Whenever I am going to be in Rome, I always reach out on Facebook to my cousin Clara in the hopes that she will arrange a get-together with my relatives. Clara learned English in high school 65 years ago, so she comes the closest in the group to being competently bilingual English-Italian. (If you’re wondering how her English winds up being better than my Italian, even after three recent weeks of intensive study, I’m wondering that, too.)
Clara was able to arrange a get-together for last night at a wonderful neighborhood pizzeria, which has probably never seen a tourist in its existence. Our seating was arranged so that the Simeones, all women, sat at one end of the table and the husbands, including Ben, sat at the other. Ben was able to participate in the conversation by being quick with Google Translate, plus using words he’s picked up along the way. (If you’re wondering how Ben’s better able than I to converse in Italian, even though I’ve been studying the language for 55 years, I’m wondering that, too.)
Right after the welcome hugs and kisses, they were eager to congratulate me on “un Americano,” the newly chosen Pope. What did I think? Did I know of him? Had I been rooting for him? Then they launched into a discussion of who they had been hoping for and who they had expected to be the next Pope, all Italians, of course. It’s not that my cousins are particularly religious, I don’t think, it’s more that church politics and goings-on are top of mind here in Rome, the company town.
They, like me, saw the election of this particular Pope as a raised middle finger to the other most-powerful American, Trump. Within two minutes of seeing me, they were doing a vigorous thumbs-down and saying “Boo Trump!” This has been the reaction of literally every single non-American I’ve had a conversation with here — no matter Italian, Dutch, British, Australian — they all hate Trump. They don’t even wait to try to suss out whether I’m a Trump supporter or not; their need to communicate their disdain for him is that urgent.
Mostly, we talked about family, and about our lives. Clara, a retired school principal, complained that her adult daughter lives so far away, which turned out to be the other side of Rome. Daniela, a retired physical education teacher, now teaches “gymnastics to old people,” which I assume means fitness classes, not the balance beam or parallel bars. Annalisa, a retired statistical analyst at a bank, was particularly pleased that the new Pope had been a math major at Villanova. She has a 12-year-old granddaughter who is a national saber champion. Italy has mandatory age 65 retirement, which none of them had felt ready for.
Even though they were kind in complimenting my “improved” Italian, it was not easy for any of us to spend two hours in strained conversations. So why do it? I do it to honor my father, who would have been moved to tears (literally) at the thought of us being together. And I suspect that’s what’s motivating them too.
Gigi's Italia 