the province not of the individual but of the herd, which foists its notions of good and evil on us without allowing us to create our own. - not me
Cousin Michelle (Possible with gun out of view), Grotteria, Italy
Our desire to render others predictable is matched by our desire to render ourselves unpredictable to others – Alasdair Macintyre
Why does the smell of cologne remind of me band trips? - Me
Certain opinions are wiser and better to hold than others, not because they are more true, but because they are more beneficial to the lives of those who hold them. - This LOOKS like my pretentious writing style, but I don't remember thinking this.
We are all the same - if it were not for the differences. - Me
Thursday September 4th, 2008
Grotteria, the town my Nonno helped modernize, Calabria, Italy
Is it a superpower to be able to make EVERY situation awkward?!
I don't want to depress my likely already disturbed readers so I will do my best to keep today's blog more upbeat. I will do my best considering I spent the ENTIRE day doing funeral things for my Nonno. In Italy, funerals are done very differently than in Canada. First of all, the majority of it takes place in the home. If a person dies at home, they come into the home and prepare the body for viewing. Also, the women and men are separated where the women stay watch over the deceased and the men sit outside. It is quite hot in Italy, so typically the person is buried the very same day. My Nonno died yesterday evening so he was buried today. The men stay up all night watching over the deceased and then sit out front the next day where the town comes out and shake your hand and gives you condolences.
Today was one of the hottest days of the year in Calabria. I don't know the exact temperature but I wouldn't have been surprised to see clocks dripping over trees via Salvador Dali styles. I didn't think I would be attending a funeral in Italy and my Raveoenttes T-shirt isn't exactly of the tuxedo caliber so I had to purchase a shirt. The ONLY shirt in the store they had that fit me was a 65 Euro one that I was reluctant to buy. It is very nice, but back home I would be able to pay rent and outfit myself for the season on that kind of coinage. My cousin Clara was sick of waiting for me to decide so she bought it for me. Tomorrow I think I might mull over some medium risk long term mutual fund bonds also in her presence.
Funeral Roses, Calabria, Italy
The funeral car is used solely to bring the deceased to the cemetery so the casket is carried BY HAND from the house to the church. Thankfully we live at the TOP of the hill and the church at the bottom, but I can imagine the people who live a fair distance away would have quite a task on their hands. All the flowers people donate are mostly dropped on the road as the casket is carried leaving a trail of flowers as the funeral procession marches.
Trail of Flowers for Funeral Procession, Calabria, Italy
In the church the service is the same as in a North American Catholic church except the sermon is given in Italian and under 10 000 feet of water. It is not underwater. The church was very modern, and the only thing I found very unique was that the podium used to give the sermon was made of a large un-carved piece of Limestone and had NUMEROUS fossils practically STICKING out of it. If you don't think this is weird, ask Darwin how much the Catholic Church LOVED his books. After the service the family lines up and shakes the hands of everyone who attended. No Nonno was very well known and my family is very respected in this region. I probably, no exaggeration here, shook the hands of 1500 people.
View from Grotteria Cemetary, Calabria, Italy
A lot of things go through your mind when you are shaking hands with 1500 strangers. You wonder of course which of these didn't wash their hands and visualize tiny microbes traveling from their skin to yours hanging off of tiny viral jeeps. Also you start to anticipate what kind of hand shake each person will give you. The strong man wearing a tight fitting shirt is sure to crush all the bones in your hand and the little Italian lady all in black has such a light handshake she may as well be shaking with one of those large foam hands they use at baseball games. I saw none of those large foam hands today. This is another difference from North American funerals.
It is very beautiful the emotions Italian's show openly. I have always felt that my strong, often irrationally emotional side was both my greatest fault and as an artist also my greatest gift. When showing condolences often people give you the traditional European kiss on each side of the cheek. I understand the procedure as you kissing RIGHT to LEFT. If you accidently turn the same way as them what you are faced with is the very real possibility of kissing the lips of a 60 something unshaven man who smells like fish and better call me tomorrow to take me out for Italian style tapas.
Baby Thomas, Calabria, Italy
Lastly, I put a photo of a baby in here. His name is Thomas and he is the son of a friend of the family. I included this because people love babies and I needed filler because I didn't take many photos today or yesterday.
Wednesday September 3rd, 2008
Luigi Carmelo Fuda: July 1912 - September 3rd 2008
Tu sei Bellissimo
Memories are waves. They are waves of water, or currents of wind, they are waves of brilliant light towards which we often look and just as often turn away. They are formed in the moment, and where they come from and where they go to are the same. Like water, like the wind, like the sun, no one part of it is any more a part than any other. No handful of water is an ocean or any flicker of light the sun. The cycles of life, and the moments of them in our memories turn and fade but never go away. Once a memory exists, it moves in some form forever; reaching towards the horizon of the waves that make up the future and those which move back touching the shores of our past.
Today my Nonno Luigi passed away at the age of 96 surrounded by nieces, his nephews, his cousins, his sons, grandchildren and great grandchildren. I chose to write about this, because at 96 he lived life and fought for it up until his last breath and he should be remembered and not grieved. Indeed it is sad, but I am proud I could see him when I did, that he saw me, he knew me and talked with me. One of the last things he said to me before he passed away was that I was beautiful boy. My Nonno was also beautiful; he lived a beautiful life.
If you tell any Italian your heritage is Calabrese the reaction you get is usually the same. They tilt their heads back to the sky and throw their hands up. “Ahhh Calabrese”! It is understood that to be Calabrese in Italy, is by definition to be stern and to be stubborn. To live and survive in Calabria, you can’t be anything but. There is a reason Calabrese bread is the hardest and toughest of all Italian breads. It is a place that builds calluses on the skin, and on the soul.
Born in July of 1912, Luigi Fuda grew up in a post WWI Italy. Judging solely by the amount of WWI memorials around town commemorating the fallen, this small farming community has hard hit by the War. His father, Rocco Fuda owned a bit of land in the area which the family used to farm for their food and later his children used that land to build their own houses and a general store where they sold the goods they farmed. It was not uncommon in those days for 9 people to live in a very small room. My Nonno was the middle child of nine – he was the last surviving child in his immediate family. When he grew up there was no electricity, no running water, and it would remain that way well into my father’s adolescent years in the 1950s.
My Nonno was a sharp dresser and there is barely a photo of him to be found anywhere where he is not in a cream colored suit or without his matching fedora. Keep in mind the summer’s here are unbearable hot, so a suit isn’t exactly leisurely attire.
Filomena Fuda, Luigi Fuda - Italy 1988.
He married a local girl, Filomena Panetta in 1936 right before the War took hold of Europe. Infant mortality was very high here up until recently, and three of his own children would die before they reached their teens. There were twins that died at childbirth and a son that died of meningitis at age 12. My father said that life was very hard growing up here. If you wanted to eat, you had to farm and gather your own food. Today eating and decadence in the Italian household is seen as tradition, when my Nonno grew up they ate what they grew – which may have been plenty in the summer, but obviously less in the winter. Eating in Italy is a celebration because you are celebrating all your hard work and the family that worked together to make it happen.
My Nonno was a cook. My Nonno was a brick layer. My Nonno was a soldier. He was drafted into the war at 26, a year younger than I am now, and would serve in it until it ended in 1945. He was put in a prison camp in Germany when the Nazi’s turned on Italy and made the head cook of both prisoners and guards. In Italy, war veterans are not given any special treatment, and my Nonno received no pension or honors upon the War’s end.
Luigi Fuda, 1938, Germany All the people in town know my grandfather because for many years he worked on the town council and was second only to the mayor. It is because of my Nonno that there are as many roads and infrastructure as there currently are in Grotteria. I have travelled as far as the old town in the mountain (about a 30 min drive by car) and there the two men I randomly met knew my Nonno personally. Anyone who is old enough to remember what this town once was remembers what my Nonno did to make it what it is today.
He was a stern, strong man, who worked every day of his life gardening and cooking until an illness at the age of 94 forced him for the first time to walk with a cane. He taught many people around town how to properly cook Italian food, including my mother when she came to visit with my father almost 40 years ago.The photos he keeps on his dresser date from over a hundred years. There is a photo of my mother at 19, my 64 year old aunt at 25, and an undated black and white photo of his father - a towering giant of an Italian who stands beside my tiny Great Nonna who was half his height. There is prominently a photo of him with his wife who passed away practically 20 years ago to the day on September 1st, 1988. Today they are all obscured by a black tarp draped over the mirror in his home of 40 years.
My earliest memory I have is me in the airport at 2 years old. My parents had tears in their eyes because they were putting my then 71 year old Nonno on a plane back to Italy from Canada. I was confused because I didn’t know why my mother was crying, I was playing with a round chrome ashtray attached to the wall making it open and close. My Nonno bent down and said something to me in Italian, kissed me on both cheeks and went through the terminal. Next time I saw my Nonno was 13 years later and he looked the same to me. At 84 he was in Canada for my Cousins wedding where he gave a speech and even danced during the reception. When he was leaving for the airport this time, I asked to see his fedora, which was beautiful, soft with leather on the inside – I tried it on and it fit perfectly. This is remarkable to me because I often tell people that my heads proportion is similar to that of a Pez dispenser and its body. Tomorrow my Nonno will be buried with his favorite Capolla beside my Nonna. He is laid to rest in the same soil he worked his whole life.
It is with sadness I say Ciao to my Nonno, but it is with great happiness I remember his inspiring life. Few people live to be a century old, and even fewer can claim to have lived every day, every hour, every minute of that century. Your life, your memory live on in your children and thier children and thier children and on and on and on like waves.
Ciao Nonno. Tu sei Bellissimo.
Tuesday September 2nd, 2008
Orlando Fuda, Cosimo Fuda, Sam Fuda, Roccella Jonica, Italy
The Bull has returned!
Since I have arrived I have been trying to piece together my father's childhood in Italy; what my father did and where he grew up. My little research project has just received a MUCH needed knowledge injection. A person who speaks English has just come into town!!! Oh, and he is also my father - so that is probably a plus too.
Cosimo Fuda (Dad), Roccella Jonica, Italy
My father came to visit his father, and he probably heard that someone else cut my hair so he came all this way to kick my ass. For the first 20 min when he arrived, he brought me on a walk where he used to swim as a boy, where he used to drink water out of a pipe in the mountain, and how there used to be all sorts of vegetables in the big pile of sand we were walking in. I know that sounds really boring, but I found it fascinating. Then he said he wanted to take a piss on the ground he used to play on as a child 40 years ago; which kind of took some magic out of the moment. Twenty minutes later he was asleep and snoring. One might think its jetlag - but that's just my father.
Unknown man (possible my Zeo Orlando), Roccella Jonica, Italy
Now that my father has arrived, any debauchery I was hoping to get up to is effectively thwarted. I started my day today by going to the beach for a few hours and returned to find my father angry that I didn't bring him along. Of course I had to go to the beach AGAIN, and the rest of my father's day was spent visiting cousins - lots and lots and lots of cousins. You see I don't speak Italian, but if I DID what I would have understood is that all the people here who have gone out of their way to introduce themselves to me are my cousins. EVERYONE here is my cousin. I must have 300 bloody cousins - thank god I haven't been hitting on any of these women. I wonder if at various times they all join together to form Megatron Cousin (Joe scratches chin).
My father knows all of their names. He knows all of the families that used to live in the area. He knows where what vegetable was planted where, whose land belongs to whom and has a very good understanding of the local history of the area. He has a story for every square foot of this land. This from the man who constantly calls me by my brother’s name and once installed a door upside down and wondered why the handle was so high up.
roccella jonica, italy
The night was a special treat where I got to sit at a table with 20 Old Italian men, none of whom spoke English and none of whom had any idea who I was. I brought up the term "Sausage party" when someone pointed out to me that we ACTUALLY were eating goat and not sausages. Somewhere cute girls are dancing in Paris. Hell, somewhere there are cute third cousin Italian girls in this town! Third cousin is alright right? When I first arrived here there were all sorts of interesting young people who have all seemed to have scuttled off like the lizards here when you talk to them. That's right - I talk to lizards you bastards! One day I will have the last laugh when one of those lizards grants me a wish which I will use to wish for a million wishes and then maybe some new shoes and a six-pack of abdominal muscles.
Poor Black Kitty, Grotteria, Italy
The last photo in this set is of a poor black cat Kitty. I thought it fit well with the rest of the "wet hair" photo set. The majority of the people in this area are quite old, and many still believe in some ridiculous superstitions. One of course is that black cats carry evil, so any black cats you see are usually missing ears, half of the tails and look like the saddest creatures you have ever laid eyes on. Yesterday I saw a tiny black kitten kitty which was probably a few weeks old and I hoped that it really was evil and would destroy anyone who tried to hurt it with some sort of feline magic thunderbolt. Magic lizards, hundreds of cousins, and evil cats; yup, I am in southern Italy for sure.
Monday September 1st, 2008
I have a headache - not tonight honey.
I have a headache today. I have been bitten probably 100 times by mosquitoes and I think I am very low on blood or high on poison or something. I am dizzy and feel pretty crummy. So, I am not feeling up to sitting for the next hour in front of this computer coming up with zingers or inspirational slogans. Look at my photos, there is an old dude, some old buildings, some nice sky stuff. I took these in the old village in Grotteria. Now just imagine I make some funny references to Family Matters or The Golden Girls, stick in a Breakfast Club reference and maybe a pun and you can write today's entry yourself. Also, if you want to make this signature Joe - make a whole bunch of spelling and grammar mistakes.
For those of you who read and love this blog all I have to say is that I don't get paid to make it, my web stats tell me I get something like 1000 people a day reading it and I've gotten about 50 people who have actually TOLD me they read and like it. Not to say it isn't fulfilling but at this moment I have mosquito bites on the bottom of my feet the size of timbits. I also have them on my knuckles, my face, my brain and my soul. Someone kill me. Send my regards - Giuseppe Marco Fuda
