The Unexpected Art of Living in Italy

One of the most endearing things about living in Italy is the high probability of an unexpected adventure occurring almost every week. Sometimes these are small, like when we plan to walk down the main street of the village to run a quick errand but that turns into an hour of lively conversation after bumping into acquaintances, meeting new people, or being invited to drink coffee at a bar.

Yesterday marked the 90th time I’ve received a superb haircut by Dante, the village barber, over more than seven years of living here in Santa Vittoria in Matenano, in the Marche region of east-central Italy. His touch is so gentle it almost puts me to sleep. He refused payment because I had previously given him a framed sketch of his shop, a picture he now displays prominently on a wall. After all this time, we have a verbal routine. He asks if I want the same (“Come sempre?”). I answer with “Come sempre!” It’s not that I have many options; with my overall lack of hair; the choices are limited. Nonetheless, we carry out this exchange each time with broad smiles.

Our most recent unexpected adventure blossomed from a completely mundane errand to events that unfolded throughout most of the day.

My wife needed to obtain a document for one of the many bureaucratic procedures that all foreign residents must complete. We drove to a nearby town that had the applicable agency, anticipating a task of perhaps 45 minutes in length. While I waited in the lobby, my wife disappeared into an interior office. A man roughly my age sat down next to me. We were jammed into such small chairs our sides touched.

After a few moments of silence, he introduced himself as Alessandro and began to ask me questions. They were in Italian and interspersed with words and phrases of the regional dialect – something I will never master. Nevertheless, I was able to answer his questions and engage in a very pleasant, full-on conversation with this complete stranger.

As usual when Italians encounter an English-speaker, the man asked “Inglese?” When I said “Americano,” the questions started flowing thick and fast. Where did we come from? Where do we live? Why did we choose this place? We have repeatedly encountered great curiosity about Americans, possibly because there are so few in this region. Even after seven years, we are still the only Americans living full-time within a 5-mile radius – at least so far as we know.

I was having a grand time using my steadily improving Italian. But I still fumble with certain words and verb tenses. He was doing likewise with English. We conversed with a mixture of both languages, sometimes within the same sentence. I call this scrambled linguistic mishmash “Italglish.” Our sometimes clumsy skills made for amusing conversation. I told him about my writing and sketching. He told me he sketches ideas for making household implements by hand out of copper.

My wife finally emerged from her bureaucratic task, and I introduced her to my new acquaintance. He invited us to have coffee at a bar across the street. As we walked to the bar, he clasped my arm firmly. With my North American sense of personal space, I stiffened a bit. He sensed that and told me that this was common between male friends. It already took me years to get used to men hugging and doing the double-cheek kiss as a greeting and parting gesture. Now I find it perfectly normal. Walking arm-in-arm seemed to be the next step.

As we sat in the café with Alessandro, it became clear that he was the village patriarch. Everyone passing by greeted him, and some came over from nearby tables. Within a few minutes, we were surrounded by a clutch of animated, gesturing Italians. And, in the usual way, the chat soon multiplied into several different simultaneous conversations, with people talking over one another loudly.

A few months ago, we had a houseguest, a friend from the United States. After a few days, she informed us that she was annoyed at how we conversed – with overlapping comments that did not allow space for her to complete her thought. With that, we realized we had subconsciously adopted the Italian way of talking. We were comfortable with it, but our guest definitely was not.

Back to our new Italian friend. At some point, he invited us to see his workshop where he makes copper cookware. I envisioned a modest room with a workbench and tools hanging on the wall. Off we went, following his vehicle. We entered what looked like an industrial area, with a cluster of decaying concrete buildings, rusting steel structures, piles of materials, and old trucks that looked like they had not been driven in decades.

We followed Alessandro to a door which he unlocked and invited us in.

Instantly, I felt transported back to the 19^th century industrial-revolution era. A vast space held old machines, scraps of metal, piles of debris, racks and stacks of tools and partially finished objects. A row of huge wheel-operated machines dominated the floor, each attached to a massive hammer-like armature composed of old, carved tree trunks. The tip of each one was fitted with a bulky wedged-shaped head of heavy iron. The signore explained that the wheels were earlier driven by a water turbine from a river winding through the property.

In the rear of the room was his workshop, with a workbench surrounded by all manner of tools, equipment, kilns, anvils, sinks, metal objects, and random piles of discarded materials. He found us two old chairs, dusted them off, and invited us to sit while he made a useful item for each of us out of copper sheeting. At one point, he fired up one of the big hammers to forcefully pound one of them into its general shape.

Then he proceeded to the close work – bending, filing the edges, buffing the objects until they were finished. One is an oil lamp with a wick holder, much like the ones seen in fairy tales. The other is a tea strainer. They are stylish without being elaborate. They are also heartfelt representations of his artisanal skills. He proudly handed them to us. They now sit in our kitchen on the marble mantel over the fireplace.

We rounded off the day with glasses of wine in his garden, sitting by the river, and eating slices of a fruit torte made by his wife who joined us. An ordinary errand had turned into a fascinating adventure that just kept going throughout the day. I even got a tad tipsy.  But I was not too inebriated to forget to thank them both profusely for being such gracious hosts to two complete strangers.

Later, when I got home, I googled our new friend. Turns out he is the eldest owner of the internationally known Tanucci family business, which has been making copper cookware for hundreds of years. The Tanucci logo proudly states: “Since 1790.”