Italian Introductions

By S A Henderson

IF YOU LOVE ITALY OR HAVE PLANS TO TOUR THERE SOMEDAY, EVEN IF YOU KNOW THE COUNTRY LIKE THE BACK OF YOUR HAND - THIS BOOK IS FOR YOU. Welcome to 'Italian Introductions' where Rod and Sheryl Henderson, two Australians from Victoria, share tales of touring the highly acclaimed cities and landmarks of Italy and where they immersed themselves in th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawline Publishing Group
• Release date: May 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922701749

S A Henderson

S A Henderson was born in South Australia where she attended Largs Bay Primary School and Port Adelaide Girls Technical High School. Entering the workforce in 1969 she was employed for more than 30 years as a Medical Scientist in research and diagnostic laboratories in South Australia and Victoria. She completed an Associate Diploma in Medical Technol. from the University of Sth.Aust. in 1979 and a Master of Medical Science (Cytology) Degree, from CSU in 2002.Married with two children and three grandchildren, she lives, with a small flock of Merinos and her husband, on a ten acre hobby farm in Muckleford, Victoria. Italian Introductions is her first book which she began to write in late 2020 during the COVID 19 restrictions in Victoria.

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Italian Introductions Copyright © 2022 S.A. Henderson.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This is a work of nonfiction. The events and conversations in this book have been set down to the best of the author’s ability, although some names and details may have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

Printed in Australia

First Printing: May 2022

Shawline Publishing Group Pty Ltd

www.shawlinepublishing.com.au

Paperback ISBN- 9781922701671

Ebook ISBN- 9781922701749

To Rita.

Acknowledgements

I wish to acknowledge the wonderful country of Italy: its citizens, tour guides, coach drivers, accommodation personnel, Italian and Australian ristorante and café owners, and their staff, who all contributed their best, adding to the store of memories that helped create my story. To my family and friends, I must apologise for the time that I took away from treasured relationships while I indulged in the writing of this book. I thank you all for your understanding.

S A Henderson

Muckleford, Victoria.

2021

Illustrations s. a. henderson

Contents

A List of Chapters

3

Figures and Illustrations

5

Italian Introductions

7

Map Showing Places and Regions of Italy Visited

187

Bibliography

189

Glossary

191

Abbreviations Used

195

List of Chapters

Chapter 1: All in Readiness - 100 km from the Airport. 7

Chapter 2: Planning. 13

Chapter 3: From Melbourne to Rome. 16

Chapter 4: Roma. 18

Chapter 5: A Guided Tour of Rome. 22

Chapter 6: Addio Roma, Ciao Pisa. 28

Chapter 7: Florence. 33

Chapter 8: San Gimignano and a Tuscan Family Farm. 39

Chapter 9: A Morning in the Cinque Terre. 46

Chapter 10: Elegant Stresa on Lake Maggiore. 52

Chapter 11: Switzerland, Briefly. 59

Chapter 12: Beautiful Venice – Bella Venezia! 63

Chapter 13: Assisi. 76

Chapter 14: Campania, Southern Italy. 83

Chapter 15: Pompeii 79 AD. 89

Chapter 16: In Rome Alone. 96

Chapter 17: Urbs Vetus – the Old Town of Orvieto. 101

Chapter 18: The Trastevere and the Porta Portese Market. 107

Chapter 19: Rome, Abu Dhabi, Muckleford. 111

Chapter 20: Muckleford, Hong Kong, Milan. 114

Chapter 21: Parma and Rain, Rain, Rain. 121

Chapter 22: Lucca and the Cinque Terre. 129

Chapter 23: The Riviera di Levante. 136

Chapter 24: An Ancient Port and a Medieval Castle. 143

Chapter 25: Piemonte and the Cities of Torino and Vercelli. 150

Chapter 26: Back in Milano and an Excursion to Lake Como. 155

Chapter 27: To Venice by Train. 161

Chapter 28: A Return to Florence. 170

Chapter 29: Roma poi Addio Italia. 177

Chapter 30: Home in Muckleford. 184

Figures & Illustrations

Figure 1: Bags Packed - Italy Here We Come! 7

Figure 2: Do Not Disturb Sign, Hotel Room, Roma. 20

Figure 3: Rod and the Campo dei Miracoli, Pisa. 28

Figure 4: Rod’s Half of the Pizza, Pisa. 31

Figure 5: Ponte Vecchio and the River Arno, Firenze. 37

Figure 6: Family Farm, Tuscany. 43

Figure 7: Ancient Church of San Lorenzo, Portovenére. 47

Figure 8: Old Doorway, Dorsoduro Venice. 63

Figure 9: Gondolier’s Home, Dorsoduro, Venice. 73

Figure 10: Lasagne for Lunch, Ponte Giorgi. 76

Figure 11: Santa Chiara, Assisi. 80

Figure 12: Pelargoniums, Giardini di Augusto, Capri. 86

Figure 13: Vesuvius and the Ruins of Pompeii. 93

Figure 14: Inviting Outdoor Setting, Corso Cavour, Orvieto. 101

Figure 15: Tourists Enjoying Gelato, Orvieto. 106

Figure 16: Sunday Flea Market, Porta Potese, Roma 2018. 108

Figure 17: Alpini and Crowd Control Police, Milano. 117

Figure 18: Wheels of Parmesan Cheese and Me, Parma. 123

Figure 19: Duomo and the Rain, Parma. 126

Figure 20: Ilaria and her Puppy, Lucca. 132

Figure 21: The Tiny Harbour of Manarola, Cinque Terre. 134

Figure 22: Bar di Faro, Portofino. 141

Figure 23: An 1805 Vintage, Castello di Gabiano. 148

Figure 24: A Showery, Misty Morning, Varenna, Lake Como. 157

Figure 25: Lacemaking, Burano. 168

Figure 26: L’Orto Botanico, Firenze. 172

Figure 27: Statues For Sale, Porta Portese Market, Roma 2019. 179

Figure 28: Map Showing PLaces and Regions of Italy Visited. 187

Figure 1: Bags Packed - Italy Here We Come!

Chapter 1:

All in Readiness - 100 km from the Airport.

May 2018. My husband Rod and I, with travel bags packed, were sitting on the front veranda awaiting a local taxi to transport us from our rural acreage to the Castlemaine Railway Station. At the historic station, we would board a regional train for Sunbury, the suburban edge of metropolitan Melbourne and 100 km away. A designated airport bus leaves from the front of Sunbury Station, collecting a few locals, but mostly travellers and their luggage bound for Tullamarine Airport. On this particular day, we had flights booked to Rome via Abu Dhabi.

An abundance of preparation and considered research had gone into the planning of our trip. With its long and impressive history, great works of art and architecture spanning countless centuries, unique and romantic cities, its natural beauty and the food and wine, Italy was a country that I had wanted to visit for decades.

My interest began in 1966 when I met my best friend, Rita, at high school. Her family were from Trieste, a city in the most northeastern part of Italy, sharing borders with Austria and Slovenia. Her parents, Beppi and Anna, were immigrants to Australia, escaping a war-torn Europe following World War II. Rita, the youngest of their four daughters, was born in Lima, Peru, while the family looked for their final home. Luckily for me, Beppi and Anna settled in a suburb of Adelaide not too far from where my family had been ensconced since the mid-1800s. My forebears, an English and German mix, had been lured to the new, utopian colony of South Australia and had left the old world forever to decamp down-under.

One Sunday afternoon, at the beginning of our fourth year of high school together, Rita invited me to her home to discuss our Biology homework and to have dinner with her family. Her mother had made lasagne and a spinach salad which we ate outside, under a vine-covered pergola, in a perfect garden setting on a warm, late summer’s evening. It was the most memorable meal of my young life. In those far-away days, I was given a plate of sausages and mash or a grilled chop with three boiled vegetables for dinner with my family, more often than not. I had never eaten fresh spinach before. My mother always boiled it to an unappetising, soggy pulp. That night, the fresh young leaves from Beppi’s vegetable patch were washed and simply dressed with virgin olive oil and lemon juice. To add to the Italian-ness of the evening, one of Rita’s older sisters had just become engaged, and her fiancé Romeo had also been invited to share the family’s gracious hospitality.

The meal with my friend and her family was a cultural awaking for me. It aroused a deep desire to become more acquainted with all things Italian. The humdrum reality of one’s daily existence, however, has the ability to trample desire. Rita stayed for another year of high school, but as the eldest of five children, I had to leave and find employment. Thus, our lives separated.

Marriage, mortgages, raising a family, the continuing study and upskilling necessary to keep one’s career and livelihood on track became priorities. Overseas travel was a fabulous, unattainable luxury and very much in the background of our suburban life. Too soon, all that changed. Rod and I found ourselves retired. Careers finished with, family independent, and we were mortgage-free.

Some years previously, we had escaped the city rat race with a ‘tree change’ and bought ten alluring acres in the middle of country Victoria, complete with a roomy, character built home of locally quarried, honey-coloured stone. Slate paving and wide verandas surrounded the house, keeping it cool and shaded in summer and dry and cosy in winter. The extensive and picturesque garden was a mixture of old world and indigenous plants. It had dozens of roses, lavenders and irises. Bulbs of every kind appeared in winter and early spring. There were two huge oak trees, old-growth eucalypts, banksias, bottlebrushes and wattles. We planted a vegetable garden and an orchard of apples, pears, quinces, plums and peaches. Native birds, kangaroos and reptiles were regular visitors, and a few, easily startled, chary Murray Cod lived in the dams.

Rod and I established a small flock of purebred Merino sheep. They were mostly assistant lawn mowers, helping to keep the seasonal grasses in check. Our grandsons had provided Pokémon names for them all, except the largest two, who we called Big Boy and Bro. Born twin lambs, they had grown to be the size of small ponies. At the beginning of summer, a local shearer would appear at the back door. With his dangerous-looking equipment, he would relieve the sheep of their thick, woolly coats.

Our sheep produced a first-rate, superfine Merino fleece. Any fabric spun and woven from the fibres would make world-class fashion-house garments – Italian designer suits, glittering red-carpet gowns, a pair of warm gloves for royalty. Ray the shearer told us, however, that most of Australia’s wool clip is exported to China to be made into military uniforms. One of our favourite pastimes each spring was to watch the Willy Wagtails line their nests with the wool they had sourced from the generous, peaceful creatures grazing in our paddocks.

Rocket, our indispensable Jack Russell terrier, official Head of Security and controller of any negligent rabbits or ducks that strayed into his territory, was to holiday with our son in Bendigo, while Don, our affable neighbour, had been roped in to keep an eye on the sheep, in our absence.

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During the 1950s and the 1960s, the Australia that I grew up in was practically monolingual. English was, and still is, the only language necessary to travel about the great geographical region - the world’s largest island and smallest continent, we were taught in primary school. Foreign languages were regarded as quaint and uncalled for, and most colonials rarely heard anything other than English spoken.

Rita spoke Italian. I can remember her laughing quietly to herself when our music teacher pronounced Italian musical terms with a broad Australian accent: press-toe for presto; a-leg-grow for allegro; larrh-go for largo; four-tizz-ee-moe for fortissimo, and so on. I could not share in Rita’s mirth. The nuances of accents in language and the importance of correct pronunciation in order to be understood were beyond my comprehension at that time. I thought Miss Whiting, our music teacher, was doing a fine job.

Rita and I chose a heavily science-based course of study while at school, and we did not acquire the use of another language in the classroom. However, in the far recesses of my mind, a thought often arose that I would like to house a language other than English in my brain and that Italian would be the natural choice.

The first opportunity came in 1989 when my son began his education in a school where the Italian language was taught from Reception. Most of the children were of Italian descent, and they played soccer at lunch and recess time, not AFL, which was the norm in most other schools. To help him, I enrolled at the local TAFE College for night classes in conversational Italian. The textbook we used included many dialogues and interviews recorded with local inhabitants in places such as Rome, Venice; Florence, Torino; Stresa and Milan. Everyday Italians going about their normal routines: ordering coffee, shopping for shoes, buying train tickets, stamps and groceries. The diverse reading passages in the textbook offered interesting glimpses into the culture and natural beauty of Italy. My old desire to visit was rekindled, but a new expense was looming, years of costly school fees.

Ten years on, still working full time and locked into the daily commute in and out of Adelaide for paid employment, I enrolled for another year of night classes to study Italian at the Adelaide University’s Continuing Education Centre. Most of my fellow students had upcoming trips to Italy booked. Several were Art teachers planning sabbaticals in Italy. One young man wanted to visit his family’s village in Sicily to meet his relatives for the first time.

On a wet, chilly winter’s night during the year, our lecturer arranged a social get-together for the class and their partners, at an Italian Regional Club, in the outer suburbs of Adelaide. At the Club, we experienced an impressive evening of Italian culture, food and drink. Throughout the night, immense platters piled high with pasta and delicious sauces, such as melted gorgonzola cheese and pistachios, would appear in front of us on tables already straining from generous amounts of antipasti, bread, olives and beverages. Desserts, biscotti, coffee and liqueurs followed. A lively band played time-honoured favourite songs and dance music. Singing and dancing are an integral part of Italian life. On this particular occasion, the dancing couples included a few guests wanting to rid themselves of the extra calories acquired from the night’s gastronomical indulgences.

It was never too difficult to find good Italian shops and restaurants in Adelaide. Mario and Imma’s superb grocery store was nearby. They stocked a huge range of Italian cured meats, cheeses, coffee beans, olive oil by the barrel, pasta and loaves of homemade bread, alongside mechanical devices for making one’s own pasta, espresso machines, kitchen gadgets and an assortment of imported Italian products.

I can remember the scrumptious pizza and calzone rusticos from the old Don Giovanni’s Ristorante on Rundle Street. Later: Buongiorno’s, Sfera’s, Sapore’s, and Da Mario’s at Athelstone became favourites, along with San Marco’s café at the lower end of Rundle Street. Although San Marco’s is no longer in existence, I have fond memories of many congenial lunch hours spent at their outdoor and indoor tables, catching up with friends and work colleagues, or lunching on my own. I recall the romantic pictures of Saint Mark’s Square in Venice hanging on the walls, and the relaxed ambience in the café, which made it difficult to tear oneself away and head back to work.

The Italian-Australians that I met and came to know seemed to be a lively and fun-loving lot with a strong cultural identity and a passion for their family and their native region in Italy, which is called ‘campanilismo’. Our lecturer explained that it means a love of one’s own region – as far as the village church bells could be heard.

Chapter 2:

Planning.

My youngest sister Lyn, and her husband Peter, had retired to an unbelievably scenic and tranquil locale in the deep south of Tasmania ten years before our trip to Italy. Two, almost perpendicular, terraced acres led down to a stretch of the Huon River babbling contentedly over rocky shallows and their cosy, Swiss-inspired chalet of Tassie timbers and stone was a delight. Rod and I had stayed with them a number of times after flying in from Melbourne and meeting them at Hobart Airport. Once, we had taken our car across to Devonport on the overnight ferry. Rod had arranged this trip because I was still employed, now in Melbourne – with a four-hour commute to and from Muckleford and Melbourne each day of the working week by: car, regional train, City Loop and tram, the order reversed for the homeward-bound jaunt.

Rod met with the resident Castlemaine travel agent to book our motor vehicle and ourselves in for the Bass Strait crossing. When the details were completed, she asked if there were any other trips that we might be contemplating. Rod mentioned that his wife wanted to visit Italy. The travel agent had just returned from Italy, and she said that it was her favourite destination. She then proceeded to stack one travel brochure after another into his arms to take home for me to peruse.

I spent several years with the brochures in my possession, studying them on and off and slowly coming up with an itinerary to suit us. Rod had told me to make sure it included Venice, the Cinque Terre, and Rome’s Porta Portese market. Rod loves markets and the spirited exuberance of bartering. Hopefully, after the deal is clinched, both buyer and seller feel pleased with themselves. For my part, I wished to see: the Northern Italian lakes, Stresa, Florence, the old fortress town of Orvieto in Umbria, and also to experience some of the markets. I had a feeling we would need more than one trip to see everything, being mindful that we couldn’t leave our sheep for more than three weeks on their own. Our neighbour was keeping an eye on them, but we couldn’t exhaust a friendship or expect him to do anymore.

Eventually, I took my retirement from the workforce, and I found life in the country full and satisfying. There was always something to do: helping to saw fallen trees and massive boughs that had damaged fencing after blustery storms; exterminating weeds, watering plants and thirsty animals, stacking firewood, picking and preserving fruit from the orchard to caring for, and being aware of the wildlife living