Music and Language

by Michele Alonzo

There are a lot of similarities between learning how to play an instrument and how to speak a foreign language.

I learned how to play guitar by myself when I was a teen ager. At that time I had a lot of passion and willingness to improve, so every day I played more and more my favorite songs and music, sometimes by myself, sometimes with friends.

I developed more skills when one of my best friends, Umberto, decided to buy a guitar for himself and started to play too. We lived in the same building and I was basically his first guitar teacher. We started to play more and more together and in 1983 we enjoyed a wonderful trip together to Munich, Germany, where we basically paid most of our expenses by collecting tips when playing on Marienplatz. In the time frame of a few years, Umberto became a professional classical guitar master, while I dedicated my time to study for very demanding exams in college. So he became my teacher and I learned a lot from him.

 

My friend Umberto

 When I came to the United States, I left my guitar in Italy and, though I promised myself that one day I would play again, I never touched a string for two decades. So when my wife gave me an acoustic guitar as Christmas present last year, I thought it could well be a decorative object of the house, because it would take years for me to play a decent melody again.

I started to try a few simple tunes that I used to play in my 20’s, every day, every night. Amazingly enough, and against any expectation of mine, with a daily practice and some patience, after a few weeks and some sore fingers, I started to reproduce the same melodies I used to play over 20 years ago. After mastering the basic chords I had learned many years ago and working on proper positions, not only could I play the same music, but I could also play some music having more complicated tablatures, that I’d never tried in my life. I was amazed at what I could do and enjoyed my instrument more and more.

This proves that the brain is like a deep drawer where we store a lot of different things in our life, data that we are not even aware we possess anymore. The trick is to find the way to re-extract that knowledge and to keep it on the surface where you have easy access.

So, if practicing a language is like playing an instrument (or any other skill), I have to come to the following conclusions:

1. Learning a language when you are young is definitely an advantage because the brain memorizes the information and stores it in the long term memory. If you exercise on the instrument when you are a young adult, that knowledge will stick with you and you will play the same after many years when you use that same instrument.

2. If you learned the proper way, it is never too late to re-extract that data and use it right, even after two or three decades. It is there, even if you think it is gone. You just need to dig it out.

3. You must be patient when studying because at the beginning you are convinced that you will never be able to remember how to play that sequence of crazy positions on the fret board or how to properly use most of the 15 tenses to conjugate a regular verb.

4. You need to be consistent, because it takes time to reach a level where you don’t feel that people have to plug their ears when you play or speak.

5. Whatever level you are, you can get better. You can play a song better and better if you try each and every day, as you can pronounce and articulate a sentence better and faster if you use it consistently every day.

6. No matter how dedicated you are, there will always be a friend or neighbor who will play or speak better than you, because he or she has a better ear or because he or she has more time to study and practice. So don’t be frustrated, but listen to him or her and learn as much as you can, possibly playing or speaking with that person.

In conclusion, when students ask me what is the best way to learn Italian or to improve the knowledge of the language, I say: start studying now, be patient, be consistent, be confident, take your time, and don’t be disappointed if you don’t become fluent. It is important that even 20 years from now, you will be able to find your way again and to enjoy something you always liked.



First Words and Secret Codes

Genova, photo by Maryl Smith

My son was born in 1984 and the first word he learned from life in Cincinnati, Ohio was "owl."  Not the bird kind. The ATM.  In the mid-eighties, Central Trust (now PNC) created a marketing campaign to encourage customers to use a brand new technology with 24-hour access to their cash. They named their automatic teller machines the OWL and plastered locations all over town with their easily recognizable logo.  I didn't realize how often we were stopping by the money machine until one day my two year-old picked up on the obvious after I told him he couldn't have a toy truck in the window because we didn't have the money.  "OWL, Mommy, OWL," he said with a big smile, sure he'd solved all our problems.

Wow.  Usually parents are proud when kids learn something new all by themselves, but a quarter of a century after the fact, I'm still embarrassed about what came out of my babe's mouth and what it told me about who we were back then. 

I remember the first word I learned all by myself in Italian.

"Passione."

A few months after I started to date Michele, I enrolled at School Amici because his family didn't speak any English.  I was falling in love.  We talked about going home together.  Word got around quickly that I was the director's girlfriend and during the break other students would approach me about their "passione" for Italy.  "L'aria," they'd say with a dreamy look in their eyes .  "There's just something different about it."

I heard the word so often, "passione" naturally worked its way into homework assignments and dinner conversations, usually as a joke.  But I never interchanged the English word even if I was speaking English, because I could see in the speakers' eyes that the Italian version was a different beast, one that had nothing to do with sex and could not be directly translated no matter how much the two words sounded alike.

A couple years after we were married, I decided to spend two months in Siena working on my language skills at Dante Alighieri.  Different school.  Different country.  But there they were again, foreigners who looked a lot like me, usually middle-aged, almost always female, talking about their "passione."  Women from Germany.  Women from South Africa.  Women from Japan.  They'd flown half-way across the world to connect with a piece of their soul.

But my personal knowledge of the word remained purely intellectual. While I could use "passione" correctly in a sentence, it was something I'd never experienced about a place.  Italy was a pretty country, of course.  The food was tasty.  Lots of nice churches and old stuff.  "But I like lots of countries," I'd explain whenever this new group brought it up.  I was a cynic, secretly sure that these women were really just lonely and sad and depressed, desperately searching for a reason to feel.   "Passione must be the code word for a fling," is what I really thought, one last romance far from the tedious responsibilities of wherever they called home.

This year, ten years after I started to study the Italian language, I spent three weeks driving around the Riviera with my twenty-nine year-old daughter.  We had a blast.  One of the highlights happened on my last day when I overhead the desk clerk at the hotel explain to another member of the staff that the woman in Room 112 (me!) was American, but "lei parla italiano."

This time something had changed.  This time, I didn't want to get on the plane.  The morning after, when I put on a pot of coffee in my own kitchen, the same brand of coffee I always buy in Cincinnati, it tasted like sand.  I missed that faint, subtle scent in the early evening air that reminds you of nutmeg.   I went grocery shopping without make-up and when nobody sent the produce manager to the back in search of a more perfectly ripe melon, I was disappointed.  It was wrong, wrong, all wrong.

Three months later, it still is.  Italy apparently, with its great and infinite patience, has slowly whittled away at my defenses until I finally found my "passione."  It took me ten years, but I broke the code and now that's where I want to be, in a country where the first word you learn is about what you long for in your heart as opposed to efficient access to your cash..

Ultima Festa del Papa' (The Last Father's Day) di Michele Alonzo

Bilingual post (English version follows)

Raffaele e Michele

 Non ricordo quante “Feste del Papà” ho celebrato con mio padre. Da bambino non molte di certo. Non perchè non volessi bene a mio padre, ma perche’ in fondo i genitori si prendono sempre un po’ per scontato. Quando sei piccolo vedi tuo padre come una guida e sei troppo giovane per riconoscerne ed apprezzarne i sacrifici. Crescendo, a volte ti sembra di essere mentalmente tanto distante da lui. Ma da adulto maturo poi ti senti di nuovo vicino, perchè capisci molte cose che prima non potevi capire e ti accorgi inoltre che con i tuoi figli sei in fondo spesso simile a quel padre che ora non hai piu’, e di cui hai solo ricordi, ricordi di un passato più o meno lontano.

In Italia la Festa del Papà non si festeggia a giugno, ma il 19 marzo. Quest’anno quella festa in Italia è caduta esattamente tre mesi prima. E, per una strana coincidenza, la Festa del Papà qui negli USA e' coincisa con un mese esatto dalla scomparsa di mio padre: Raffaele (in famiglia chiamato Lello). Mi sono perciò venuti alla mente quei ricordi di un passato più o meno lontano: le Feste del Papà di tanti anni fa mi fanno ricordare la semplicita’ e la frugalita’ di mio padre.

Ogni volta che accennavo a comprargli qualcosa per quel giorno, lui rispondeva sempre nello stesso modo “Non spendere soldi; mi basta un dopo barba o una piccola bottiglia di colonia qualsiasi”. A lui in realta’ piaceva un tipo in particolare: si chiamava “Tabacco d”Harar” che da tempo non e’ piu’ in commercio. Gli piaceva l’aroma speziato di quel profumo e ne metteva poche goccie ogni tanto, per cui una bottiglia gli durava quasi un anno intero. Così per alcuni anni, seguendo il suo consiglio ed anche il suo desiderio, ho continuato a rimpiazzare quella semplice bottiglia di colonia che costava solo poche migliaia di vecchie lire dei risparmi personali. Lui era sempre contento perche’ non spendevo molto, ed io mi sentivo soddisfatto di avergli dato qualcosa che avrebbe usato con piacere ogni volta.

His Favorite Cologne

Il 19 marzo di quest’anno, come ogni anno, l’ho chiamato a telefono per fargli gli auguri; era qualche settimana prima che fosse ricoverato in ospedale per la sua grave malattia, che ultimamente lo aveva debilitato enormemente. Non gli ho dato regali questa volta, ma dopo gli auguri, gli ho detto di darsi coraggio, pensando in me stesso che quella era probabilmente la sua ultima “festa”. Piu’ che di regali, aveva bisogno di forza morale e parole di fiducia per una battaglia che aveva combattuto gia' a lungo. Fu una telefonata di pochi minuti, una breve conversazione, semplice ma significativa, come semplice e significativa era quella bottiglia di “Tabacco d”Harar” che lui aveva ricevuto per tanti anni. Purtroppo quella e’stata una delle ultime conversazioni di piacere avute con lui.

Quando due mesi dopo sono ritornato nella mia città natale per dargli l’ultimo saluto al suo funerale, volevo portare con me qualcosa che simbolicamente restasse con lui per sempre, anche dopo la morte.

Mio padre conservava tutto, ma non è mai stato un collezionista. Tuttavia negli ultimi anni aveva cominciato a raccogliere monete di tanti paesi al mondo e di ogni tipo: vecchie, nuove, piccole, grandi, in corso e fuori corso. Le metteva persino in cornici di legno costruite da lui stesso. Lo scorso Natale mi aveva dato alcune delle sue vecchie monete d’argento di 500 lire degli anni ’60, di quando io ero bambino. Le aveva pulite con cura, prima di arrotolarle nella carta. Così giusto un mese fa, poche ore prima di salire sull’aereo che mi avrebbe condotto a Napoli, ho messo nella mia valigia due grosse monete americane da 50 centesimi. Erano per lui. Èd è ciò che ho deposto nella sua bara il giorno del funerale. Due monete da 50 centesimi: semplici, modeste, ma significative, che lui avrebbe apprezzato proprio perche tali…. proprio come quella vecchia bottiglia di speziato “Tabacco d’Harar”.

500 lire Silver Coin

English version


I don’t remember how many Father’s Days I have celebrated with my father. As a kid, certainly not so many. Not because I did not care for my father, but because kids often take parents for granted. When you are a little kid, you see your father as a guide, and are too young to recognize and appreciate his sacrifices. Growing up, sometimes you feel mentally distant from him. But then, as a mature adult, you feel yourself close to him again, because you understand many things that before you couldn’t; and you also realize that after all, with your kids you are very similar to that father you don’t have anymore, of whom you only have memories, more or less distant in time.

In Italy Father’s Day is not celebrated in June, but on March 19. This year that day in Italy fell exactly three months earlier. And, just by coincidence, Father’s Day in the USA has marked exactly one month from my father’s death: Raffaele (called Lello in the family). So, today some memories from past Father’s Days came to mind, days that remind me about the simplicity and frugality of my father.

Every time I offered to buy something for him on that day, he answered the same way: “Do not spend too much money; an after shave or a simple bottle of cologne is enough.” He liked a particular brand called “Tabacco d’Harar.” (They don’t make it anymore.). He liked the spicy fragrance of that cologne and he used just a few drops from time to time, so a bottle would last him an entire year. So, for a few years, following his advice and desire, I have continued to replace that simple bottle of cologne, which cost only a few thousand lire from my personal savings. He was happy that I did not spend too much and I was satisfied to give something that he would like and use with pleasure

March 19 of this year, as every year, I called him on the phone to wish him happy Father’s Day. It was a few weeks before he would be admitted to the hospital for his disease, which lately had impaired him enormously. I did not give him a present this time, but after the greetings, I told him to be strong and to keep up, thinking to myself that it was probably the last Father’s Day for him. More than any present, he needed moral support and words of reassurance for a battle he had already fought for a long time. It was a short conversation, simple but meaningful, like that bottle of “Tabacco d’Harar.” Unfortunately that was one of my last meaningful conversations with my father.

At a Restaurant in Naples (Summer 2009)

Exactly two months later I returned to my hometown to say goodbye for the last time at his funeral. I wanted to take something that would stay with him forever, even after death.

My father used to save everything, but has never been a collector. However, in the past few years, he started collecting coins from many countries in the world; coins of any kind: old, new, small, big, in circulation and out of circulation. He even used to put them in wooden frames that he built himself. Last Christmas he gave me some silver 500 lire coins from the Sixties, when I was a little kid. He had carefully polished them to remove the oxidation before putting them in some paper. So, exactly a month ago, a few hours before getting on the plane to Naples, Italy, I put two big 50 cent American coins in my suitcase. They were for him. That’s what I placed in his casket the day of the funeral. Two 50 cent coins: simple, modest, but meaningful, which he would have appreciated just as such… just like that simple, inexpensive bottle of spicy “Tabacco d’Harar”.

Good Wine and Drug Rehab??????

by Marty Piazza of Piazza Discepoli

The region of Emilia-Romagna is not particularly well known in America for its wines.  If it is known at all it is due to the inglorious reputation as the home of Lambrusco – that bubbly sweet red that my father used to call Bologna Cola.  The situation is changing, however, as wine specialists are finding some parcels of their geography very suitable to cultivation.

Emilia-Romagna may be Italy’s most flat region, and fine wines often require some hillsides. As you follow the Adriatic coast north through Le Marche, you enter Emilia-Romagna just south of the city of Rimini (home of Federico Fellini). If you turn inland (west) and drive just a few miles, the terrain becomes hilly.   This area is home to San Patrignano, an Azienda Agricola that is becoming famous for some special wines.

This month’s wine is their 2008 Aulente Rosso Rubicone, a hearty red made from 100% Sangiovese which sells for $18.99/bottle. It is full of red cherries, tobacco, licorice and spices, and its muscle does demand food (as most Italian reds do). Compared to a Chianti from Tuscany (which is made from Sangiovese), this wine is a little lower in acidity and warmer in its fruit.

While their wine is an excellent value, what drew me to San Patrignano is its reputation for a mission much bigger than wine production.  The largest drug rehabilitation community for youth in Western Europe, they provide their services completely free of charge, accepting no payment or funding from their families or the government. Since 1978, San Patrignano has taken in over 18,000 people, offering them a home, health care, legal assistance, and the opportunity to study, learn a job, change their lives, and regain their status as full members of society.

One of the jobs the participants can learn there is wine-making. This may be shocking to an American, but it is a clear reminder of how differently the Italian culture views wine – more as a food group than a substance to be abused. In fact, each participant in their program has the option of 2 glasses of wine with both lunch and dinner daily.

Watch the video on their website for a fascinating story.  The custom of using agricultural programs to help troubled youth can be found all around Italy – yet another example of what we Americans can learn from our friends across the sea.

It's Fun to Dream in Italian

If you've talked to me recently you know that Michele and I are exploring the possibility of a second home in Italy.  (At least I am and Michele has quit trying to talk me out of it.) Shopping for real estate in a foreign country is not easy.  Every day I spend at least 30 minutes with the internet listings trying to figure out how much we're going to have to pay and where we want to look.

While there isn't any single site like the Multiple Listing Service in Italy, the biggest on-line real estate advertiser is Annunci Immobiliare.   For the first week or so I was using the butchered English translation until I realized I was wasting the perfect opportunity to improve my vocabulary in a painless and practical way. 

pavimento genovese

Here is a smattering of words I've learned within the context of looking for property: 

Ascensore. (elevator)  This is a very important word as we want to be able to have Michele's parents come stay with us and they cannot climb steps.  There are lots of incredible bargains all over Italy if you are willing to walk up to the third or fourth floor or buy a cielo-terra (on multiple levels).

Arredato (furnished)  If an Italian owns the property, this probably means they are leaving the kitchen cabinets.  If a foreigner has renovated a house in a small hill town, most likely it includes every stick of furniture in the place.  There are lots of these available at great prices if you are interested in getting away from it all, like to drive, and are not afraid of steps.

 500,000 Euro

Vista Mare (view of the sea)  This is a very, very expensive word.  It comes in two forms:  spettacolare, which means "go to the next ad" and scorcio vista mare, which means you have to lean out the bathroom window and hold on to the downspout to get a glimpse of water.

Here's what we're looking for:

Elegante palazzo d'epoca
Con ascensore
Composto da ingresso, sala, 2 camere matrimoniali, cucina abitabile
Ampio bagno con vasca e doccia
Riscaldamento autonomo
Balcone o terrazza al piano
Molto luminoso
Completamente ristrutturato
Adiacente stazione

Of course, for those of you who know Michele, I probably don't have to state the obvious:  We'd like all this and we dream it's cheap.

Siena is Best at Night

by Melinda Cebula Harris

Siena is its best at night. The night air is cool compared to the often humid and hot temperatures of the day; the tourists have gathered up their shopping bags and are in route to a larger city to sleep the night away; and the locals are heading out for dinner or for an evening “passeggiata” (stroll). 

The ambiance of the city in one word is happy. The narrow streets are aglow with the light of delicate street lamps and the night air is filled with the distinct “clink” of forks and knives, laughter, and even babies crying. As you look around you see people of all ages, grandmas and grandpas (nonne e nonni), families with small children, groups of boys, groups of girls, and young couples clearly in love. There is a certain allure to Siena at night; there is something about it that draws even the most exhausted person out of their home.

We have spent many of our evenings amongst the Sienese people and have enjoyed our exchanges of conversations with the locals. I am often excited to try speaking my broken Italian to the Sienese and I have found they are just as excited to practice their broken English. These conversations often lead to much laughter as we search for the correct words or for the correct understanding. 

Upon our arrival in Siena we were fortunate to be invited to attend the banquet dinner of the Elefante’s contrada. Excitedly, I accepted, putting aside our complete exhaustion from our overseas travels. Each of the 17 contrade hold banquet dinners in preparation and celebration of the upcoming Palio as a way to raise money and support. As we strolled down the narrow twists and turns of Elefante’s streets we could smell the banquet before we could actually see it. The smells of garlic, pizza, grilled meats, pasta and the sweetness of sugary treats filled the air; rounding the bend we found the party already in full swing. Women with aprons tied around their waists taking food to and from tables; families and friends toasting, tasting and talking; a small band on a platform entertaining the contrada; and small children pulling at their mothers shirts whining “Voglio ballare, Mamma” (I want to dance, Mom). 

Melinda's Mom

We started our dinner with white wine and crostini, pretty safe treats for American girls, but our dinner had many surprises in store for us! As the first dish was presented to mom and me our eyes met and locked for a moment. I knew what she was thinking and she knew what I was thinking. What is this?!?! I had to fight my little kid urge to smell and poke at the blob of pink “stuff” that lay before me. Around this pinkness, slices of lemon were placed in an artistic fashion, in my mind a thought passed as to what this unknown antipasti was, but I told myself, “No, it couldn’t be…”. So, I politely picked up my fork, sank it into the glob, and brought the reward to my lips… Panicked thoughts raced through my mind, “Oh my goodness, it is raw ground beef”. Knowing how Italians take pride in their food, I forced a smile and a polite comment of, “This is nice.” With great effort we both managed a few (tiny) bites before having to push the plate aside. 

Luckily, we found sweet relief in our next course, Burrata e Asparagi. My dear friends, I don’t believe I have ever, until this moment, eaten something in which I didn’t want to swallow because the taste was simply heaven. I can’t adequately describe Burrata e Asparagi and the complete satisfaction it created, but I promise you this, if I find a recipe and I can recreate this masterpiece in my kitchen, all of you are invited for dinner! The meal continued with three additional courses and soon we found “Tartara agli Aromi” (AKA raw beef) a distant memory.

After 2 hours of eating, people watching, laughing, and talking, we pushed ourselves away from the table to make our way home. It was a wonderful way to begin our summer in Siena; it was a night in which we felt, if even for only a moment, what it would feel like to be Italian. 

To read more about Melinda's adventures in Siena last summer:

http://labellavitainitalia.blogspot.com/2010/07/learning-italian.html

Italian Fashion Reaches New Heights of Sophistication

Tired of wearing that same-old, same-old? 

Does your wardrobe need a little ooommph?

Arianna and Fabio Alonzo

This year School Amici comes to the rescue with the latest in Italian-American design.  It is with great pride that we introduce the long-awaited "Parli Italiano?" t-shirt.

Click to enlarge.

No matter where you travel this summer, the front of this t-shirt is guaranteed to start a lot of conversations in any language.  Show a little "home pride" as you walk away with a back side that proclaims you're from School Amici, "a little bit of Italy on the Ohio Riviera."

Since our students are always on the cutting edge of style, we know you'll want to look just like our hip, young models (Michele's son and daughter).  Order yours today here

Available in both Men's and Women's styles.  Sizes S, M, L, XL are available immediately.  Other sizes take about two weeks.  $20, plus $5 shipping and handling  (or you can pick one up at school with advance notice).

Hot Cannolis

by Lois Santangelo, proprietor of  Oakley Wines

For all lovers of authentic Italian cannolis, here is a tip!  Skirtz and Johnston Bakery on West Elder at Findlay Market makes real authentic cannolis. You can purchase the handmade shells and get the delicious ricotta based filling dotted with tiny chocolate chips seperately. The filling is packaged in a triangular plastic bag in very generous portions, so that you snip off the corner and fill the cannolis when you are ready to serve them. 

For those of you who may not have tried making these from scratch, this is a great time saver.  The dough for the shells is very hard to handle and roll out and then you need to put them on forms and deep fry them.  It is a real production!.

The Skirtz and Johnston version is delicious and much less trouble.  By filling them right before serving, you eliminate that mushy cannoli that is just not appealling.  So call them at 513-381-1286 and order your fabulous dessert! And in the process you are supporting a great new business at historic Findlay Market! 

La Via per Cincinnati: Cristian Pietoso

Cristian Pietoso, born and raised in Florence, Italy came to Cincinnati for the same reason countless other immigrants have come before him.  He came because of family.

His father's people are "meridionale," from the south in Naples where a steady paycheck is not easy to find.  First one uncle relocated to St. Louis.  Then another.  Finally his father, Nicola, a graduate of the Culinary Institute of Florence, came to join them.  But the Italian community was so big in St. Louis that it was hard to stand out in the restaurant business.  When the owners of Verdin Bell called and offered an opportunity to start a new establishment in one of their empty buildings on Sycamore St. in Cincinnati, Nicola decided to take a chance.


After Cristian graduated from the same school where his father studied, it was only logical that he should join the family business in Ohio.  Soon after he took over the kitchen at Nicola's, word got around about the imaginative young chef.  Three years ago the Pietosos decided to expand their operation to include a more casual dining experience on Fountain Square named Via Vite (Vine Street) which features wood fired pizzas and the pasta bolognese that is so popular in Over the Rhine. The atmosphere may be hip, more American contemporary, but oceans cannot separate Italians from who they really are. "My grandma's peperonata," is one of  the side dishes on Cristian's menu:  sweet peppers, onions, and tomatoes, a taste of what his family left behind.

For those of us in the Queen City who appreciate great food prepared from the finest, freshest ingredients, where the pasta is never "mushy", we are lucky.  Italians don't like to move and they hate to change jobs so it looks like the Pietosos are here to stay.   Last year Cristian married Amanda, a local girl, and their daughter, Ilaria, was born in November. 

* * *

On Sunday, March 6th at 10am, Cristian has agreed to open Via Vite just for School Amici.  For two hours he will personally demonstrate how to prepare a traditional pasta cavolfiore (cauliflower), a special appetizer and tiramisu.  Then we get to eat!  Space is limited to 25 and we only have a few remaining seats, so if you'd like to join us, please register as soon as possible at School Amici

La Via per Cincinnati: Pietro Cassinadri

Lazio Region between Rome and Naples

La Via per Cincinnati

di Pietro Cassinadri

(English version follows Italian)

Erano anni magnifici. Incontrai Sharon sul lungomare a San Felice Circeo, il 7-7-67, dopo aver fatto una regata lo stesso giorno. Lei era di Dearborn, Michigan. Ritorno' a Natale, a poi l'anno dopo venne in Europa. Io andai alla scuola Sottufficiali della Guardia di Finanza, e poi fui mandato a Menaggio, Domaso, Valsolda, Ponte Tresa, Maccagno. Sharon continuava a trasferirsi seguendo i miei itinerari.

Ci sposammo nel 1972. In ottobre nostro figlio Silvio nacque a mori' nell'ospedale di Varese. Sharon era in fin di vita, a causa di un'emorragia. Dopo quattro o cinque ore di interventi, i dottori mi chiamarono nella sala operatoria, mi dissero che non c'era piu' niente da fare, mi offrirono un caffe', e se ne andarono. Un prete venne a darle l' Estrema Unzione. Poi anche lui se ne ando'. Lei era inconscia,  ed io li', a guardare la macchina respiratoria, aspettandomi che si fermasse da un momento all'altro.

Non so quanto tempo passo', ma continuavo ad accarrezzarle la testa, ed ad un certo punto le chiesi se volesse vivere ancora, e lei mosse la testa su e giu', vigorosamente. Allora mi misi a gridare: "E' ancora viva, e' ancora viva!" Le infermiere accorsero, e videro che il polso era ritornato!

San Felice Circeo (Latina)

Stette una settimana in cura intensiva, sempre incosciente, e quando rinvenne le dovetti dire che nostro figlio era morto, e che lei aveva subito l'isterectomia, necessaria per fermare l'emorragia dovuta ad un'infezione che non lasciava il sangue coagularsi. Lei mi guardo', disse che era tutto un brutto sogno, e ricadde in una specie di coma.

Eventualmente si riprese, e l'anno dopo decidemmo di andare in America. Per lei era un ritorno a casa, per me un passo verso l'ignoto. Arrivai in Detroit due giorni prima del Natale 1973. A quel punto ero brigadiere, ma negli USA non contava niente. Feci ogni tipo di lavoro, dal lavaggio notturno dei macchinari che fanno le patatine,  dall' imbianchino, al pavimentista. Nel frattempo continuavo gli studi; nel 1979 presi la laurea di Architettura all'Universita' del Michigan, e nel 1981 ottenni il Master. Dal 1981 in poi lavorai come architetto in Indiana, Kentucky ed Ohio. Nel 1990 incominciai a lavorare per l'Universita' di Cincinnati, che stava costruendo un campus spettacolare.

Sharon  mori' nel 1991 a Cincinnati.  Come lei voleva, sparsi le sue ceneri sul mare a San Felice Circeo, vicino  al posto dove ci incontrammo.

Io sono ancora qui.

The Road to Cincinnati

by Pietro Cassinadri

San Felice Circeo (Latina)

They were wonderful years. I met Sharon on the promenade in San Felice Circeo, on July 7, 1967, after a rowing race on that same day. She was from Dearborn, Michigan. She left and returned for Christmas, and a year later she came to Europe. I was an officer attending school in the army (Guardia di Finanza); then I was transferred from town to town (Menaggio, Domaso Valsolda, Ponte Tresa, Maccagno). Sharon kept on following me according to my itineraries.

We got married in 1972. In October, our son Silvio was born and died in the hospital in Varese. Sharon was in very critical conditions due to bleeding. After four or five hours of life saving attempts, the doctors called me into the operating room; they said there was nothing else to do, offered me a coffee and left. A priest came to give her the last rites and left too. She was there, unconscious, and I was watching the breathing machine, expecting to stop at any moment.

I do not know how much time elapsed, but I kept caressing her head, and at one point I asked if she wanted to live; she moved her head up and down, vigorously. Then I began to shout: "She is still alive, still alive!" The nurses came running and realized that her pulse was back!

She remained a week in intensive care, still unconscious, and when she recovered consciousness I had to tell her that our son was dead, and that she had undergone hysterectomy, which was necessary to stop the bleeding due to an infection that did not allow the blood to clot. She looked at me and said that it was just a bad dream, and fell into a sort of coma.

Pietro and Sharon, Rome, 1970

Eventually she recovered, and the year after we decided to go to America. For her it was a homecoming; for me a step into the unknown. I arrived in Detroit two days before Christmas of 1973.

At that point I was a sergeant, but in the U.S. I was nothing. I worked any kind of job, from washing machines used to make chips at night to wall painter to floor maker. In the meanwhile I kept on studying; in 1979 I graduated as an architect from University of Michigan, and in 1981 I obtained the Master Degree.

From 1981 onwards I worked as an architect in Indiana, Kentucky and Ohio. In 1990 I started working for the University of Cincinnati, which was building a spectacular campus.

Sharon died in 1991 in Cincinnati. As she wished, I scattered her ashes on the sea in San Felice Circeo, near the place where we met.

I am still here.