People and Names

Mama and daughter make homemade pasta at an agritourismo

People. As Americans we naturally talk to people and want to find out all about them, even strangers on a street. A uniquely American trait, shared a bit by the Irish, Australians and New Zealanders, but definitely not the Europeans. Americans don’t understand this and are often hurt and offended by Europeans. Europeans, especially in the big cities, wrap themselves in a bubble of isolation unless you know them personally. On a street, in a store, on a bus, in a hallway or waiting room, they ignore you. Completely. You have to fall on top of them or spill coffee in their laps to get a reaction. You can brush shoulders with them and they ignore you. The first time it happened to me I was in Rome in a really small café with my son. I sat down at a tiny table while he ordered the coffee and pastry. Next to my table was another table with a man sitting about three feet away facing me. I naturally smiled at him – can’t help it, I’m Amercian. I wish I had a camera to have captured the look on his face. His lips didn’t move, but his eyes were panic stricken. He looked like a cornered animal and clearly had no idea what to do. If he could have jumped up and run away he would have, but I had him boxed in and he was still drinking coffee. I finally turned away to give him a break. Another time I was on a cruise in the Mediterranean with mainly Europeans. If you have ever been on a cruise you know the hallways are quite narrow. Every other cruise I have been on people smile and make comments to each other as you are passing in the hall. Someone usually has to move aside and the silence is just silly as you are almost walking right into the other person. Not on this cruise. Nobody even acknowledged one another or made eye contact in passing – sort of like on the New York subways. The only exception was if a baby or small child was present, then barriers were down and contact was allowed.

So coming to stay in a small European town was going to be interesting from the people perspective. Would I get to know anyone? Would they be nice to me? Would they at least smile? One day in Rome on this trip I had been walking on the Borgo Pio, a popular street that runs near the Vatican. It has lots of restaurants, tourist shops, and religious goods stores. I had been in the city for a while so I was used to the aloof and condescending big city attitude of shopkeepers. I entered a tiny convenience store I hadn’t been in before and the husband and wife owners were all smiles and welcoming and trying to help me. I was shocked. I had forgotten what good customer service and plain old kindness was like. I felt terrible I couldn’t find anything to buy.

I determined then I would smile and say hello to everyone in Praiano. After all, seven weeks is a long time to be aloof and if nothing else I would wear them down. I needn’t have worried. Praiano is three and a half hours drive and another world from Rome. If I said hi, they said hi. Most of the time if I smiled they smiled too. At first some were not into the smile, but eventually they have all started smiling. Some of the old men would really look hard at me when I first said hi, as if wondering who I was and did they know me, but they would always reply back. Most of the people in my immediate area are used to me now and  they just think I’m the crazy American who came before tourist season started.

The first person I met by name besides Adraina, was Magdalena from church. As I mentioned in other postings, Don Pio had announced who I was when my son was saying mass with him, and on another day when I came to daily mass. One night as we were leaving mass this little lady started talking to me. I said my standard “non parlo Italaino” but it didn’t really matter to her. I think we were talking about my son and the rain and whatever!?! I then told her my name so she would tell me hers. That is when I first started to find out about Italians and non-Italian names. I said  “Mi chiamo Peggy” She babbled away with more unintelligible Italian. I said it again. No reaction. Then I asked her her name. I think I said it wrong, but she got the idea and gave me her name and asked me mine. I thought, I gave you my name  three times. So finally I said “Mi chiamo Margherita” And she was all happy now to know my name. So then I had one friend.

Several more times I said the “mi chiamo Peggy” to people and they just looked at me like I said “green is actually pink”. Absolutely no comprehension of the word Peggy. So I changed my name back to my birth name and they are all happy. Adriana calls me Peggy, but with the emphasis on the y so it sounds like pegYEE. Even if they can get the name right they don’t pronounce like we do. My sons’ friend’s name is Craig and he said he should have just changed it to Greg five years ago when he started studying in Italy because they cannot put the K sound in front of Greg. They also want to call him Gregario the Italian name. But they try Craig by going K-K-K-K-K-Greg, or K—K-K-K-K-GregKKK, or Gregkkk or, ”I cannot say your name”.

 I should have known to use Margherita. When I first came over to Rome my daughter’s residence had arranged to have a driver pick me up from the airport. I was just supposed to look for a man, the driver, with my name on a sign when I cleared customs. When I told my son this, he said okay, but if he looks sketchy then just keep walking and grab a cab. I’m like, what? Sketchy, define sketchy.  My daughter wasn’t sure either so I thought, I guess I’ll go with my gut. As I cleared customs I’m hauling all my luggage and reading the signs ready to keep walking  if I see my name in a ‘sketchy’ guys' hands. What I do see is Margherita Burns in a man’s hands and my first thought is, ‘I’m named after a pizza!’ I mean, there my name is in Italian and I’m a pizza! I forgot the whole sketchy thing and walked up to him and almost said “I’m your pizza”, instead of “I’m Margherita.” But I managed to blurt the right words and he wasn’t sketchy and I’m over being named after a pizza.

I am also named after a flower though, as one of my next new friends told me. My little market is run by a family as I mentioned earlier. An older man, a middle aged woman and her two sons. After the funeral in the family they finally opened their market again. I was very unclear on who had died but I looked up the word for condolences in cases I needed it. The little old man seemed to be in charge of the produce – isn’t that Italian? Every day they haul all the produce outside, as there isn’t room inside the tiny market and set up the produce display. Then they haul it back in from 1:00 to 4:00 for siesta or riposo as they call it here, and then haul it back out for the evening. It’s pretty much self serve as they weight it when you check out. But the little man, Giovanni, walks back and forth and hands you a bag if you need and gossips with any other old men hanging around. I think it was his wife who died. As I was leaving that day I saw a man stop to talk to him so I went back and gave my standard ‘non parlo itliano’ line and then said the words I looked up for condolences. They seemed to be right, he seemed to be the right person to say them to, and he of course started telling me how miserable he was and all sorts of stuff in Italian. I felt just awful for him. He was so cute and sweet and I just did not have the words for him, but I think I made all the right hand gestures and he was grateful. The next day I said it to the woman who runs the store and a young female customer was there who helped translate, I found out she was the sister-in-law of the deceased woman, and her name was Rosetta. And it was Rosetta, who runs the store, who told me we are both named after flowers. Rosetta’s sons are Silvio and Jeanlucca who always have several days worth of beards on their faces and didn’t let on to me that they knew any English for at least three weeks. I was mad at them for that. Now they help me with my Italian, but mostly they use English with me. I always hand over all my change and let them pluck what is appropriate out of my hand because Italians have this weird thing about change.

Italians don’t like making change. The way into an Italians heart is not through their stomachs, it is through correct change. They hate it, hate it if you only have a 20 Euro bill for a 2.50 Euro transaction. They’ll partly forgive you if you have 50 cents and 2 Euro so they only have to give you 15Euro back. They will actually charge you what they want so the change comes out even. Really. And they will make change for the person in front of you and then look at you and refuse to give you change. And there is nothing you can do about. They will also round up or down so they don’t have to hand out more change. Say the price is 3.62 and you hand over 3.70. They will just keep the whole 3.70. But if you only have 3.60 they will just take the 3.60 rather than breaking a larger bill or having to give change for 3.70. Is your head spinning? It must all even out at some point I guess. So, I just hold my hand out to Silvio and Jeanlucca – I can’t figure out the system and I trust them.

 I  made the most horrible of horrible mistakes though. I went to the Post Office with a letter destined for Rome and I only had a 20Euro bill. The office itself is about the size of a postage stamp and had two people working there. The first employee couldn’t figure out how to stamp it!?! Rome! So I was sent to the other employee and in the meantime another woman came in behind me. I told the postal lady I didn’t speak Italian, but she insisted on asking me questions. I showed her the envelope and the 20Euro bill. She kept talking to me and the other employee and customer. Suddenly the customer was shouting in furious Italian and I think it had something to do with my money. She kept shouting and throwing her hands around, the postal women kept talking angrily to me and I just keep shoving the 20Euro bill at her. This continued until the employee yanked open a drawer filled with gobs of bills and coins, took my money and grudgingly gave me change. I put the change away and left as quickly as possible with the shouting still in my ears. I’m sure the employee took my letter, spit on it, ground it into dirt, and sent it via Libya as it hasn’t arrived in Rome almost four weeks later. Postal workers the world over must have an underground tutorial on how to torture customers. When I learn nasty Italian I will so be in her face!!! Okay, not true. But if I ever meet her bosses, and I ever learn any Italian, I will tell them all about the attitude adjustment that needs to occur in the Praiano Ufficio Postale. In the meantime, no one is getting any mail from me!

The Amalfi coast road