In Love With Emilia Read online

  In Love with Emilia

  AN ITALIAN ODYSSEY

  Virginia Gabriella Ferrari

  ©

  Copyright 2004 Virginia Gabriella Ferrari.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

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  ISBN 1-4120-2780-2

  ISBN 9-7814-1222-351-5 (ebook)

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  Contents

  CHAPTER I The Beginning

  CHAPTER II 1996

  CHAPTER III 1997

  CHAPTER IV 1998

  CHAPTER V 1999

  CHAPTER VI 2000

  CHAPTER VII 2001

  Dedicated to

  my husband with much love,who has supported me through many rigorouschemotherapy treatments.

  * * *

  Thanks to Carol Wilson and Nancy Holmesfor their constant help, advice, and encouragement.

  Many thanks to Penticton Hospital Oncology,my second family.

  CHAPTER I

  The Beginning

  The nurse has difficulty accessing a vein today. Poking and pricking unsuccessfully she has to hand over to the other nurse, who, on the second attempt achieves success. A nice back flow of blood appears—we are off and running once again. With veins like hose-pipes this is a rare occurrence but lately my veins have been tying themselves in knots and saying “no thank you”.

  Chemotherapy is my lifesaver, but it is also the bane of my existence. With metastatic breast cancer, time marches on in chapter form. Protocol determines which medication is administered. As the disease progresses there are periods of “killer chemo”, do or die. As the disease recedes and takes a break, life returns to some semblance of normality and the body, mind and soul regenerate. Until the next time! There will be those times in the future but now, as I rest in the comfy Lazy-Boy chemo chair, the quiet beat of the pump infusing my medication lulls me into a semi-meditative state. I can drift off into semi-consciousness, a state which, after much practice, I am now able to achieve. I focus on a particularly beautiful scene or a past happier time, and off I go. This time I am returning to a place I will never forget, to Italy, to the region of Emilia Romagna. I believe my survival is hinged on the fact that I am determined to return to this gorgeous place to replenish my soul. There is a certain valley there, through which curls and slips the Tarodine River. Perched on the hillsides are several little villages amongst which is Rovinaglia. A little rock house nestles within this village and my heart so badly wants to be there.

  My mind flows back even further, to my childhood, to a time of innocence and fun. Of our family trips to Europe to visit places where my father had been stationed during World War II and then on to North Africa where he had also been stationed, digging and maintaining water wells with the Royal Engineers. The experiences were amazing for me. My father was not an average tourist. He took us on hot, dusty journeys into the desert to meet the Bedouins, to Azrov to see the wild monkeys, into the bowels of casbahs and marble palaces. He bargained in true Arab style, for yards of cloth, baskets, beautiful inlaid wood tables, and leather sandals. We ate camel meat and sheep’s eyeballs. We saw the goat herders whose goats climbed low scraggly trees and munched the leaves. We rode a wild, ratty old camel belonging to a young boy who was walking all alone with his charge in the middle of nowhere, after my father offered him a few coins. My mother and I screamed with laughter and excitement as we took turns hanging on to the moth-eaten animal that could run like the wind. What wonderful experiences! How lucky I was!

  Memories of my family’s first camping trip to Italy sneak into my mind. A great escape from the miserable English weather was planned. I was unaware then that my first experience of Italy, of Emilia, would capture my heart and soul, and never release them.

  My parents decided we would drive through France with the idea of ending up in Italy on the Mediterranean coast. A man of action, my father had everything arranged quickly and we headed off to the airport where the car and camping trailer were loaded into the belly of a very fat airplane. I was so excited as we boarded. My sister and I could not wait for our first “continental” experience. As a child of twelve, to be going to “the Continent” was indeed fashionable. On the last day of school before summer holidays I excitedly told the girls that we were going to “The Continent”. I knew they would be impressed!

  “Oh, jolly good”, they screech, “perhaps we’ll see you there. Where are you staying?”

  Travelling to “The Continent” also meant you were a cut above the rest. Of course we were not a cut above the rest, we were as poor as bloody church-mice actually, but as my mother would say, “It’s what comes out of your mouth that counts darling, not how well off your family is.”

  We landed in Calais, exited the fat-bellied plane and off we went in a shaky old car pulling an even shakier, more dilapidated old trailer that was home-made by my ever inventive father. It was comprised of wood and canvas, packed to the gills with all the stuff four of us would need to camp through France and onward to Italy in search of sun. The big old army tent took up most space while boxes of rations, packed with all the expertise of an ex-army officer, clothes, camp beds, cooking gear, tin potties, and much more filled every spare inch of space.

  Our white, pallid English complexions told the world we were from that place where it always rains. On we trundled, camping here and there, through rain, rain and more rain, soaked to the skin, and plugging holes in the canvas with butter. It rains in France too! Southern France, however, became warmer and sunnier, people were smiling, wearing shorts. Shorts, My God! How alien! I was unable to recall when I last wore shorts. I could actually look up without drowning. And then that gem, that sparkling blue sapphire. Of course if you are one of those who calls Europe “The Continent” then you have to call the Mediterranean “The Med”. When you go home and say you went to the Med, the perception will be that your family obviously owns a yacht and moors it there. The parents of the girls you go to school
with do have yachts moored in the marinas at Monte Carlo, Nice, Rapallo and Portofino. You do not lie and say you have one but you do not deny it either. They have no idea that you are at the nice school for “Gels” because your Dad got a bank loan, or that you dragged a homemade trailer behind an old car to save on hotel bills, or that you live on a road where your neighbors call everyone “Luv”. As a day student, you simply never invite anyone home for the weekend, no matter how much they hate boarding school and beg you to free them from the iron grip of matron.

  Finally, we reached the border between France and Italy. Shaking in our shoes under the glaring, accusatory eyes of the border guards who have enough fire power strapped to their gorgeous bodies to bring down a third world regime, my sister and I huddled together. But wait, they have seen the lovely young ladies in the back seat, and so the universal charm of the Italian male clicks in and soon we are giggling and blushing and on our way, quite convinced that we are the most gorgeous females ever to enter this country.

  I was overwhelmed at the sight of the Mediterranean Sea, of the variations of color and varieties of the flowers along the Ligurian coastline. I felt as though I had been unzipped and stuffed with bougainvillea and that I might just fly away over the blue, blue water.

  The Mediterranean Sea laps and wooshes up to the beaches and rocks of the Region of Liguria. Otherwise known as the Italian Riviera, the Region stretches from the border with France, in a narrow band along the northern coast of the Mediterranean, then south towards Pisa. The beauty of the flowers is overpowering. OOOOhing and AAAhing, we gazed in wonder at the color, cascading torrents of bougainvillea rushing purple, mauve, red, and pink over the rock walls towards the sea. Exotic flowers we had never seen before, in shapes, colors, and smells, beyond belief.

  English gardens are renowned for their fresh beauty. We lived amidst a beauteous garden ourselves, green striped lawns edged with borders of pansies, marigolds, mombresia, forget-me-nots, canterbury bells, iris, poppies and daisies. Lavender lining the paths, roses of every color, tea roses, florabunda, climbing roses, a mass of red covering the summer house. Laburnum trees dripping with yellow blooms,

  Buddleia, the butterfly tree, covered in fluttering beauties sucking nectar from the purple flowers. A real English country garden lovingly created and nurtured by my parents, and I the “chief weeder”, loved to be on my knees poking around in the dirt. I became known as the flower girl because I was responsible for ensuring there were vases of flowers on the tables inside the house on the dining room table, the side board, my father’s desk, my mother’s dressing table. On the polished surfaces in the sun, when it decided to show its beautiful face, the house always looked and smelled wonderful.

  These Mediterranean wonders, however, were an awesome display. And cacti, I had only ever seen them in my mother’s hot house. Our front porch was the green house. My mother’s territory, the cacti expertly tended, hooky, crabby, spiny things that would leap off the shelves and attack at their pleasure. The incredible blooms, huge pink and white trumpet-shaped tubes, would burst forth to show their beauty for one or two days, gaze out at the world and then shrivel and wilt away, only to make room for another. Succulents with red and pink flowers dripping from their leaves. Now here we were on the Mediterranean coast among similar cacti indigenous to the coastal region, littering the hillsides, tumbling down the craggy ravines to the sea.

  As we drove on it became obvious my father was well versed in the ways of this part of the world. He wanted to show us his old haunts, the places that held special memories, the cafes, albergos, old towns and cobbled alleyways, and most important the cheapest and best local places that served gnocchi, his favorite pasta.

  We arrived in Bordighera, a typical seaside town, and found a campsite on the pebbly beach. No one cared that there was no sand, we just wanted to leap into the tumbling surf of the blue, blue Mediterranean.

  With mighty speed developed after years of training, the troops established camp. Shedding our clothes and donning our swimsuits, we rushed into the wonderful salty waves.

  The more they tossed us and threw us around, the more we screamed. Having spent days travelling it was great to escape the madness and mayhem of the Italian roads. A big concrete wall backed the whole length of the beaches behind which rattled the trains that traversed the coast. Beneath the tracks were tunnels, which accessed the beach, just big enough to drive small cars and trailers through. Each camping spot had a big square tubular frame topped with rattan for shade and enough space beside for each family to pitch tents. We had found paradise! The noise outside the wall was sufficiently muffled to be of no consequence. The trains, however, shook us in our shoes and the piercing whistles screeched across our senses. They ripped by frequently but their harshness was often smothered by the big waves washing the shoreline.

  The cool evenings were best for exploring. We would walk through the tunnel in the wall and, exiting directly onto the main road take our lives in our hands trying to cross and head up to the old town, most of the streets narrow and steep with thousands of cobbled steps to climb. But oh so worthwhile seeing the wonderful old houses, bakeries smelling delicious, stalls filled with fish, vegetables, fruit, and flowers. The further climb to the piazza and the church, the cafes and bars, the aroma of coffee and pizza. Finally the “piece de resistance” a magnificent view of the sparkling sea and the beautiful hills holding this wonder in their hands.

  The evenings were also best for my sister and I. We would dress in our cotton frocks, with stoles draped seductively round our shoulders and across our flat English chests, clicking and clacking our way along the promenade in our wooden high-heeled Italian sandals. I shudder to think what I looked like with skinny, wobbly legs, trying to look sophisticated in my first pair of high-heels. Eyeing the young men who love looking at the girls, I dreamed of what it would be like to live in Italy, surrounded by gorgeous boys.

  Italy is a noisy country, there is no doubt about that, and more so in the busy resort settings. Sometimes we all became irritated after forays into the noisy world dodging traffic and millions of tourists outside the sea wall. After two weeks it was with not too much sadness that our escape from the noise and confusion was planned. The faithful army map case was produced, the route mapped, and I as the navigator, and father as director of all routes, prepared to lead the troops out the next day.

  At the crack of dawn it seemed, the forces were mustered. Exercised with the precision only an ex-army officer can deliver, the packing began. The tent came down, bedrolls rolled, camp beds disassembled, trailer perfectly packed. The general, my mother (disguised as the camp cook) cigarette dangling from her mouth prepared a hasty breakfast on the old spirit stove. The bleary-eyed, tangled-haired troops gobbled greedily and given a quick swish in the waves the dishes were tucked in a corner and off we went.

  Inland, up to the hills we sped, through the leaning wind swept pines exposing naked sides seaward against the wrath of winter storms and against summer marine winds that sometimes blow off the water. The coastal road was, is, and always will be a nightmare of traffic, but the beauty surpasses all and it is impossible not to swoon at the villas, and the continual drapes of wonderful flowers, and the hairpin bends. We passed a green sign announcing our exit from Liguria signified by a red diagonal line across the name and we came upon Emilia Romagna, region of parmesan cheese and porcini mushrooms, and chestnuts and Parma ham. And so much more to be discovered later in life when as an adult I returned.

  As we drove north I had no idea that just “over there beyond those hills” was a little village called Rovinaglia and that years later a connection would present itself in the manner of a handsome young man. This was my first encounter with this lovely part of Italy and the beginning of my love affair with Emilia Romagna, a beautiful region stretched across northern Italy, her calm and tranquil beauty winding its way around my heart. The passion, intensity, craziness, hap
piness of her people; the overpowering draw and feeling of history surrounding one completely in a cloak of thousands of years, only the surface of which we have scratched. All these emotions were unknown to me then, sweeping me away years later on a magic carpet of discovery. But the seeds were firmly planted.

  Why do we love something, someone, a house, a cat, or a person? These are outside shells with arms, legs, a head, a thing that eats and sleeps and walks and talks, or a box with four walls and a roof, or a fluffy ball of fur. We know it is the sum total of all the parts within and without. It is personality, sensitivity, laughter, sadness, understanding, quirks and talents, security and warmth. It is the beauty of the soul. All these emotions were unknown to me then, but the seeds were firmly planted, germinating years later to sweep me away on a magic carpet of discovery.

  Emilia Romagna is a region steeped in thousands of years of history, a culture so profound, a people of dignified humility who are proud, elegant and earthy, tenacious, yet with hearts of fire. The tiny villages lure you into their churches and medieval homes, into their hearts. Black clad “Nonas” and ancient old men sit meditatively on their doorsteps, towns and cities are enveloped in old-world charm. Outdoor cafes, cobbled streets with tiny shops, and boulevards lined with boutiques display styles from Europe’s famous fashion houses. And the Ferraris are parked wheel-to-wheel with the Fiats, the bicycles with the Bugatis, a place of so many contradictions living hand in hand. The limitless hills are dressed in robes of chestnut forests, terra cotta roofs dotting the landscape tiny breaths of red here and there where old stone houses cling to the hillsides. As far as the eye can see, these beautiful hills wander away on a forever journey. There are mountains and rivers and patchwork plains and fields of scarlet poppies! Blistering sun, howling gales and the renewed freshness of the rain-washed air!