At Luigi’s house his wife and her aunt fed us well: salami, soup, cheese,
cutlets, potatoes, vegetables, pasta, and salad—a feast
for us which the children devoured. We all felt full for the first time since
our arrival.
After lunch, Luigi showed us around his property while Margaret Ann and Matthew
played with his little girl, Anna, under the watchful eye of her great-aunt. Paul
and James explored their fields with Luigi’s two sons, Carlo and Mario, and
then played soccer in the courtyard. We were "child free" and in the company of someone just a few years older than us. Our
life in Italy thus far had been focused on adapting to our new environment,
with few other distractions, so it was a relief to relax for a few hours in good
company.
Luigi had an intensity and drive that was lacking in
the much older Marca uncles. He had run a successful restaurant in a nearby
city with a good income, but he had given it up to become a wine merchant. Not
only did he harvest his own grapes and make wine in the large converted barns,
he also bought wine from smaller wine-makers in the region and sold it in the
cities, using his contacts from the restaurant business. As he spoke, I saw in
him the same energy as many young American entrepreneurs. He never stopped
speaking or smoking as he proudly showed us tanks and pipes and barrels, and
bottles lined up ready for market. Then he took us to see their vineyards and
their extensive vegetable garden.
As we toured his holdings, Luigi not only spoke to
George, but he spoke slowly and directly to me. That was new. Most of the
people I had met so far, had smiled, nodded politely, shaken my hand, and then,
if they spoke to me at all, it was through George. Although I was learning more
and more Italian words each day, I still couldn’t recall quickly enough the ones I
needed to reply. I listened carefully to understand as much as I could, but soon became invisible in the rush and rhythm of conversation. Not so with Luigi.
As we walked, he frequently looked my way to include me in the dialogue, tried
to understand my broken Italian, and only when we didn’t understand each other,
did George translate. It would have been easier for him to let George do the
talking, but he never gave up.
That day with Luigi, I felt an enormous surge of
self-respect as his eyes made contact with mine and he tried to communicate.
For once I was truly present in the company, and for the first time I found
myself trying to translate on the fly, so motivated was I to communicate with
him. Luigi was also very funny. He told jokes that I could understand, and didn’t
seem bothered that my laughter came a little late as I translated the punch
line.
Luigi visited us several times at Gabi, delivering wine to my father-in-law,
and each time he made an effort to include me in the conversation. I was
always happy to see him. Not only did I come alive in his presence, but I felt
as if I began to know him, his ideas and his humor, expressed through words I
could comprehend. This made me eager to learn more Italian so that I could
begin to connect with others.
After a tour of his property, Luigi took us all for a
walk along the streets of the town. He
stopped at a Gelateria and bought all of the children ice cream, something they
hadn’t had since our departure from California. I delighted in their big
smiles. They had been adapting, as much as we had, and they welcomed the taste
of something that was not only familiar, but a treat.
Before we returned to Gabi, Luigi and his wife
insisted on giving us a package of disposable diapers—very welcome—and they
packed up a basket of food for us. During that visit I communicated with Luigi
in a way that I did not with his wife or his parents. They were just as friendly as he was, and
they treated us very kindly, but because we didn’t speak directly to each
other, there was no real communication and we made no connection. As I look back, I can remember his family’s
presence in the room, but I can remember Luigi’s personality in my life.
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