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La cultura siamo noi – Noi la parola

La società siamo noi, noi la cultura e la nostra storia:  la cultura non ha comparti né livelli, o c'è - o non c'è.

Proteggiamo la cultura popolare, madre di tutte le culture!

Il materiale originale in questa pagina è © Katherine Spencer Harris: la Redazione ringrazia l'autrice per averne autorizzato la riproduzione, la rielaborazione, l'adattamento e la pubblicazione nel portale

"Impressions of Italy" di Katherine Spencer Harris

  In questa pagina 

Una vera dichiarazione d'amore all'Italia, a Roma e a Bracciano

  Pagine correlate 

Katherine Spencer Harris – Una presentazione

Una vera dichiarazione d'amore all'Italia, a Roma e a Bracciano

La nostra terra gustata con lo spirito e gli occhi di chi, per scelta, ne abbia fatto la propria dimora ed il proprio mondo, arrivando ad amarla almeno quanto, se non di più, di chi qui sia nato.

Questa è la calda testimonianza - una vera "dichiarazione d'amore" - di una nostra conterranea, "Kathy", americana di nascita, neo-"monticiana" a Bracciano, Roma.

Lasciamo volutamente il testo nella lingua originale, l'inglese, solo impaginandolo e spaziandolo in modo da facilitarne la comprensione.

Una piacevole lettura per quanti l'inglese lo parlino, ma sicuramente anche un buon esercizio per tutti quelli che lo "mastichino" appena: enjoy!

Impressions of Italy

One day in June of 1967, I said goodbye to a well-loved five-bedroom modern ranch home in suburban Connecticut, U.S.A., and boarded the plane with my husband and our family of five children, heading for a not-so-modern apartment in the not-so-suburban historic center of Italy’s capital city.

The air was warm and humid as we stepped off the plane...

I remember that there seemed to be a different, denser feel to it.

Our taxi, after the drive through neo-classic EUR and up along the Via del Mare, finally entered that unique, beautiful world of gushing fountains, corniced marble palaces, and busy, traffic-filled streets, which is Rome.

We eventually turned into a busy square and parked next to a restaurant.

On the floor above the restaurant there were offices, and on the top floors, above the offices, there was our apartment, occupying what was called the “piano nobile”, or “noble floor” and the “soprattico” or “penthouse” of the palace...

Home at last, and what a home!

Our huge apartment with its high, coffered ceilings, polished wood and glowing tile floors, its heavy, shining cherrywood furniture, gilt-framed mirrors and huge oil paintings decorating the walls, was like nothing we had ever seen before.

We walked around and around, staring, touching, pointing, leaning out the windows  and commenting to each other. 

We found a room and bathroom off the kitchen which turned out to be “the maid’s room”.  And one of the best features, according to the children, was near the floor in a corner of the kitchen.

There was actually a window through which one could see right down into the sanctuary of the church of Santa Maria in Campitelli, next door to us!

We heard the music, watched the priests and worshippers, while down below they were never any the wiser.

It was a child’s delight, a sort of innocent spying game.

How we ever settled down and got to sleep that first night, I don’t remember.

Our master bedroom was rich with satin coverlets and gold trimmed furniture. 

On the wall behind the ample bed, a half-moon window framed a view of the cupola of the nearby Synagogue.

As I soon discovered, our Piazza Campitelli bordered on the Jewish ghetto, right there in the center of Rome - home to the Vatican City and Christendom!

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An exploratory walk the next morning took us around the corner into Piazza Venezia, which is at the very heart of the Rome. 

Standing there we could see, in the distance, far down the wide Via dei Fori Imperiali, the one and only venerable Colosseum.

Of course it was exactly as it had always been pictured in my history books.

But seeing it with my own eyes made the moment become a sort of long-awaited homecoming; an intense and unexpected feeling of finding my roots.

And I can still recall that feeling as though it happened only yesterday.

The Colosseum, that grand old majestic ruin; strong, heavy-set yet graceful with its arches marching around, was real but somehow surreal.

In a relatively young America, we tend to look to the future, and what is past is often forgotten...

But in Italy, somehow the past lives on.

Here something remote and yet immediate, past and yet present; is still able to make a daily impact. 

And on that day long ago, I felt that the city of Rome welcomed me, personally, like a long-lost prodigal daughter!

Piazza Venezia was an impossible, constantly swirling mass of cars and busses, kept moving by an incredibly immaculate, gracefully gyrating policeman standing above it all on a high pedestal.

He always seemed to be performing a ballet rather than directing traffic, and he is still there, to this day! 

I am tempted to compare Rome’s tangle of streets to those of Boston, U.S.A., which are said to be the result of overpaving a lot of former cowpaths.

Also, although it is the capital of a major European country, Rome boasts no towering skyscrapers.

Perhaps thanks to this surprising fact, it has always seemed to me much more welcoming than, say, London, Paris, or New York.

I think back to one of the first times I dared to ask directions of a Roman policeman.

He looked down patiently at me, as I struggled to explain, in my text-book Italian, where it was I wanted to go.

Finally his face broke into a smile and he said “Mi dica tutto!” (Tell me everything!),  as if I were his little sister trying to describe some tragedy! 

Disarming, to say the least!

And then, I remember the first time I had a slight accident with my car.

It happened as I was trying to weave my way through the traffic in Piazza Venezia.

I didn’t really think it was my fault, but still I was a bit nervous, because the other car was definitely dented.

The driver, a young Italian man, got out and came over to where I was parked. 

I expected a latino-style tirade about the damage to his car.

But instead, he draped himself over a fender and, from what I could gather, started trying to chat me up!

I didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but just the way he said it made me able to smile, shake his hand, get back into my car and drive home.

Disarming, once again!

My amazement only grew as I got to know more about Italy.

For example, Italians are among the most punctual people I know, when it concerns their mid-day meal.

Tantalizing kitchen odors filled the air in our Piazza Campitelli, right on schedule every day (on the ground floor of our palazzo there was, and still is, one of the city’s premier restaurants, “La Vecchia Roma”).

Not only in “our” Piazza, but all over Rome, delicious hints of garlic, onion, tomato, mushroom, fish, roast pork, grilled lamb, and scores of other delightful aromas float through the air until, precisely at 1 p.m., the whole city pauses for the main meal of the day.

And what a meal! 

The steaming plates of pasta, temptingly enriched with traditional sauces, sprinkled with parmesan cheese and followed by several courses, each eaten separately, of fish and/or meat, vegetables, salads, deserts, fruit and cheese.

All this is washed down with mineral water and various lovely wines, followed by that tiny cup of surprisingly potent espresso coffee.

And the mealtime is identical here in the small suburban town near Rome, where I live today...

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“How do I love thee?”,  Shakespeare said.  

Here are some of the many ways I now love Italy...

I love the cobblestone streets and the sturdy, sober grey stone houses here in Bracciano, where we moved after retiring.

I used to adore the smell of woodsmoke coming from every chimney, beginning on the first really cool days in November.

Now almost everyone prefers city gas for cooking and heating, and wood fires are mostly lit for atmosphere, or occasional grills in homes and restaurants.

But when I go out for Autumn walks with my dog, in my mind I can still smell the fragrant, sweet smoke from burning chestnut or pine logs on every hearth, and I regret that it has become such a rarity!

I’m in awe of our 15^th century Orsini-Odescalchi Castle, which dominates the historic center of town.

It’s almost as though we who live in its shadow are in some way still protected by those sturdy walls and lofty, crenolated towers.

And I feel a reassuring sense of place when I gaze out over Lake Bracciano, which is said to be the fifth largest in all of Italy.

In its ample basin, framed around by several  picturesque rings of hills (the remaining cones of ancient volcanos), it is a vital part of the town, generously offering a daily harvest of fresh eels and other lakefish.

And one of the views of Lake Bracciano which I dearly love is that from the window of an airplane, coming directly over Lake Bracciano in the approach to Leonardo Da Vinci (Fiumicino) Airport!

Every day at least one of my walks takes me past a nearby look-out point over the lake.

From there I can view a spectaular sunrise or sunset, or, on a nice day in summer, I marvel at the number of small sailboats which are sure to be out darting around on the sparkling water, catching the breezes.

I enjoy shopping in the small, family-owned stores in town, where everyone knows you and many are even your close neighbors.

There’s always much interest and anticipation when a new shop opens or changes hands, and a sense of real concern when one has to close.

The former owners of the bar on the corner by the castle square, for example, one or both of whom I used to see every day, I now see only by chance (does the bar coffee still taste as good?).

And what about the former guide to the castle, who in his day charmed children and adults alike with his stories about what glorious and inglorious goings-on transpired behind those redoubtable walls?

Well, he has been replaced by attractive and competent young women who may even speak your language (but do young guests to the castle still hang on every word?).

When you visit, you will find Bracciano (like most other Italian towns) ready and waiting to spin some local magic and maybe even to show you a fleeting glimpse of why so many visitors find that they may, like me, want to stay on as permanent residents...

Things do change in Italy, but perhaps slower and more gently here, and one is continually being reassured by “eternal” landmarks, like the Colosseum, which we are sure will always be here.

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