Che Gioia!

Thursday mornings are special. My new routine is to leave the Historical House shortly after 8 AM, buy an all-day ticket on the bus to town, alight at the excellent Twelve Triangles for a cappuccino and croissant, and then get on another bus to my Italian tutor's flat.

Today was extra-special because my tutor told me that I was ready to do interviews in Italian. I was incredulous, but he thinks I can do it. We pretended he was a Cardinal, and I interviewed him. As usual, he chided me on my archaisms. Apparently you really can't address an important (or very elderly) person in  the second person plural, even for Cardinals, except maybe in Naples.

In one magical moment, I realised I was nattering away at top speed. It seems miraculous. I suspect I have Polish to thank. It's not that Polish improves my Italian vocabulary, of course. It's that Polish has exercised the relevant parts of my brain. Also, Polish is much harder to speak than Italian, so speaking Italian is like a holiday.

Tomorrow I will use any free time in the morning to work on Polish. But today's Italian work was delightful.

B.A. was better today. I felt I could safely let him have a bath unsupervised (when he was in, not when he was getting in or getting out), and he actually put some clothes on (with help). A generous friend drove us to the hospital and waited with me while B.A. had a routine brain scan. On the way home, B.A. and I fought about the refugee crisis, and both our friend and I thought this was a very good sign.

A Flat With a View

Not what it was when *I* was a young woman, etc, etc.

There is much to write about: the sunny Sunday Lunch in front of the Historical House, the diet-vocabulary pact with Squirrel, and the McLean trip to Florence. We'll start with Florence.

We were in Florence for the past nine days. That's why there has been no blogging. Benedict Ambrose and I left for the airport only an hour after I led Polish Pretend Son and the Beautiful Young Lady to the railway station. Miraculously, we have come home to a relatively tidy house and no dirty dishes---though the recycling boxes are overflowing and the kitchen ponged with sour wine residue. Pity.

But never mind that. We flew to Pisa airport, took the new "Pisa Mover" rapid rail to Pisa's Central station, and then boarded the next train to the Big Handbag. Shortly after climbing off the train at Santa Maria Novella station, B.A.'s knees collapsed and he began to stagger like a drunk. Oh, my poor B.A.!

I grabbed B.A. and then his bag and got them to the station's grand hall. While holding up two rucksacks and a husband, I looked around wildly for a place for the latter to sit. I found a place occupied by a handbag, so I shouted "I'm sorry, but my husband is sick" in Italian at its young owner. She stared at me uncomprehendingly (Tip: in emergencies in European tourist centres, just use English) but moved her bag. I  plunked our rucksacks down, placed B.A. gently on the seat, and then went in search of our hostess, who turned out to be only yards away, deep in conversation with a handsome youth.

To everyone's relief, the handsome youth carried B.A's rucksack. He also attempted to entertain me with a flow of chatter while I sneaked peeks at the astonishingly beautiful shop windows that lit up the night like dreams. More on these anon.

B.A. and I found ourselves ensconced in a high-ceilinged and perfumed flat with big windows overlooking a cheerfully noisy street. There were two bedrooms (we only used one), a sitting/dining-room and a cleverly small kitchen tucked along a partition wall. I spent a lot of time at the big table in the sitting-room studying Italian grammar or doing the trip accounts---but I spent even more time looking down from the open sitting-room window, enjoying any breezes and watching the tourists, the beggars and the Florentines go by. I learned many things from hanging out this high window, including how funny bottle blondes look if they don't keep their roots up.

The weather was wonderful. Sometimes it was rather hot, but we didn't mind that (except at night). Sometimes it was just perfect: sunny and warm with gentle breezes. On our last night it was rather cool, and I would have liked my jacket. However, the lovely walk along the Arno river warmed me up.

So what did we do? Mostly we rested. Benedict Ambrose slept late while I made coffee and studied grammar. Eventually I tired of my own coffee and went across the street to a caffé  for a proper cappuccino and cornetto naturale (plain croissant), standing at the bar trying to read the pro-coffee poetry posted over the espresso machine while munching and sipping. I also went on some early morning walks to avoid the endless shifting crowds of fellow tourists. This meant dodging an awful lot of commercial vans and trucks, but seeing Florence in the thinner morning light was worth it.

We lunched well, either as a picnic or in the flat or at restaurants recommended by friends in the know. Then we napped. Then we went to Mass in the Extraordinary Form, which was provided by the Institute of Christ the King. On weekdays, this is usually in a side chapel away from the tourists, who occasionally pop up anyway and gape at the splendidly vested priest, the veiled ladies and the jacketed men as if we were animals in a zoo.

One day--I had one very bad day--I glowered so violently at such a tourist who was raising his expensive camera at us that he put down his camera to wait until I stopped. He didn't budge, though. He was determined to get his photos. Hate stuck out of my lovely Christian eyes, and as this shocked even me, I stomped out of the enormous marble nave, past the Della Robbia Madonna and Child, and sat outside on the steps to pull myself together.

The problem with Florence--which is an old problem, but I think it is getting worse--is that the ratio of Florentines in the historic centre to tourists is low. Historic Florence does not look like a place where people are born, play, go to school, receive First Communion, take up a trade, marry, have children, vote, strike, struggle, cooperate, get sick, send for the priest, die.

Historic Florence looks like an enormous outdoor shopping mall with the odd historical building--left by a vanished civilization about which very few tourists know anything about--sticking up here and there.

Historic Florence is where a constant stream of tourists--often speaking German or American but there are many others--flow through the streets looking at things and buying whatever is for sale. It is usually a handbag.

There are dozens--hundreds--of shops selling rainbows of leather handbags, and all the handbags look the same. There are also very beautiful shops selling the best designed, best constructed clothing in Italy, and whereas they are delightful to look at, most tourists (I imagine) do not have the means to purchase their goods . But there are also "markets" that resemble tent cities, where Italians, South Asians and Africans try to get a piece of the tourist-money action by selling the same old T-shirts, hats, handbags, wallets. There is little pretense about these vendors, who begin their sales pitches in English. One enterprising merchant near the Piazza San Lorenzo had a device blaring bhangra music into the air. Is bhangra authentically Florentine? Well, maybe now. Truth is what is.

On the other hand, there are real Florence-born Florentines and there are even Florentines who are not part of the tourist trade, or at least are part of the carriage trade. After Mass B.A. and I generally drank (wine for me, sparking water for him) with friends at a hotel bar, bar and hotel the property of an ancient aristocratic family who still live in the 15th century joint. The wine we drank came from the family vineyards. Meanwhile, there were many people in the bar who gave every impression of being Florentines themselves, so there was a better Florentine: Foreign ratio, which I found refreshing.

I also found the sight of children--actual real children among the seething hordes of grown-ups--refreshing. From my window I watched as a Florentine child emerged from his parents' shop and happily kicked a soccer ball against the ancient, faded ochre wall opposite. His parents were Chinese. Florentine children of Italian heritage were visible at Sunday Mass, and two little Florentines received their First Communion from the hands of the ICK priest without much fanfare: their white dresses, veils and wreaths were the only clues that this was their special day.

The very elderly were also a rare sight--except in the early mornings when they walked their dogs--but some of them were notably well-dressed. These were the gracefully aged. The ungracefully aged looked like 23 year olds with long blonde hair and teenage clothing from behind. From the front they looked like by-products of the leather factories.

As for African migration to Italy, which is the Italian story of the century, every morning I saw a beggar take his place outside the caffé-bar, the fake-designer-handbag salesmen, and the frightening trinket-pedlar who roamed a very exclusive shopping street, trying to shove a thick bangle onto women's arms. However, I also saw an African in work clothes rejoining an Italian work party who had gone into the caffé-bar while he lingered outside scowling and ignoring the  beggar. And I saw beautifully uniformed Africans in the grand hotel upon whose terrace we also had drinks. These struck me as signs of integration. Oh, and of course there is an African priest in Florence's ICK, and I saw a black novice among a choir of seven religious sisters.

The politically correct will be relieved to read that there are also old-fashioned white Italian beggars on the chic and sunny streets. There's an elderly one on the bangle-pusher's street who shouts "Ho FA-me" ("I'm hungry") for hours on end. Oh, and there are a pair of gypsy Roma girls who paint their faces white, wear white headscarfs and long white skirts that get rather dirty, put their arms around tourists as they photobomb their selfies, and fish sandwiches out of garbage cans. Benvenuti a Firenze!

My feelings about Florence are perhaps coloured by B.A.'s ill health. I thought the better, sunnier climate would help him, but I spent my days worried that his knees would collapse again (as they did on at least three other occasions) and my nights being woken up by B.A.'s mad roaming about. Perfectly sane by day, B.A.'s injured brain would feed him strange dreams at night, and he got up to act on them.

"Darling," he said one morning at about 4, "where are the keys? I have to throw them outside."

"[Benedict Ambrose]", I hissed, angry as a rattler at being woken from a deep sleep. "You're raving! Come back to bed."

Fortunately, my patience increased as the week went on, and I was nicer about these nocturnal ambulations. I am saving my ire for  B.A.'s doctor and surgeon who neglected to tell us what to expect after B.A.'s brain operation. Although the doctor kept saying he could write B.A. a note to get him more time off work, he never explained that this might be necessary or that B.A. would find old routines mentally taxing or even impossible.

We had a picnic in the Boboli Gardens--which I do not recommend at mid-day, unless you can get to the shady, more garden-like bit--and we spent an hour or two in Santa Croce, and I think that was it for cultural excursions. Lest you think I am a barbarian, this was my fourth visit to Florence in 19 years, and when I was 28 I spent an entire week looking at its treasures. In my twenties, art works like "The Prisoners" exploded in my consciousness like bombs, but now they are like reruns. "Oh, look. Giotto. How lovely," is as enthusiastic as I get, now that I'm in my forties.

It has taken effort to adjust to my middle-aged calm. I was so disappointed last year when I looked over Florence from the Piazzale Michelangelo, and it didn't have the impact it had when I first saw it at 27 or when I saw it again--at dawn--at 28. Yesterday morning I climbed up there alone and reflected that the rooves didn't look as orange as they did 18 years ago, but that this probably had more to do with me than with the rooves. Meanwhile, I had noticed--and could describe in detail--a few other tourists who were also on the Piazzale Michelangelo at 7:30 AM. In my twenties I was all about heart-stopping views, and in my forties I am simply more interested in people. Yes, il Duomo loomed vast over the sunlit city, but it always does that, and much more interesting was whether or not the blond young couple quarreling in German were lovers or brother and sister.

What I liked best in Florence were the following:

Morning: going to the caffé-bar to drink cappuccino and eat a cornetto; having a newspaper to scan was a bonus
Noon:  sitting outside a trattoria eating a boozy lunch with friends
Night: sitting outside a fancy hotel drinking cocktails with friends or sitting inside a fancy hotel bar drinking Chianti with friends

Unsurprisingly, I gained about four pounds. But this brings me to my second post du jour, which is about my diet-vocabulary pact with  Squirrel. See post above. I will end my Florentine piece by saying that I managed not to buy a leather handbag. Instead I bought an Italian tablecloth from an old-fashioned hardware store. It reminds me of the Italian grandmothers of Italian-Canadian friends.

Italian Magic

Cherubs, the stress. All I do is write and telephone strangers and eat lunch at my desk and occasionally remember to get up and walk around a bit and do bits of housework at odd moments. I haven't been this busy since theology school.

Today I did an hour's work before rushing off to my new Italian tutor. He greeted me in English.  I greeted him in Italian. He switched to Italian and got me a coffee. We spoke Italian for an hour--about Italian-Canadians in Toronto when I was growing up (and when he was there), about Norcia, about  my new job, about where in Italy I have been. It was like being on holiday in Italy. I was suffused with sunny, on-holiday feelings. When my hour was up, I felt high on language and sunshine. I could almost smell the bougainvillea in Lazio.

"Italian literally makes me happy," I thought.

Sadly, I had to work late tonight and so couldn't get to Polish class. But eventually I will get my work-language balance sorted out.

Here's my latest news article, improved by my editor. It's on-the-job training, and I have a lot to learn! Gone are the days I could lackadaisically work on just one piece, taking my time but getting it all done in one uninterrupted sitting. However, when I consider the circumstances in which I have sometimes filed--e.g. in an underground internet bar in Warsaw--I realize that I am no stranger to journalistic challenges.

Learning Language with TV

Oh the spongy, fresh, language-learning brains of children. When I was a child, new children from foreign countries occasionally appeared in my classroom. One was intensely secretive about where she came from, which may have been habitual to kids who had escaped from behind the Iron Curtain. She was from what was still called Yugoslavia. There was also a boy who came from Romania. Both of these children showed up speaking fluent English.

I don't know how the Serbian girl learned English so quickly, but I do know the secret of the Romanian boy. He sat before the television set  all summer and binged on "Happy Days." He literally learned English from the Fonz. Well, we all know  (or anyone over 40 knows) what the Fonz would say to that.

"Eyyyyy!"

Learning language from television shows is now recommended by various pop polyglots including Paul Noble and Gabriel Werner. Their suggestion is to watch shows you already know and loved--wildly successful shows including 50 or, better yet, 100 episodes--dubbed into the language you are learning.  Noble, whose super-easy Italian materials I am reading, suggested Friends.

I never watched Friends.  Squinting into the past, I see that the only shows I watched even semi-regularly were X-Files and Babylon Five.  From 1996 to 2009 I didn't own a television, and when at my parents' I deplored my mother's love for Buffy the Vampire Slayer and other gorefests, shutting my bedroom door firmly upon the shrieks and moans of horror and pain coming from the living room TV.

But in the 1980s, my show of shows was Scarecrow and Mrs King, and to my joy, I have found it dubbed into Italian on youtube. I haven't found it for sale as yet, but Youtube fits the bill.

Polish is more complicated because the Poles do not dub foreign-to-them shows. Traditionally they have a reader (or lektor) reading a Polish translation over the original dialogue. Meanwhile, unlike the Italians and the Germans, they never developed a love for Scarecrow and Mrs King. This is without doubt because of timing: a show in which the baddies are usually Soviet spies was never going to be shown in the People's Republic of Poland.

The Wall came down in time for the Poles to see Friends, however. Here is a lektor reading along to Friends.

You may perceive the problem. It's even worse here with Big Bang Theory:

Thus I am as yet unsure as how to best improve my Polish by binging on television shows. It is all their fault for loving lektors so much and turning up their noses at the wonderful art of dubbing, which was perfected, I'm told, by the Germans.

Update: I have been reminded that Disney films for children are dubbed into Polish. This may be the way forward. There may be a Polish Disney Princess binge-viewing in my future.

The Nursini

This is a hard post to write for a few reasons. The first is that I am as guilty as anyone on focusing on the expatriate English-speakers in Norcia when reporting on the earthquakes and the aftermath of earthquakes. In recent years so many English-speaking Trads have been to Norcia, we speak as if it belongs to us.

The second is that my Italian is not as good as it was when I was, say, 27, and so most of my interactions with the Nursini have been fraught with anxiety and embarrassment.

The third is that a Norcia shopkeeper once ran off with my change, and I had to throw a bilingual strop to get it back. To be honest about a place, you can forgive the foibles, but not forget. Meanwhile, I seriously hope he is okay.

Norcia is a town that depends on tourism. Tourists are the people who give the Nursini money. They depend on us for a living, but we aren't them, are we? The relationship between the local and the tourist (and the expat) is problematic, as we saw in my resentment at being poked by an African bag-seller in Rome. I'd be curious to know if the Italians in Rome accept the bag-sellers as Romans. This may depend on whether or not the bag-sellers speak Italian. I'd also be curious to know if Scots accept me as an Edinburgher, since I certainly do not have an Edinburgh accent. Incidentally, there a lot of tourists (and expats) in Edinburgh, too.

We tourists can be a demanding bunch. What is it that we are looking for when we roam the world? A number of things. Sun or snow, relaxation or adventure, new foods and new sights, a chance to meet locals, perhaps. This last aspect of tourism makes me very nervous, as tourism is acquisitive. An American tourist told me that she'd rather collect experiences than photographs (sure enough) but most of all she'd like to collect people. I felt very uncomfortable. Although the young have different rules, the natives of a place are really unlikely to invite tourists home to experience the "Real Edinburgh" or the "Real Bonn" or the "Real Venice". Relationships with locals are fleeting. Tourists may remember them forever, but the locals will forget the tourists in seconds. There are just too many.

That's another reason it's difficult to write a post about the Nursini: who am I to say anything about them? However, I feel as if they have disappeared behind the mostly-American monks, the expats and the rubble of the historic buildings. Therefore, I will give it a shot.

In Norcia there is a beautiful Art Nouveau style café called the Caffé Tancredi. Behind the counter there is a dark-haired, wide-eyebrowed male server in semi-formal waiter dress or a blonde lady or a dark-haired lady slightly younger than the blonde. It is the custom of many of the Nursini to drop in at least once a day and down a coffee and a "pasta" chosen from the plexiglass display. Promiscuous use of chocolate syrup is the hallmark of the Caffé Tancredi: unless you ask him or her not to, the server pours a good dollop of chocolate into your cappuccino. The locals chat, or sit at one of the few tables and looks at a newspaper.

In Norcia there is an old-fashioned jewellery store with windows like display cabinets. When I said regretfully that the gold crucifix pendant I admired was too expensive, the proprietor took out an example of  the silver version. He named a price, and it sounded reasonable to me, so B.A. left the shop to get his wallet. This gave the jeweller a chance to establish that I was Canadian and to tell me all about his relations in British Columbia. When B.A. arrive with his wallet, the price of the silver crucifix had mysteriously dropped by 20 Euros or so.

In Norcia there is a luxury goods shop that includes a hairdressing salon. One day last month I decided that instead of buying a bottle of conditioner and doing a long-overdue dreadlock seek-and-destroy mission, I would pay the Nursini hairdressers to do it instead. I popped into the shop and began to gabble in a bizarre and shame-making language made up of Italian, English and Polish. Our phrasebook had no useful phrases for the hairdressers, and although I now remember the verb "pettinarsi" (to comb), I'm not sure I remembered it then.

However, I convinced the hairdressing staff to take me on as they examined the terrible state of my hair and said various things I couldn't understand, and a young woman took me away for a hair-washing. I felt very sorry for her, as presumably did an older hairdresser, for she eventually came along to help her junior pick apart the dreads. They were worried that this hurt me, and frantically suppressing the Polish that came to mind, I tried to assure them that it didn't. Meanwhile, the hairdressers chatted to each other about my hair, and perhaps it is lucky that all I understood exactly was their astonishment that I wasn't screaming.

Then I was moved from the sink to a chair, and we agreed that my hair was now better, and again there was a team effort, as the clock ticked speedily towards lunchtime, to comb out the last of the snarls. The hairdressers exchanged approving remarks about the colour of my hair, which they observed was natural. Then there was work with a blow-drier. and my shame-making attempts to explain that I'd be happy if they just put the hair in braids, and the job was done, and I was well and truly hosed at the cash register.

When you have twice as much hair on your head as do most other heads, being hosed at the cash register is not a once-in-a-lifetime experience. When it doesn't happen, I tip heavily out of sheer gratitude. However, on this occasion I didn't have enough money on me, or my cash card, so I had to ask if I could come back after lunch to pay. The young lady behind the cash register--and the male boss--were fine with this, so off I went to lunch.  I returned later with a handful of cash and left a tip. The young lady behind the cash register had the same shifty, self-conscious look as the shopkeeper who, after Christmas, ran off with my change. I felt a bit bad about that, but I couldn't think of a way to say, I don't really care. I'm on holiday, and I suspect the [August] earthquake has left everyone badly off.

There are other Nursini I'm thinking about, too. There are the waiters and waitresses at the Granaro del Monte and other restaurants in town. How are they? Are they working? There are the women serving behind the counter in the bakeries, and the friendly lady who runs the kitchen goods store. Do they have enough to eat? The lady in the fruit-and-vegetable store, the lady in the cheese shop, the men and women in the butcher shops.... How do you deal with perishable stock in the wake of a natural disaster?

There's the couple in the wine shop who, at Christmas time, directed us towards an expensive bottle and then, when I wittily managed to say we were too poor, towards the cheaper stuff. Have the bottles survived?  Then there's the young lady in the Campi di Nursia who led us on our donkey-trek. Is she alright? Are the donkeys and mules all right? And then there are the children who threw firecrackers at Christmas and the teens who queue up to be taken by mountain bus to high school in Spoleto. Are they okay?

There are almost 5,000 Italian Nursini, which means that there are almost 5,000 stories about Norcia that are not being told in English. I'm not equipped to tell any of those stories, or even to help the Nursini--unlike the monks who have remained in the area, at risk to life and limb, to minister to them. But I can at least offer a link. The easiest way, I have been told, to get money directly into the hands of the Nursian needy is to send it to the monks, stating explicitly that it is for the people. Here is a link to the Monks of Norcia donation page. 

Norcia Story for Catholic World Report

Here is my essay about visiting the monks in Norcia for Catholic World Report.  When my much shorter article in Scottish Catholic Observer comes out, I will fill in any gaps here. For example, you may like to read about my adventure at the hairdresser. Actually it was more the hairdressers' adventure, for the mother of all dreadlocks had sprouted in my hair. Luckily for us all, I could understand only 10% of what they said about it.

Yes, it is a challenge writing about the same trip for three different publications. Thanks for asking. Fortunately, they all have different audiences: one Canadian, one largely American and one Scottish. And naturally I try to emphasize different aspects. The Scots, for example, are much more likely to be interested in the Scottish monk than Canadian or American readers. They are also much more likely to listen to my siren song of "Come to Norcia and bolster her tourist economy."  Fares are so cheap and the flight is so short, Scots can quite comfortably consider going for a long weekend.

(All the same, Canadians and Americans ought to go, too. There are precise instructions in my CWR essay.)

I am grateful to Catholic World Report for giving me space to really stretch out; my usual word count is 800. On the one hand, an 800 word limit is a good discipline. But on the other hand, I don't get to say that much. Columns are entirely plot-driven, as it were. Lush description goes by the wayside.

Update: In light of yesterday's fuss about my lack of racial blindness, note that I identify the nationalites of all the monks. I didn't, however, note the ethnicities of the Americans and the Canadian. The fact that American and Canadian monks dwell happily in an Italian mountain town was interesting enough.

Pyrrhic Packing

Whenever I travel, I pack my latest travel journal. Most of the time, this is a Semikolon Grand Voyage notebook. I adore Semikolon's line. No Moleskine for me!

I make as many notes as possible, writing down train times, bus schedules, names of good restaurants, prices, so that the next time I (or we) travel to a place, it will be easier. It also helps us budget. I know to a penny how much our last three visits to Italy cost. Of course, I also record what we saw, and how we felt, and who said what.

When we are very busy on a trip, I have less time to write about our adventures, and on this trip I filled up the three hour, twenty minute flight back to Edinburgh with memoirs. My writing hand was cramped by the time we were told to refasten our seatbelts. I'm now 36 pages into my new journal.

Because it is a new journal, I didn't have access to all the handy material in the last journal, which stayed at home. However, I did take the time to review and make some helpful notes on the first page. Point one was "pack baby powder, antiseptic wipes, band-aids, deodorant, cotton pants, cotton socks, wide-brimmed hat, SPF50." Every item has a sad story attached to it. Most of the calamities encapsulated in Point 1 had to do with the Italian weather which, even in October, can be darned hot and sweaty.

Breakfast in Italy for two, by the way, should cost not much more than €3.60. This represents two cappuccini and two cornetti (croissants) eaten standing by the bar.

I began my long return journey writing session by pondering our packing. On this trip we managed to get our stuff into two carry-on knapsacks, but B.A.'s mighty Osprey Fairpoint 40 was 0.5 kg over the limit (fortunately nobody checked).  Obviously there is room for improvement, and so I wrote a list of what we packed but didn't use. 

DCM: Two Umbrian hill-walking books; pencil crayons in case; whistle, compass, Italian phrasebook.

B.A.: Irish Murdoch novel, John Carey memoir, one of the shirts, some of the socks, one of  the ties.

That's not too bad, actually.  I then listed what we OUGHT to have had, had we been able to predict our detour and the weather: a map of Florence, a coat or wrap for me,  umbrellas. I sometimes wished we had brought our (small but heavy) missals; however, printing out copies of the readings and propers would have been more practical.

One of our friends in Norcia told us that it was the time of year in which anything you chose to wear was wrong. This is because in early October Norcia is terribly cold in the mornings and at night but hot all afternon. As a matter of fact, B.A. packed many more clothes than I did, and so was prepared for everything, including rain. I had to borrow a warm wrap to go out at 5:45 AM for Lauds and at 5:45 for Vespers. One morning I discovered I had forgotten it at my friend's house and so stole out of the house wrapped in a bath towel. Sad but true.

However, I was very glad of all my Point 1 items when we got to Florence. Florence was blazing, so out came the anti-sweat arsenal. (The anti-cancer materiel was in action every day, everywhere.) Other useful things included the guide to Rome, pens, the band-aids and antiseptic wipes, the "small store of Italian in head", "previous knowledge of Italian life", the money belt, the rosaries, socks (versus tights) and my handknit cardigan. Thank heavens Mum put in pockets.

Rosaries are useful for getting into doors that open only to Catholic pilgrims/worshippers, as at the Duomo. No Italian is needed: you just shake your rosary at the security guard, and all is well. Of course, this means you have to get on your knees and actually pray your rosary. But why not? Most of the art of Florence is all about the Sacred Mysteries of the Rosary. I cannot imagine what post-Protestants and pagans get out of Florentine art collections as they are 80% Rosary, 15% Greek mythology and 5% Garibaldi & Co.  This leads me to my next point: what you pack into your head before a trip is probably even more important than what you pack into your bag(s).

Rain in Rome

I love Rome. I even find it relaxing. I treat the city as if its whole point were lunch. This attitude is relaxing for Benedict Ambrose because in Rome I don't care what we do or where we go just as long as we are in a tried-tested-and-true trattoria by 1 PM. In fairness to B.A. and history, I should admit that this wifely equilibrium was some years in the making. I have been to Rome eight times now, nine if you count just waiting in the railway station.

Even the trips into and out of Rome have improved. We fly to Ciampino, and we take the shuttle bus (4.50 euros each) to Roma Termini railway/bus station: no problem. When it is time to go back to Termini, we find a cab and ask the driver, "Trenta euro?" Thirty euros is the set price for Ciampino, so if the driver argues, we leave. We have learned to ask BEFORE we get into the cab.

On one memorable occasion, I got out of the cab shouting and made the crook take the luggage out of the trunk. This was at Termini, so the crowd of other cab drivers watched the drama with interest and one immediately offered us his services. When in Rome, do as Romans do: shout, refuse to be taken advantage of and embarrass the poor British onlooker with your opera diva antics. Meanwhile, the risk of an argument with a rip off artist is worth the avoidance of the bus back to Ciampino. The timetable confusion and the crowds of anxious tourists is insupportable.

Last Wednesday we arrived in Rome on the bullet train from Florence and had the new challenge of going straight into the city without buying a two-week rail pass. (Normally we stay in a seaside town and commute.) Fortunately, I remembered that you can always buy bus tickets at tobacconists' stands, so I led B.A. to one in Termini. After the signora had finished selling a whole roll of lottery tickets to the elderly person in front of me, I explained that we wanted bus tickets, but only for one trip. (For the first time in ten days, no Polish slipped out.)

The signora understood exactly what we wanted, and they cost only 3 euros the pair. We joyfully sped towards the buses and took the 64 towards S Andrea delle Valle. (We would have taken the 40, but while we hesitated, a million people all crammed into it at once. ) There was some marital comedy as I watched for landmarks and B.A. offered erroneous information as to our whereabouts. In about eight more years, he will finally believe that not only do I know the 64 route, I know the way to the Ponte Sisto and, therefore, Trastevere.

Anyway, after more marital comedy involving a map and the drizzle, we turned up at the door of our two-night rental flat, pushed the buzzer and had no reply. The aged building in which the flat has been carved faced a bakery on one side and other aged flats on the other. The streets were narrow, wet and cobble-stoned. They shone under the streetlamps. It had grown dark, and it was all very romantic except that my phone wouldn't make real calls in Italy, and I was furious at the landlord's agent's no-show.

I began to text a message while facing the stubbornly locked door, and while we were helplessly standing there, along came an African street vendor. He began immediately to chat up B.A. with the opening "Where are you from? Are you from Africa?"

B.A., being Scottish, took this as good-humoured banter. B.A. will banter with anyone. He is a kindly person and hates to appear rude or stand-offish. Also, the ability to banter back is good defense against drunken and/or class-chippy Scottish drunks. I have seen him win over a gang of the latter by bantering with the former. I, having an "American" accent, kept my mouth shut and merely admired.

"No," said non-African B.A to the African vendor last week in Trastevere. "Ha ha ha."

"Where are you from?"

"I'm from Scotland. Ha ha ha."

I have never enjoyed seeing Ecuadorian pan-pipers in the streets of Edinburgh or Africans selling fake designer handbags in Rome. Both have become fixtures, and no doubt someone thinks the Ecuadorians are as Scottish as bacon butties and the Africans as Italian as fear of air-conditioning. I, however, think they are a pain in the tuchus.

"Where are you from?" asked the pain in the tuchus of me--at least, I think he did. His questioning was accompanied by violent poking of my upper arm, which made me see and hear red.

"Non mi toccare!" I snarled without a moment's hesitation or trace of Polish, and to my surprise, the PITT stopped at once.

"Scusa, scusa!" he said and walked swiftly away. I looked after him with rancour.

"Non mi toccare," I said again, rather aggressively.

"Scusa, scusa!" he repeated and quickened his pace.

A South-Asian shopkeeper chatting with neighbours in the street asked us if  he could help, and then did so by shouting "Ingrid! Ingrid!" to an open window across from us, ringing her doorbell, and calling her on his mobile. After some delay, a Far East Asian head appeared in the window, and I shouted at it that we were us. The head disappeared again, and after a suspiciously long delay, a youngish Far East Asian lady appeared. I was livid that we had been left in the street to be poked by a street vendor, so B.A. did the talking (in English), being polite and "paying the taxes", going downstairs with Ingrid to the South-Asian's shop to change our 20 Euro note, the hapless Ingrid having no change.

It was a nice little flat with VIEWS, a big white bed and the latest British Instyle magazine. The rooms were scrupulously clean, with a tiny-but-adequate kitchenette up one step, and a tiny-but-adequate bathroom three steps up from that. Contemplation of its perfections restored my equilibrium, and I was amused by the very Roman shouting up at windows.

B.A. and I soon went out to meet a friend on the Ponte Sisto and be taken by him to some joint back across the Tiber where we had supper. On the way we spied a Scots College seminarian we know eating supper outdoors with two Scots College chaps, one in a collar, and he looked extremely surprised to see us. There were introductions, attempts at plans, regrets regarding busyness, and then we continued on, with waiters shouting "Eat here, Father," at our non-clerical pal.

We had a good bottle of wine, aubergine (eggplant) parmesan and an absolutely delicious amaretto semi-freddo. Then we went back to the Ponte Sisto, said good-bye to our friend, and went directly to bed.

The next day was our one full day in Rome, and we made it count by sleeping in and lying in bed reading. Eventually we got it together and went to the bakery across the street for croissants and to the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere for cappuccino and a visit to its world-famous Chiesa. Next we went to the less famous Chiesa di Santa Dorothea so I could have a chat with my patron saint, whose bones are in a little box under the high altar. Then we marched along the Tiber towards Vatican City to have coffee with a curial pal and his wife.

While we were having coffee, the heavens opened and the Mediterranean fell on Rome. Rain in Edinburgh is a half-hearted, drizzly affair. Rain in Rome is vertical machine gun fire. After coffee, B.A. and I took refuge in S. Spiritu in Sasso, the Divine Mercy church, which has a ginormous photograph of St. JP2, and then--when the church closed for lunch--hid in the colonnade of an 18th century ospedale. When the rain let up a little, I marched us straight to our favourite restaurant--in the Piazza Pasquino--and hoped B.A. was thoroughly impressed with my unerring sense of direction.

Lunch was divine.

After lunch we discovered our old internet-printing stand-by across from S. Andrea delle Valle was SHUT (horrors), so after a fruitless search for another, we went back to our flat for a nap. When we emerged, we found the neighbourhood internet joint, printed off our airline tickets with help from the Filipino manager, and went in search of the Tempietto, a bit of High Renaissance perfection over the spot where St. Peter was crucified. We found it, but the gates to the courtyard were already locked, so we admired the structure through the bars before turning around and finding our way to the Extraordinary Form of the Mass at Santissima Trinitá.

After Mass we picked up a few groceries and had a small dinner back at our flat and, being old, did not rush out into the wet darkness to partake of the noisy Trasteveran nightlife, but stayed in and read magazines until we went to sleep.  On the way back, I had noticed an largish young American man who was sitting in bar speaking rapid, fluent Italian to a young Italian man, and I contemplated how many people from different countries now make their home in Rome (especially Trastevere), which is a return--I imagine--to the days of the ancient Empire.

The next day, we got up at 7. I washed the dishes and tidied up, and then we hiked through the pouring rain to the taxi stand near the Teatro Argentina. ("Trenta euro?") The driver, a friendly young chap, drove us down the Old Appian Way towards Ciampino, The traffic was nevertheless so terrible, we tipped him 5 euros.

I was divested of my big bottle of Felice Azzuro talcum powder at security by a tutting guard. "But it's not a liquid," I wailed, but only half-heartedly. I was once caught with a 200 mL of sun lotion, and the lady guard looked at me as if I had murdered a child.

And that was our short and rather leisurely visit to Rome.

In light of Europe's migration crisis, some further observations may be pertinent. Although certainly multiracial, I would not say that Rome is as yet obviously multicultural--at least not when you leave the area around Termini.  There I saw a tall African chap in full Islamic garb--white prayer cap, white thob. I also saw a very ragged looking African man sitting on the pavement with his pipe-cleaner legs stuffed into boots. He had an open box of biscuits to his left and a quarter-full bottle of some orange liquid to his right, so at least he had food--of a sort. Meanwhile, although it was over 80 F the man was wearing a winter coat. His head was huddled over his knees, and I thought that whatever he had expected when he left for Europe, it surely was not this.

From Firenze to Florence

Whenever talking about Firenze, B.A. and I called it Florence, which is something I would never, ever have done on my first or second trip to the city. I had, after all, studied Italian for three years at high school, taken it up again after undergrad and was the "Italian-speaking" person in my office. It wasn't FLORENCE, it was FIRENZE.

I have calmed down a bit since then. Besides, my allegiances have switched to Kraków, which is always, always Kraków and never drug-dealing cow.  

By the way, I have found my lost youth. When I spent a week in Flor---irenze, I slept at the splendid Hotel Alessandra. Mine was the single room with use of the bathroom down the hall. This bathroom had a real bath, and I remember bathing in it, terrified lest (somehow) the lock fall off and someone come in. 

This discovery is thanks to a Fodor's Guide of the time, which I have before me. From a red ink notation I see that the church I attended every day just to be seen and recognized by someone was Santa Trinitá. Oh how sad: on page 104 blue ink beside the information for "Piazza della Republica" says, "Whenever I see it, I know I'm lost again     possibly because I mean S. Maria Novella." 

Travelling as a very shy Single was certainly a challenge. I'm glad I had such a nice room. 

Skipping ahead several years, the ports of call for Day 1 of  B.A.'s and my Florentine trip were the modest B&B called "Il Maggio", in which we had no view, the excellent trattoria known as "Il Mostrino", il Duomo and a not-so-good restaurant I won't bother to name. Florentine cooking was once famously bad for Italy (except for the steaks), and so ordering the traditional bread-and-tomato soup (pappa col pomidoro) was taking a gamble. The trouble was, the food at Il Mostrino was so good, I was seduced into thinking Florentine cooking had improved overall, everywhere.

Day 2 began with an early morning walk along the river and then meeting up with friends at St Mark's Church to pray and admire the art. There was a lovely Fra Angelico "Annunciation" there that I didn't remember ever seeing before. But of course the real treat was the Museo di San Marco, which was once the Dominican monastery home of Fra Angelico. He painted all over it, and Benedict Ambrose was delighted with the meditative frescoes in the monks' cells. Then we all got into taxis and went to lunch at Il Mostrino again. 

After lunch, B.A. and I said good-bye to our companions and walked to the Piazzale Michelangelo to look at the whole city from above. Then we climbed higher to the thousand-year-old  church San Minato di Monte. B.A. was very pleased with it and disappeared into some dark corner. I couldn't find him so I sat out in the blazing sun staring at the Zeffirelli family tomb and feeling miffed. When B.A. emerged, beatific, from the church, we climbed back down and found S. Croce. It was locked up tight, however, so instead of seeing inside, we sat in the "Finisterra" café on the piazza and had gelato and coffee. Ex-pat friends tell us never to order food anywhere within sight of something beautiful and/or old, but despite being served beside S. Croce, our refreshments cost only 6 euros. 

Trigger warning: discussion of rape of tourists.

A copy of  La Repubblica was on our table, so I read B.A. the news most pertinent to us, which was that there have been "photocopy" rapes of female tourists in Rome. The most recent victim was an Australian 40-something, who was attacked by a Romanian, and before her there had been a Brazilian 40-something, who was attacked by an Algerian and a Tunisian.  The "photocopy" quality is that the women go to bars or dance clubs on their own, meet their attacker(s)-to-be and go with him/them for a walk. They are then beaten up and raped. Yikes. How horrible. 

Although Warsaw is not Rome, that news basically answered my "Should I go to a dance club abroad by myself?" question. Mrs McLean will not be gracing the bars and clubs of big cities on her own. After quiet outings to, for example, the National Theatre, she will go straight back to her monastery/convent/hotel and lock herself in. 

End of trigger warning.

Let's see. Next we went to the Institute of Christ the King's church on the Via Tuornabuoni and went in expecting Mass in the Extraordinary Form. We were edified to see how many Florentines had turned out for it until we realized that they were actually midwestern Americans on pilgrimage and that Mass would be Novus Ordo in American. ( The chaplain-bishop worships a deity called "Gad".) We stayed until the end of the homily--which was about their itinerary--and then split. It wasn't Sunday or a Holy Day of Obligation, so don't be shocked. The first thing we did every time we entered a church was pray, so we certainly prayed a lot.  

As we were walking back to our hotel, via the Duomo--which which B.A. was in love--we found a friend sitting on the terrace of the St. Regis Hotel, so we joined her and drank champagne cocktails until it was very dark and I was hella tipsy--at which point we all moved across the piazza to the Westin Hotel, where we drank more cocktails and ate chocolate cake.

Day 3 began with our visit to the Uffizi Palace. The tickets have to be ordered in advance and then picked up exactly when you are told to pick them up. In our case this was 8:45 AM. The organization is like clockwork, and shortly after getting our tickets, we were allowed into the Renaissance Art holy of holies that is the Uffizi. We started on the top level, as you do, and I raced on ahead looking at all the paintings at once while B.A. dawdled behind appreciating everything properly. 

When I ran out of things to look at,  I sat in the hall and looked at the other tourists and their outfits. People interest me more than paintings, and that is a fact. The best dressed tourists were usually young Japanese women although I was also very impressed by  a knock-out German redhead in a black lace mini-dress. The exciting thing about the Japanese tourists was that I had never seen their clothes before. It may be that Japan has totally different shops in their High Streets. 

Naturally most of the tourists were wearing jeans and trainers (running shoes) although a lot of the women were wearing skin-tight black leggings and trainers, zzzzz. (I wonder what I was wearing? Probably the Indestructible Denim Skirt of Female Traddery, a green long-sleeved T and  a gigantic green straw hat.)  

After two hours or more, we went downstairs to admire the foreign painters, et alia. Benedict Ambrose was dismissive of Titian, and I admit his best paintings aren't in the Uffizi. There are lots of Caravaggios, if you like that sort of thing, and two paintings by Artemisia Gentileschi, possibly the only woman artist represented in the entire joint. B.A. liked the Rubenses, and I admired the lovely shoes on the well-dressed tourist minority. 

Two hours later, we were done. The sun blared down, and exhausted and hungry we marched right back to Il Mostrino. The actual mostrino himself (the chef, a waiter had told us) looked out the kitchen door to see his fans, and suddenly I saw that his was the face in the logo on the door. We had a marvellous lunch, and then went back to the B&B for our stuff before heading for the railway station. 

I have neglected to write about the glorious handbags, the stupendous shoes and the noble clothes. Let us just say that if you suddenly come into money, you should go straight to Florence/Firenze to do your wardrobe makeover. Really, really fantastic. I looked through the windows of  Chanel, which is across from the giant man-on-turtle statue currently in the Piazza della Republica. There was a young lady shopping there. She was beautiful and looked as if her whole vocation was to be beautiful. B.A. observed that it probably was.  

Tomorrow I will write about Rome and how I discouraged an African trinket-seller in Trastevere from poking my arm. I was later told that African trinket-sellers are completely harmless, but I still object to them poking me. 

Home from Rome!

On Day 12 of our wonderful Italian holiday, Benedict Ambrose and I returned to Edinburgh. The first thing we did was check his office for the post, and the second thing I did was brew a cup of good, flavourful, hipster coffee. It was a welcome-home hug in a mug. Italian coffee is good, but it is for chucking back like a caffeine shooter or for flavouring cups of milk foam. It is not for savouring. Italians are good at espresso, but they do not understand the importance of a good old cup o' joe.

No doubt I will blog for the next few days on the beauties of Italy. I won't say too much about Norcia because I have been writing articles about the Benedictine Wonder Town for various Catholic publications. Buy this week's Toronto Catholic Register, or stay tuned for a future edition of the Scottish Catholic Observer and updates to Catholic World Report. I may, however, post of photo of me riding a donkey because the cuteness is just too much.

Meanwhile, B.A. and I spent a few hours in Rome before taking the train to Spoleto and the Spoleto bus to Norcia. We spent a week (Monday to Monday) there before going to Florence (i.e. Firenze) for two nights. On Wednesday we took the bullet train to Rome and spent two nights in raffish Trastevere. This morning we woke up in our highly romantic, all-white rental apartment  (right near the Ponte Sisto), walked to the cab stand near the Teatro Argentina, and took a cab to Ciampino airport--via the Old Appian Way. Now we are home, and I am deeply grateful to myself for having cleaned everything before we left. There is nothing more aggravating then coming back from holidays to a messy house.

When I first arrived in Florence--aged 27, on a Contiki tour bus--I thought it was the most beautiful town I had ever seen. I was overwhelmed. The red rooves, the Ponte Vecchio, the Duomo, the narrow streets, the view from the Piazzale Michaelangelo... I wanted to stay a week, and so the next year I did and stayed in a wonderful room with a view. I was staggeringly, stupendously lonely. Even at 28 I was too timid to strike up conversations with strangers.

This time I arrived in Florence by train with B.A., and I didn't recognize a darned thing for ages. Our B&B (carved out of an apartment comprising part of one-and-a-half or two floors in an old building) was a fair distance from the railway station, which was itself a fair distance from the haunts of my lost youth. When we finally found the Duomo--after a boozy lunch--I wandered about on my own, trying to find my old hotel and, as I plaintively repeated, "my lost youth." When I gave up and sat beside B.A. in the "For Prayers ONLY" section of the Duomo, I remembered how lonely I had been and how maybe I should keep my lost youth lost.

Meanwhile, the old glamour of Florence had disappeared, even though now I had the money to sample all the things I eschewed during my lonely week there so long ago. First, I ate proper meals instead of nibbling pastries. Second, I drank wine at lunch and cocktails at supper. Third, I had male companionship, having got a husband in the decade-plus interval. I dragged him all the way to the Piazzale Michaelangelo---and instead of the glorious cityscape tattooing itself afresh on my brain, I felt a bit ho-hum. I wonder if this is because I have now seen other beautiful cities--Krakow, Bratislava, the restored bits of Wrocław and Warsaw--or because I am older and jaded. Hmm. It could be because I live in Edinburgh, which is truly one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

Amusingly, the most dramatic restoration of memory I experienced was yesterday in Rome when I had my first bite of tortellini con agrumi in Cul de Sac. It was just as good as all the other times I have had it--each time being spaced out by a year or more. It is really the most heavenly foodstuff I can think of.

Tomorrow I will write more about Florence. Although I didn't fall in love with it again, Florence was certainly full of beautiful things: art, architecture, shoes, boots, handbags, notepaper and American pilgrims on Day One of their Saints of Umbria tour. A short stay in Florence was a last minute idea, but I am very glad we went with it, for Benedict Ambrose (unlike me) knows really a lot about paintings and architecture.

Bona Sforza

This doesn't end well.

It is Polski Piątek, but this weekend I must not think about Polish stuff but about getting Benedict Ambrose and me to Norcia. This means immersing myself in Italian so that Italian, not Polish, first jumps to mind when I need to say something in Foreign. When I was in Belgium last year, I disgraced myself by answering various French and Flemish greetings and directions in Polish. English, aka Globish, would have been more appropriate.

However, it being Polski Piątek, I will bring your attention to an Italian-born Polish queen named Bona Sforza. She is often credited with Italian influences upon Polish cuisine. She is also blamed for the death of her daughter-in-law, the beautiful Barbara Radziwiłł, and was apparently herself poisoned---possibly by an agent of Philip II of Spain. As Philip was the devoutly Catholic king consort of Mary I of England, this rumour is eye-opening. Really, Wikipedia is dangerous--you click on one thing, and then you click on another, and then it is noon already.

According to this, Queen Bona was disgusted by 16th century meat-heavy Polish feasting habits and ordered her own court to adopt a sort of Nouvelle Cuisine--less food on the plate, but more expensive, better quality and including vegetables.  (NB Meat-consumption was, as usual, for the rich. According to Wiki, the medieval Polish poor subsisted mainly on grains--like kasza--and beans.)

The Italian queen had oranges, lemons, pomegranates, olives, almonds, broccoli and cauliflowers imported from Italy. The article says, however, that Italian recipes weren't widespread in Poland for another two hundred years. Meanwhile, long before Bona got to Poland, the sons of rich Polish families travelled to Italy to be educated, so it is likely they brought back at least "a stick of celery." (Wiki claims King Jagiello had plenty of vegetables at his court 80 years before Bona turned up.)

Apparently Bona hired Italian chefs, so continued eating Italian food through her married life. Meanwhile, I have wasted much time reading Wiki's list of regional Polish dishes, defeating the purpose of my Polish to Italian mental crossover. Here is an article about Umbrian cooking instead.

A Trad Catholic Holiday

Benedict Ambrose and I are soon going on holiday to Italy. I have studied earthquake survival tips, for we are going to Norcia, the town in Umbria near the epicentre of the St. Bartholomew's Day disaster.

By the way, it turns out you are NOT supposed to stand in a door frame. If in bed, you stay in bed and hide your head under a pillow. If out of bed, you dive under a sturdy table and hang onto the leg. If outdoors, you stay outdoors as far from decorative elements and shaky walls as possible. When the quake is over, you go outside because suddenly buildings are not your friends. During the 6.2, the Nursini fled to the piazzas.

This may sound rather stressful for a holiday, and you may well wonder why we do not return to the beaches of Santa Marinella instead. Well, the answer is simple: the Monks of Norcia. We want to go to the Extraordinary Form of the  Mass with the Monks and hear the Monks sing the Traditional Benedictine Offices. We also want to drink the monastery beer, and see what is new in the monastery shop, and contemplate the statue of St. Benedict in the piazza.

St. Benedict and his sister St. Scholastica were born in Norcia in 480. A shrine was later built over their birthplace, and Benedictines first came to live here in the 10th century. One Benedictine community or another lived in Norcia until the Napoleonic suppression. The monks were driven out, but almost 200 years later, the Nursini petitioned for their return. (See my article here, with the correction that the monks are celebrating Mass and praying Vespers in the Scavi, not the crypt.)

Norcia's tourist industry--which took a big hit, thanks to the earthquake--centres on the wonderful produce, wine and cured meats of the region. It is on a plane surrounded by hills, just adjacent to the Sibylline national park (yes, where the Sibyl lived), so it also attracts hill-walkers and fresh air fiends. Benedict Ambrose and I both love regional Italian food, and we both enjoy hill-walking, so Norcia provides us with many opportunities to share our mutual interests.

Of course, I am not quite as excited by the Offices at B.A. is. For our Norcia Christmas I bought him a monastic diurnal, which was the perfect present, but I haven't got one for myself yet. Benedict Ambrose is a church musician through and through, so he takes a special artistic as well as spiritual joy in monastic chant. Me, I'm still exulting in the fact that I'm married to such a good Catholic. If this means I'm in church more often than I like, so be it.

For his part, the language study-adverse B.A. actually exchanges greetings in Italian. He even used his small store of Italian vocabulary to buy my Christmas present, which meant more to me than the thoughtful gifts!

Norcia is a good place to celebrate Christian Christmas if you loathe the trappings of the secular jamboree. Christmas is not the principal midwinter feast in Italy; their big day is Epiphany. B.A.'s idea of the perfect Christmas is romantic solitude in the countryside, and my idea of the perfect Christmas is being surrounded by family and friends, so Norcia--a favourite retreat of Rome-based friends--provided a bit of both. I recall the Norcian December as cold (but not too cold, unless the heating is off) and a little noisy--as children kept setting off firecrackers in the piazzas--but friendly.

There is at least one crook--there's a café I like, but in future I won't be paying with notes any larger than I can possibly help--but the vast majority of townsfolk seem gracious, not grasping. I was horrified that the 6.2 quake affected them, deeply relieved that none of them were killed, and determined that Benedict Ambrose and I would return and give them our business again.

What Norcia is like in the autumn, I do not know, but I am looking forward to finding out!

Norcia Needs Our Help

Latest Update: Hilary White reports from Norcia. Absolutely harrowing.

***

Umbria has suffered a catastrophic earthquake. The epicentre was ten kilometres from St. Benedict's birthplace of Norcia (Nursia), and the nearby town of Amatrice was half-destroyed.  The Benedictines of Norcia didn't suffer any serious injuries, but their monastery and the church has taken damage.

Please consider donating to the Benedictines of Norcia here or to some agency assisting the devastated villagers of Umbria.  I will ask around and find out what those agencies are. Obviously Italy is not at the top of the list of worldwide disaster relief organizations. 

I am terribly, terribly, terribly cheap--ask any of my ex-boyfriends--no, actually, don't--but even I managed to whip out ye olde credit card and  give to the Benedictines of Norcia.  If you prefer the Extraordinary Form of the Mass, well, these are our Benedictine monks, if you know what I mean. Charity begins at home, and if you're a trad who's been to Norcia.... Well, I don't even have to finish that thought.

Update: A friend suggests Caritas Italia but also the Monks of Norcia. If you want your money to go directly to Umbrian quake survivors, it may be a good idea to donate to the monks but make a note on the donation form that the money is for devastated townsfolk. It is actually physically difficult for rescuers to get to the mountain towns of Umbria, so it looks like the locals themselves are digging through the ruins for survivors.

Update 2: If you donate to Caritas Italia, specify that the money is for the earthquake victims with the words “Colletta terremoto centro Italia” (central Italy earthquake collection)".  More information: 

The Church which is in Italy joins in prayer for all the victims, and expresses fraternal closeness to the populations involved in this tragic event. The dioceses, parish networks, religious institutions, and lay groups are invited to alleviate the difficult conditions in which the persons are forced to live. For this purpose, the president of the CEI announces a national collection, to be held in Italian Churches on 18 September 2016, coinciding with the 26th National Eucharistic Congress, as the fruit of charity which comes from it, and the participation in all the concrete needs of the affected population.

The donated collections will be promptly sent to Caritas Italiana, Via Aurelia 796 - 00165 Roma, using the current postal account # 347013, or by bank transfer of the Banca Popolare Etica, via Parigi 17, Roma – Iban: IT 29 U 05018 03200 000000011113, specifying the reason: “Colletta terremoto centro Italia” (central Italy earthquake collection).

 In addition, please pray for the dead and wounded.

Success with Languages

I am in a relationship with the Routledge Study Guides' Success with Languages. It's not an easy book. It's a book that demands concentration and, ye heavens, feedback. It's a book that defies skimming. It's the opposite of Fluent Forever and its ilk.

I read a chapter of SWL, and then take it back to the library three weeks later. A week later, I take it out again. I read another chapter. I reluctantly find a pen and paper and begin again, this time doing the "Tasks." The book is not just a strict but undeniably good teacher; it's a therapist.

Therapy is painful. Why did I give up studying Italian once I had got my OAC (A-Level equiv.)? Alas, alack, my parents wouldn't pay for me to go to  summer school in Italy, and it never occurred to me (A) to pay for it myself (B) openly defy relatives' rather antiquated beliefs about the safety of teenage girls in Italia. My brother, naturally, went to the Beauce to perfect his French. My sister, the rebel, just would have forged my parents' signature although not, admittedly, the cheque.

Today the book asked me to think about "what works" for me. What works for me--what has always worked--is writing out vocabulary words in the left margin, writing their English equivalents on the right of the margin line, and then folding over the margin, so that I can't see the vocab words. Then I try to remember what they are and write them besides the English words. Then I fold over the English and try to remember the English for the vocab. And so on.

I did that in high school for Italian, and the end result is that 20+ years later, I still remember high school Italian vocabulary. Of course, it helps that I had a thorough review when I was 27, and now go to Italy once a year or so, buying the bus tickets, the train tickets and the lunches.

Actually speaking the language most definitely works for me. Today I went by the Historical Office to give B.A. and his teammates some cake, and I ended up in the Historical Gift Shop, shooting the breeze po polsku, with a young lady who perfected her English the hard way, i.e. working in a gift shop on the Royal Mile. Jings crivens, help mah bob, as Scots  say only in jest.

(That reminds me. Today near Waverley Railway Station, as I wriggled through a heaving sea of tourists, I overheard a woman I thought was French lecturing her son about his scooter. "T'm'as fuit", I heard and then a second later realized she was saying "My foot." )

Another amazing language learning tool are good old Pimsleur CDs, which you can get from the library, so don't bankrupt yourself before you check. Italian resources are rather more plentiful than Polish resources, and as B.A. and I are going in Italia next month, I have borrowed "Pimsleur Intermediate Italian" to stock the front of my brain with useful phrases.  Pimsleur is rather limited in terms of scope and vocabulary, but it is excellent for improving your accent and jogging your memory. It is also up-to-date, which is useful as my Italian is probably of a very 1980s order.

 Anyway, I offer those titles to those of you who are slaving away at languages: Success with Languages to address your learning skills and Pimsleur to train your tongue and wallop useful phrases into your head, repetition after repetition after repetition.

So What Was He Doing?

Interesting story in the UK press today about a chap taken off the Easyjet flight from Rome to London. Apparently a female passenger told someone that he made her feel uncomfortable.

Man, after you leave behind the food court, Ciampino is already the height of discomfort. Come to think of it, I once feared I would be chucked off my Easyjet flight the moment the security lady found my 200 mL bottle of sunscreen. The look she gave me would have singed the eyelashes off a goat.

In the combox of the Daily Mail (a tabloid), commentators are having a go at the woman who supposedly "felt uncomfortable". They assume that she must be racist, and she should be arrested herself, sued, etc. They also assume she exists. Easyjet lied about the luggage; who's to say they didn't lie about the complaint?

But what is lost in the story is the word "behaviour." I found this interesting because recently I mentioned a strangely behaving fellow airline passenger to a woman at the final security desk. To be honest, I would have been more embarrassed had the woman not been--as far as I could tell--white. The directive "Don't be racist!" was banged into my head just as hard as it was into the heads of all the other kids at school. I cannot imagine saying anything to anyone about any black or brown guy unless he was actually rocking, crying and wailing "Inshaallah" in the passenger lounge.

One comfort in my life of frequent flying is that terrorists tend not to target poor old Easyjet and other cut-price airlines.  The actor James Woods may have seen the 9/11 bombers doing a dry run in first class. This is actually true: I found it on Snopes. The hero of the story is James Woods, who reported what he saw. Too bad he wasn't taken more seriously.

If you see something, say something. If someone calls you a racist, pinch yourself to make sure the bad word hasn't caused you to melt into a puddle of loathsomeness.

Collateral Damage

Who did not see this coming?

From the New York Times:

Pope Francis has announced that all Roman Catholic priests have the power to offer absolution for the “sin of abortion” during the church’s Holy Year of Mercy, which began in December. Without changing the church’s orientation on the issue, Francis described “the scar of this agonizing and painful decision” in the hearts of many women he said he had met.

For some women, his words were a source of consolation in the emotional and therapeutic labyrinth they had to navigate.The first thing I thought when I heard it was, ‘Well, at least now he will absolve me,’ ” said a 38-year-old mother of two adopted children who decided, without her husband’s knowledge, to have an abortion for personal and economic reasons. She traveled more than 50 kilometers, or 31 miles, to have the procedure

“It was not the right moment, and I knew it,” she said of having a baby. “Who are they all to judge me?”

Poor baby. Having been judged unworthy of life, I hope his/her end was quick.

A Moving Tribute

Gregory Di Pippo is the new editor of the excellent New Liturgical Movement blog. An expert himself in traditional liturgies, western and eastern, he writes movingly here of a late priest who dedicated his life to the promotion of liturgical piety.

Father Z of What Does the Prayer Really Say often remarks that "Liturgy will save the world." Certainly, the preservation of ancient Christian knowledge, particularly concerning prayer, is crucial for the survival of Christendom.

There are two kinds of liturgists, both slightly unhinged. There is the innovator, who desperately experiments with the Novus Ordo as if he does not at all trust it to do what it is supposed to do. He shores it up with oddities as if to protect it from a flood of indifference. And then then there is the traditionalist, who finds spiritual meaning in the merest twitch of a cope in an ancient rite.  The discovery that there really is edification in something so small gives the traditionist the edge over the innovator. The traditionalist is interested in the accumulated work and prayer of the Christian churches (i.e. tradition); the innovator is mostly concerned with  his own inventions.

It is to be hoped that Mr Di Pippo will one day produce books on the liturgy, for not only does he have an encyclopedic mind, he is an excellent writer and conversationalist.