In the winter of 2002 I took my family on an academic exchange to the west coast of Ireland. We traded jobs, houses, and cars with a family in Galway. This letter is part of that story . . .
Where do you live? In a nice house on a big lot in beautiful West Vancouver? Or a character home or snazzy apartment in trendy Kitsilano? Maybe you live in an older house on a tree-lined street in London, Ontario or in Toronto’s quiet west end. Perhaps you live in a mansion on a multi-acre estate in Carmel, California.
Well, if you live in any of these places, you are a fucking idiot. And guess what? I’m a fucking idiot too. And why are we fucking idiots? BECAUSE WE COULD BE LIVING IN ITALY! In fact, if any of us had any sense or guts we would sell everything we own today, liquidate the whole lot, then use that money to rent a modest apartment in Italy, and live the dolce vita until the funds ran out. If the money only lasted a few years, fine. When it’s all gone, we kill ourselves. At least we got to spend that time in Italy.
Yes, gentlemen, Italy is that good. But before I go into the details of our extraordinary trip there, let me quickly do a blow by blow comparison of Italy and Ireland.
Italian people: charming and gregarious
Irish people: charming and gregarious
Italian religious practice: overwhelmingly Catholic, but no one goes to church until after his 60th birthday.
Irish religious practice: overwhelmingly Catholic, but no one goes to church until after his 60th birthday.
Italian politics: labyrinth and corrupt
Irish politics: labyrinth and corrupt
Italian countryside: rolling hills, beautiful fields, all dotted with olive trees and vineyards.
Irish countryside: rolling hills, rocky fields, all dotted with litter and bags of household trash.
Italian spring weather: warm, brilliantly sunny days followed by cool, crisp nights.
Irish spring weather: cold rainy windy days followed by cold rainy windy nights.
Italian urban nightlife: as soon as the day cools off, Italians put on their best clothes and stroll to the shops, stopping for gelati and conversation with their neighbours.
Irish urban nightlife: as soon as four o’clock rolls around, the Irish get roaring drunk and head butt walls.
Italian dinner: vino della casa rosso con aqua minerale, antipasto misto di mare, gnocchi speck e mascarpone, tagliata ai porcini, panna cotta con salse, grappa
Irish dinner: beer, beans on toast, cream egg
Now, to afford this trip we once more availed ourselves of the tender mercies of Ryanair. This time we flew into Bologna. Or at least I thought we were flying into Bologna. In fact, we were flying into Ryanair’s Bologna which, like Ryanair’s Paris, is actually a little airport located in a goat field 1000s of kilometres from the actual urban entity it purports to serve. So we landed in a town called Forli which, as far as I could make out, was located in northern Turkey. We had to take a lengthy bus ride into Bologna and from there made our way to the train station to catch a choo-choo to Florence. We ended up in a compartment with a very nervous man from Venice who couldn’t speak a word of English but tried to explain to us that in Venice there is a lot of water. Fascinating. The hallways of the train were filled with lads going to a soccer match. Now, if you got on a train in England that was full of young men going to a soccer game, you can probably be sure that you’d be dead before the train reaches the station. The Italians, however, while fanatical about their soccer are not hooligans and so the fans entertained us with songs for about an hour before piling off the train.
And then we were in Florence.
Now, I have written to some of you about the delights of Florence before. Suffice to say it remains a city of stunning beauty and overwhelming crowds. It also has the Ponte Vecchio, the famous bridge lined with gold shops. Curiously, whenever I’m in Florence Karen wants to visit the Ponte Vecchio. I can’t cross the damn bridge without my VISA card going radioactive. Next time I go I’m renting a boat to cross the river.
And then on to Rome, the eternal city. A nice train ride deposited us in Rome’s huge train station, then we got on the metro and headed south from downtown to the Colli Albani station where our apartment was located. Roman subway cars are done up in a retro style. In a tribute to New York of the 1970s, they are covered in graffiti. Actually, although Rome is a remarkably clean city, virtually every wall in the city is covered in graffiti. Much of the graffiti is unintelligible, but the most common word one sees sprayed on the walls of Rome is "Roma." Roman graffiti artists, then, spend hours reminding us where we are. Many thanks, friends.
We showed up at the apartment in Rome, rang the door bell and nothing happened. Momentary panic. What if we’re lost? What if we paid for an apartment that doesn’t exist? If it’s some sort of scam? While we were fretting on the sidewalk two different people came up and offered to help us. They checked the address for us, checked the name on the doorbell, and both concluded that our hosts must have stepped out for a moment. Nice folk. I rang the doorbell one more time and a woman answered. She was not expecting us for a few hours and so was busy cleaning the apartment. We went in to drop our bags off and I couldn’t figure out what she was cleaning. This was the cleanest apartment I had ever seen. It was cleaner, much cleaner, than the last hospital I had been in (in Ireland), but it was not up to her standards, so we went out for a walk to give her time to boil the walls.
We grabbed some terrific pizza slices downstairs. The woman behind the counter apologised that there was no pasta left for lunch, but if we would please come back tomorrow there would be lots. After we ate, we headed into the park that was across from the apartment building. This is the Antica Valley, a huge valley that was a sacred site in Etruscan and Roman times. It is laced with walking and biking trails; it contains the remains of Roman aqueducts and a bath; it has ancient Christian sites in it. It also has a stream and caves. In other words, it is paradise for boys, including this boy, who just wanted to touch the Roman aqueduct over and over.
This park also contains a working farm. The farmhouse looks like something out of a Mario Puzo novel. Because of this farm it was possible to walk through the park and suddenly find yourself in a flock of sheep. We did. It was freaky. Sheep close up are a fair size. They look at you with dark, brooding eyes. I don’t trust them. Those hooves look razor sharp. This farm also meant that in the evenings we could sit on the apartment balcony, sipping our Camparis, and watch a girl herd cows on her moped.
On this first visit to the park, as we were heading back towards the apartment, we noticed an old woman sitting in the yard of the farm. Beside her was a sign advertising home-made cheese. Karen approached her and asked about the cheese. The old woman was delighted to see us. Now, my Italian is not as good as Karen’s, but I think this is what she said: "What beautiful boys you have! You are too young to have such big boys! Boys are the best; you should have more! You are from Canada? I have relatives in Toronto! Your husband is from Toronto? Perhaps he knows my niece, Anna. She was at university there. He was too? And his name is Paul B? The same name as the monster who seduced young Anna, robbed her of her virtue and left her broken-hearted to become a nun? The same Paul B that my family has sworn a blood oath to be revenged upon? Aeeeiiii! Georgio! Luigi! Come quick! Our prayers to the Virgin have been answered! Vengeance is ours! Bring the cleavers!"
Well, the first part anyway. She was very taken with the boys. Anyway, she led us into a room of her house where she makes the cheese. There were three sheep carcasses hanging on meat hooks in the same room. That’ll teach them to stare at tourists. We bought a hunk of cheese and, after listening to many compliments on our children, headed back to the apartment which was now so clean you could have performed brain surgery in it.
So, let us review: since arriving in Rome I had discussions with the locals, ate great food, touched a Roman aqueduct and bath, stood on an ancient Christian tomb, been menaced by sheep, been inside an Italian farmhouse, bought handmade cheese.
I had been in town for two hours.
Rome is my kind of town.
Now, Karen and I had been to Italy before, but this trip was different because we were travelling with children. It is always a delight to expose your progeny to the masterpieces of western art and culture if only to watch their unmediated innocent reactions. Take them to see the fresco of the Annunciation by Fra Angelico in San Marco, and listen to them marvel: "This is boring, this is stupid, I’m hungry, my feet hurt, I want to watch TV." Bring them into St. Peter’s Basilica during an Easter Mass and hear them gasp: "This is boring this is stupid I’m hungry my feet hurt I want to watch TV." Bring them into the Coliseum itself, a structure no less daunting and impressive for all the images we have seen of it and hear them cry, "ThisisboringthisisstupidI’mhungrymyfeethurtIwanttowatchTV."
Yes, travelling with children can be trying, especially if you’re culture hounds like we are. But travelling in Italy with children is actually a good idea. It’s such a good idea that when I move to Italy I’m going to start a company called Rent-a-Kid. This will allow tourists to the country to rent a cute child for the duration o f the trip. You see, the Italians are nuts about kids (though they don’t have as many as the Irish do). As the conversation with the cheese lady demonstrated, having children with you when you deal with Italians immediately opens doors and prompts conversations. For example, the first day we were in Rome we stopped at a store near our apartment to buy some supplies. We had the boys with us. Now, everyone was great in the store: friendly and helpful. Since the boys just stood to the side during our transactions, I didn’t think that they had even been noticed. But the next day when Karen and I went back to the same store, the woman behind the cash machine began to ask us, "Where are the boys? At the apartment? Do you have enough food for them? Do they like Rome? The big one needs to eat a lot!" One day on the subway, an elderly man turned to Max and said, "Hey boy! How you like-a Rome? Issa nice?" He ruffled Max’s hair as he got of the train. Rent-a-Kid. Invest now. Just send me a blank cheque. I’ll handle the rest.
Of course the Italians are warm and chatty even when you are not packing children, especially when you get away from the tourist areas. And so the Italian shop keepers, at least in our neighbourhood, were incredibly friendly. We were warmly greeted as regulars if we entered the same store twice. Back in Ireland I have been going to the same grocery store virtually every day for three months now and the only clerk who acknowledges my existence is a retarded girl with a crush on my eldest son.
Anyway, we couldn’t see everything Rome had to offer so we made a quick decision and headed to the Vatican. We entered Vatican city and I, for one, was disappointed that there wasn’t a passport office. But the central square in front of St. Peter’s Basilica is overwhelming. We’re talking big-time grandiosity. It even shushed the kids for a minute. We then headed into St. Peter’s Basilica itself but found that there was a mass in progress and so tourists were not allowed to circulate through the building. The Swiss Guards were blocking the way. Real macho looking guys, the Swiss Guards. Yeah, if I was the pope I’d want a body guard comprised of guys in leotards with bed pans on their heads. They’re armed with halberds, which are essentially long spears with a little axe heads attached to one end. Brilliant weapon to use against terrorists. A psycho come at me with an AK-47 I want a Swiss guard with a long stick defending me.
Anyway, things were crowded because this was the day before Good Friday -- So-so Thursday -- and Catholics from all over the world were jammed into the cathedral. I led the family out and set off to find the Sistine Chapel. As I later discovered, you can only access the Sistine by progressing through the length of Vatican Museum, a huge building that contains such holy relics as Christ’s foreskin. I didn’t know that at the time, however, and my map seemed to indicate that we could get to the Chapel if we went around the north wall of the Basilica. So off we went. There were some other people coming and going that way, so I figured we were on the right track. Finally we came to an unmarked door through which a small number of people were passing. We went in, up a flight of stairs, and came face to face with a Swiss Guard who gave me a booklet and ushered us to the right. We were back in St. Peter’s Basilica. The door we entered was for late comers to the mass. The booklet was an outline of the service (in Italian) containing hymns and responses. We were ushered to chairs in the north nave of the church to watch the rest of the service.
Now I’m as lapsed a Catholic as you are going to find, but standing in St. Peter’s which, let’s face it, ain’t a bad dump, watching a mass being conducted in Italian and Latin, well I was ready to kiss the Pope’s ring. Or at least go to confession. There are confession booths all over the Basilica and each has a sign on it declaring the language in which confession in that particular booth is being conducted: German, French, Italian, English, Inuit. I was ready to head into the English booth and let the priest have it: "Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It’s been, uh, forty years since my last confession. Since that time I have taken the Lord’s name in vain three times. Okay, maybe four. But if you hit your thumb it doesn’t count, does it? Or, if, you know, you say it in the throes of, like, uh, passion? Anyway, better go with five times. And I coveted my neighbour’s weedeater. That’s about it. And could you put in a good word with Santa Claus for me?"
Never got into the Sistine Chapel but had a good lunch near the Vatican.
Other sights: the Trevi Fountain is exquisite but it’s a bit hard to see. As soon as you sit down on the benches to admire it, a street hawker will stand in front of you and try to sell you some piece of crap. The piece of crap du jour when we were there was a toy made of a little rubber sack full of goo that could be pulled into different shapes to make funny faces. The first hawker stood in front of me and demonstrated the piece of junk. I said no. He kept demonstrating. I said no again, louder. He moved on. As soon as he stepped aside another hawker took his place and demonstrated the exact same stupid toy. I got rid of him and a THIRD hawker stepped up with the same item. "Oh yes," I said to him, "I was just waiting for YOUR piece of crap. The other identical pieces of crap being sold by identical vendors mere seconds ago did not move me the way your piece of crap and sophisticated sales pitch do. I’ll take a hundred pieces of crap, please. Do you accept VISA?"
Before I could finish the transaction I heard a strange sound. It was familiar, but something I had not heard in years. As it got louder I couldn’t believe it. It was the Hare Krishna chant. And lo and behold, here they come: a bevy of bald, face-painted white boys’n’girls in saffron togas beating drums, playing saxophones badly, and chanting George Harrison melodies. They stopped to dance and jam beside the fountain.
I got to tell you, it was a weird watching the Hare Krishna swirling around, smiling their "I have discarded my brain for Krishna" smiles in front of the Trevi Fountain. What were they thinking? That Italians are going to forsake the 2,000 years of Catholicism for a shaved head and war paint? Forsake the true Church so they can dance like Smurfs in the street? They didn’t make any converts at the fountain, so they went merrily on their way, possibly to the Vatican. The pope is going to be selling incense on street corners any day now.
As in any big tourist town, there were portrait artists. You know the guys; they sit under and umbrella on a folding chair displaying their brilliant sketches of people like Tom Cruise and Julia Roberts. You pony up some cash and they do a portrait of your loved one. Well, there were a couple of them around the Trevi Fountain, but one in particular caught my eye. The celebrity portraits that he had on display were terrifying. The one marked "Tom Cruise" looked like a llama. Another one was marked "Marilyn Monroe,’ but it could have been a white Uncle Ben in drag. A cat could draw better than this guy. He was doing a brisk business.
What was the strangest thing that we saw in Rome? Well, there is a church that is run by the Capuchin order of monks. It’s not particularly interesting architecturally, but to the side of the main church is second entrance. You go in there, pay a donation, then you are allowed into five smallish rooms with low vaulted ceilings. Each of these rooms has been decorated with human bones. There are bones on the ceiling and walls. The light fixtures are made of bones. At the front of each room is a large shrine made of human skulls. Different types and sizes of bones are used for different effect. There are individual vertebrae, jaws, and split hip bones arranged in bizarre patterns. There are also some complete skeletons that have been given wings (made of bones) or implements like sickles (made of bones). There are a few complete mummified monks sitting in one of the rooms, and other rooms have piles of dirt (brought from Jerusalem) on the floor under which nestle human organs. In the last of the rooms is a sign that reads, "What you are, we were; what we are, you will become."
Gee. Thanks. Back at ya.
Now, let us think about this. This bizarre temple of doom is designed to remind us that we are going to die. Alright. I can dig that. But to make it, these damn monks had to dig up their thousands of their predecessors, separate and cut the bones, then nail them to the walls and ceilings in patterns. This took over two hundred years to complete.
How many beers would you have to drink before you even thought of doing such a thing? Before you turned to your friends and said, "Hey guys! I just had a great idea. Let’s dig up our 4,000 of our dead homeboys and do a Martha Stewart with their remains"? How much would they have had to drink to agree? "Gee Paul, what a great idea! I could slap myself for not thinking of it first! Of course! All those bones are just mildewing in the earth when they could be decorating our walls! First one to the crypt is a rotten egg!" And then imagine the arguments over patterns: "No no no! This wall is just TOO femur! That is SO tenth century. We need a splash of something lighter, something fun, something that says ‘Yes I’m a dead monk but dammit I still rock.’ Call me crazy, people, but I’m thinking rib cages."
We didn’t get to see as many of the Roman ruins as I would have liked because there were large line-ups and I wasn’t going to subject the boys to standing around for hours. Okay, that’s a lie. They were not going to let me subject them to hours of standing in line-ups. So we only stood in line for one, the Coliseum. And it was worth it. This thing is amazing. Figure, it could hold 50,000 spectators but was so well designed it could be evacuated, in case of fire, in five minutes. Not only did it contain elevators in the floor to allow the lifting of combatants and animals, it could be filled with water so sea battles could be staged in it. In the nineteenth century botanists found over 400 rare species of plant growing in the Coliseum. They have come in the feed and dung of exotic animals that had been imported for the games.
Now, here’s a little secret: you know what all the middle-aged male tourists did when they got to the centre of the Coliseum? They straightened their backs, affected a Russell Crowe-type glower, and whispered, "I am gladiator." Their wives were appropriately embarrassed, as was mine.
All too soon we had to leave Rome and catch a train to Pisa. Shared a compartment with an older Australian couple who were doing an eight-week tour of Europe before meeting their daughter in England. Boy, can Australians talk. The wife did not shut her mouth to draw breath for three hours. And she found everything exciting: "Hey mate! What’s that you’re carrying your clothes in? A suitcase? Good on ya!" She gave me recipes, told me where to stay in half a dozen European cities, and extended a standing invitation to crash at their apartment in Sydney.
Now, Pisa is actually a nice little town. The only reason anyone goes to it, of course, is to see the tower. Yes, it leans. Yes, it is very odd to see. But odder still is the story behind it. It was designed by a guy called Pisano. He built it as a bell tower to the Pisa duomo, or cathedral. Fine. But during construction the thing started to lean when it was only three stories high. Now, if I was building a tower, hell, if I was building a fence, I would get worried if it started to lean so early into the project. But not Pisano. He kept building. What was he thinking? That making it taller would mask the fact that it’s falling over? What did he say to his employers? "Leaning? It’s not leaning. That’s an optical illusion causes by, uh, the slope of the lawn. Let’s put ten more floors on it and THEN see if it’s leaning."
The only problem with Pisa was the hotel. See, it was a serious budget hotel run by a family. It only had about ten rooms. Our room was conveniently located on the first floor near the kitchen, the reception desk, and the cleaning supply closet. Nice and quiet. It was decorated by someone with a sadistic sense of humour.
The family that ran it was Sicilian. The grandfather didn’t like having people in his house. He told my boys to be quiet at two in the afternoon. The daughter, a homely little thing, was friendly but spaced out. The mother glared at everyone who entered. The son was painfully shy. The father was easygoing and nonchalant. They had a neurotic Pomeranian that hid under a sofa and growled at people. We only stayed one night but managed to make a nuisance of ourselves by sleeping in until 9 the next morning. Since breakfast was being served from 8-10, we didn’t think this was a problem, but when we stumbled out to the dining room we found that day-light saving’s time had gone into effect the night before. It was, in fact, 10:15 and breakfast was no longer being served. Fine, we thought, this place was kinda creepy anyway. But no, here comes the father, who, with a wave of his hand let’s us know that it’s no big deal, and so the painfully shy son goes about the business of making us breakfast and trying to talk to us, a process that causes him to blush and stammer. Things were made more uncomfortable by the dining room which was decorated with lampfixtures that must had come from the set of Battleship Galatica, portraits of Jesus pointing at his bleeding exposed heart, and framed photographs of various family members, including a young girl who had, apparently, won a rollerskating competition. As we munched our cornettos, the unseen Pomeranian snarled at us from under the chair. Let me tell you, it’s hard to eat breakfast when the arm chair keeps growling.
We got out of there as quickly as we could and opted for hanging around in front of the train station for a few hours before our train arrived rather than try to squeeze some more time out of the Hotel R.
Our last Italian stop was Genova, or Genoa. Damn Italians can’t make up their minds about the names of their own cities. Anyway, it’s a rather polluted industrial port that feels a bit shabby around the edges and downright unsavoury in some areas. It is still interesting, however, because it’s vertical. That is, every second street is a staircase leading up to another level. Going to the corner for a quart of milk in this city is like spending two hours on a stair master. Want to get in shape? Like women with strong thighs? Move to Genoa.
And then back to Ireland. The boys, let it be said, were not thrilled to return.
But the travel bug had bitten us, and two days after returning Karen declared that we were driving to Knock.
The town of Knock lies about an hour’s drive north of Galway deep in county Mayo. It was utterly undistinguished for years. Then, in 1879, fifteen locals saw a vision of the Virgin, a couple of saints, a sheep, and a whole handful of angels hovering over the gable of the church. The vision lasted, like, an hour. After the event, the Vatican sent in its hoax-busters and interviewed the visionaries. The Church decided that they had a bona fide miracle on its hands and Knock became the second most important Marian shrine in Europe, second only to Lourdes. It is now visited by tens of thousands of pilgrims and curiosity seekers a year. The pope has been there, as has Mother Theresa. It is on the Catholic map.
How have the good people of Knock responded to this sudden prominence? Well, they tore down most of the original church to build a godawful ugly building that features a giant picture window so people can sit outside on benches and watch the mass. It’s like a giant religious terrarium. Instead of a lizard and a few plants, you have a priest, a congregation, and the Host. You are discouraged from tapping on the glass. On one exterior wall of the church they built a giant rosary. That was insufficiently ugly, however, so a new basilica was slapped up beside the church. Now, a quick question: who the hell designs modern churches? The same guy who designs mini-putt courses? Cause this thing, like so many religious buildings thrown up on the twentieth century, is as ugly as a mud wall. But not ugly enough. No. So the grounds were decorated with statues of the virgin and Stations of the Cross that were done by the guy who designs My Little Pony.
Finally the church grounds were ugly enough to suit the Irish. Now came the matter of redesigning the town itself. All the buildings along the main drag were turned into religious souvenir shops. You can get anything in these stores. Want a snow ball with the Virgin inside? No problem. How about a bust of Mary with a blue light in it that can be set to blink mode? Got ‘em. And what about prayers? That’s right, prayers printed on scrolls, tea towels, t-shirts, jockey shorts, home pregnancy kits, ant farms. We heard people asking the store help for specific prayers: "Would you be having a prayer for an expectant mother?" "Oh yes dear, loads of them. Over here." "And would you have a prayer for a hangover?" "What type, dear? Beer? Whiskey, was it? Or mixed?"
Now, the only reason we were here is because Karen is fascinated by this stuff. See, she was raised Lutheran. Her grandfather was a Lutheran minister. The Lutherans, as the first successful Christian heresy, were very careful to define themselves against the Catholic Church from which they had broken. If Catholics like it, Lutherans are against it. No stained glass windows or bloody statues of Christ in a Lutheran church. No celibate priests, bishops or pope. No confession, no icons, no rosary, no Virgin Mother to pray to. No cool outfits, censors, prayer candles. No forgiveness, no talking, no fun. All a Lutheran needs is the knowledge that he is inadequate in his faith and he should feel guilty for everything that he’s ever done or will do.
Raised in such a faith, Karen is dazzled by the excesses of European and Latin American Catholicism. Those icons, statues, bottles of holy water, books of obscure prayers, are for her a form of theological pornography. A turn on. People are always a bit surprised to come to our house and see all the crucifixes, pictures of saints, and religious candles spread around. They figure they’re in for a bible-thumping evening. But no, it’s a personal kink.
But Knock was too much even for her: the three gallon bottles for collecting holy water; the plates with a picture of Jesus on them; the ashtrays with prayers wore her down. We decided to grab a quick lunch and head home.
Big mistake. We should have known as soon as we walked into the restaurant that we were in trouble. It smelled of mould. There were religious knick-knacks for sale along one wall. The "menu" listed a score of things, like hamburgers, all with chips. They offered chips with chips. I finally settled on soup and bread. Max had fish and chips. Karen had a ham sandwich and soup. Christian, the smartest of us all, was at home in bed. Max’s "fish and chips" was two undercooked fish sticks and some droopy fries. The soup was Knorr’s, you know, the dehydrated stuff. They had not added quite enough water so there was still powder at the bottom of the bowl. The ham sandwich was two pieces of moist white bread, a hunk of butter placed, but not spread, on one of them, and a slice of straight-from-the-vacuum-pack ham. It was not just inedible, it was not food. It wasn’t even the illusion of food. It was hell on a plate.
This meal cost me 24 euro. That’s, like, $27 Canadian. You can get lunch in Italy, a GOOD lunch with a glass of wine, for 6 euro. I had a family dinner in Pisa that included two huge pizzas for the boys (Max couldn’t finish his), absolutely delicious three-course meals for Karen and I, a litre of wine, and two grappa for 39 euro.
It is to weep. I did.
And then I headed back to the church, dipped my fingers in holy water, made the sign of the cross, and prayed with all my soul to be transported back to Italy.
Because God loves me, he agreed. We return in June.
Ciao, baby.
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