Journey to Italy

Italians May Have All The History, But They Do Not Understand "Black Friday"

We are just back - well, a week ago - from a wonderful time in Italy, spent mostly in Rome. My plan was to write about it within 48 hours of our return, but, er, that did not happen. I kept falling asleep on the couch as I attempted to catch up on episodes of Midsomer Murders (new obsession - and there are like, eighty seasons, so the shows keep coming). I’m now back at my various jobs and offer today some reflections on our trip. We have been to Italy many times, as Spouse is Italian and I have previously won scholarships at a university in Umbria. But this was our first trip since 2019, pre-pandemic.

Noteworthy to me were the increasing number of Italians who were of extra-Italian origin who seemed to be fully assimilated. It was an encouraging thing to see. We had several conversations with young people (by my standards - people in their 20s or 30s) whose parents had moved to Italy from Korea, China, or the Philippines, for example. Most were born in Italy. They told us they considered themselves fully Italian and believed they had a full and welcoming future there, as did any children they might have. We met one handsome young chap whose dad was an American military officer and whose mum was Italian - not a trace of an accent when he spoke either English or Italian (I felt quite envious of that, in a good way). He was very impressed with Spouse and his Italian elegance.

I also noticed a delightful dearth of keffiyehs, certainly in comparison to Canadian cities. Thank goodness! We had dinner with some Toronto friends who commented on the same thing. Of course, there are idiot protesters in their keffiyehs in Italy and antisemitism in Europe; there’s a reason the Holocaust happened there. But it was nothing like Toronto, where, on my first day back I stepped out to get some groceries and on a busy downtown street saw many (and I mean many) young women, clearly on their way to work, keffiyehs draped over their winter coats. The stupidity astounds, and it bears repeating that so many women - almost all who claim to be feminists - have fallen for this dangerous nonsense. Note, however, that we were not in Bologna or Perugia, consistently left-leaning university cities, on this trip. I’m guessing we would have seen something else in those places.

I attended mass three times during my visit - at three different churches - and on each occasion the church in question was near capacity. It was refreshing and all ages were represented, as well. I see this as a good sign - I think, whether you believe in God or not, these institutions and rituals are good for us and should not be abandoned, especially not now with the threats Western civilization faces. I saw another kind of church full to capacity - the several Starbucks now in Rome. As with the ones in Paris, these places were full of locals, not tourists. Business people love them - the brand, the wifi, the Italian menu - and so do teenagers and undergrad-age Italians, of course. For those who complain about Starbucks - and/or McDonald’s - overseas, I always say, don’t go there and they will leave. No one is forcing Italians or French people to eat a Big Mac or drink an alien latte, Pumpkin Spice or other. The market has made it clear there is a space for these American chains in the old world.

The crowds in Rome were truly a challenge - I can only imagine the hellscape it would be in August. A young bartender we chatted with used the words incubo (nightmare) and orribile (horrible) to describe April to September in Italy. That said, I was impressed with the strict crowd control at museums and other sites. Generally, one must pre-book in order to ensure that priceless works of art - among those things that make life worth living - aren’t menaced or destroyed or made impossible to enjoy. Other than the Vatican, we tried to focus on places that are not subject to insane line-ups: the Palazzo Barberini is one such place, and why it is not subject to masses of visitors is beyond me, given the extraordinary art collection within its walls. Castel Sant’Angelo did not require a reservation either, which seemed odd. I went to the Keats-Shelley House, and lucked out by latching on to a group of Italian high school students being led through by a tour guide. I learned so much. Speaking of Keats and Shelley, one of my favourite places in Rome is the Protestant (Acattolico) or “English” Cemetery, where those illustrious gentlemen are buried (also home to a protected colony of feral cats, another reason to stop by). It was, sadly, closed when we were there, due to a fallen and gigantic tree.

Magnificence of the past aside, there are few things more fun for me when I am in Italy than navigating pharmacies and grocery stores. This is largely because I get to use my Italian there. Customer service people at hotels and high-end stores are obviously told to use English when they hear the tell-tale accent. But I found that if I persisted in my rusty use of their language, even in fancy-pants locations, they would relent and reply in Italian. I’ve written before about the “extended family” phenomenon in Italy - Covid did not kill it, thankfully. It is still there and is one way you can practice your language skills. Taxi drivers all seemed more than willing to speak Italian with us, which was great, because you can get into discussions with them about so many things - traffic, politics, their wives, lasagna. One fellow gave us his recipe for eggplant parmigiana. Giorgia (Meloni) is brava, said one young guy, dropping me off at San Pietro in Vincoli, but not before saying that he disagreed with her about some matters. She is better, at any rate, than La Schlein (Elly), he added. I’ll drink to that. And all Italian cab drivers appreciate and are surprised by North American-style tips. One was so shocked he tried to give Spouse the tip back, thinking we were dopey foreigners who did not know how much money we had given him.

By the way, if you speak French and are struggling to find the correct Italian word for something, just use the French word and add a vowel at the end. Nine times out of ten you can make yourself understood and eight times, you probably have the right word.

Regarding the aforementioned San Pietro in Vincoli, that is where you can see Michelangelo’s Moses in all its glory. On the outside, the church does not look imposing - imagine living in a city where you turn the corner and you can sit and behold a Michelangelo statue with barely any crowds around you. Italians have all the history. But you know what? For all their beautiful clothing and store windows - they are the emperors of presentation, even more than the French - they do not understand Black Friday. Almost every store we saw - not only in Rome - boasted a Black Friday or “Black Week”, as they call it, sale. However, it was usually for 20% off, as I discovered when I decided to pick up a couple of pairs of socks (the laundromat we used was closed and I was desperate) and the young salesgirl proudly told me I was getting a sconto of twenty percent for “Black Week.” Some stores had racks at 50%, but it was all dreadful items from previous seasons that no one had wanted to purchase. If I were more of an entrepreneur I would sit down with big Italian brands and explain that Black Friday means the good items are what get reduced and they get reduced for up to 75%. Why else would people stand in line for three hours and risk getting trampled to death? Don’t misunderstand - I was rather disappointed to see Italian stores engaging in Black Friday “celebrations.” I would have preferred they not do so, but it is a cultural import that is hard to resist.

A fun, unanticipated thing we did, was attend a lecture by British writer Keir Giles. We were strolling in hipster Trastevere, and walked into the Almost Corner Bookshop, a kind of cultural institution in that part of Rome. It is an English language bookstore and hosts speakers from time to time. We saw a sign about Giles’ most recent book and upcoming talk and went back the next night to meet him. It was a small turn-out, but, in a way, that made for a better discussion.

Should you be interested, among the restaurants in Rome we loved were Trattoria Al Moro, Osteria St. Ana and Enoteca e Taverna Capranica. These were all recommended to us by Italian friends. Of course, I spent time with cats in Rome, as I do everywhere. There are several feral colonies in the city, which is terrific, and sadly, like anywhere, some shabby-looking street cats, neglected and hungry. Rome has better laws than Toronto, though (not saying much) in regards mistreatment of animals in the city and in regards the protection of registered cat colonies.

[This guy! Photo: Rondi Adamson, Vatican Museums, 2024.]

Thus endeth my travelogue, but not before I link to Roberto Rossellini’s Journey to Italy, a 1954 film starring George Sanders and Ingrid Bergman. Give it a chance when it pops up on TCM, which it often does.