Small Stage, Big Stars: The Cast of Characters in My Village

I feel like my face has been stretched back from my facial bones by a force of at least 3G’s – the amount astronauts experience on take-off. I have been here in the hilltop town of Castiglione Messer Raimondo only two weeks, yet have been invited into nearly every home surrounding mine to “prendere un café’ (take coffee). 

I am so caffeinated that I bounce along the cobbled streets with such levity that I barely feel the stones beneath my feet. The obligatory treats that accompany the drink have also begun to add an extra band of adipose encircling my middle at navel level. Back in my former hometown in Pennsylvania, USA, when people walked by my husband and I as we sat on our front porch, an attempt to engage them was met with lowered heads and a quickening of their pace.

I grew up in a gregarious Italian-American household. Freely given hospitality and massive feeds were the norm. But this ready embrace of a total stranger was novel even to me. It was my first immersion in the culture of non-hyphenated Italian life.

Over the course of that first summer residing at my newly acquired home, the residents not only opened their homes to me, but opened themselves. It was not uncommon for me to enter a local store to buy, say, pillowcases, and end up having a two-hour conversation with the proprietor. And another coffee!

As I got to know the history of my fellow inhabitants: the arc of their daily lives, their histories, their individual personalities – I was transported. Not only to a different physical place, but a completely different world. One which seemed specifically crafted for the stage or screen.

I have worked in theatre my entire adult life and this felt like stepping into the world of a play on opening night. The characters that surround me are so vividly written and so exquisitely drawn as to pull me away from any other reality I have known. This, to me, felt like full immersion in the culture. I endeavoured to continue to know my neighbours and the denizens of this tiny town. I did so with such activities as taking frequent walks through town, an occasional morning cappuccino at the local bar, shopping as locally as possible, and taking baked goods to my neighbours at Christmas – or for no occasion at all. One favourite treat was “biscotti Americani” – American biscuits, AKA chocolate chip cookies! These became my signature props for staging a “drop in”.

The people I got to know could easily be found in a script by Sean O’Casey, or George Bernard Shaw, or even Shakespeare. My daily cast swelled and came to include:

The Divine Miss M: The most astonishing hairdresser discovery I’ve ever made. Not only are her tonsorial skills the most aesthetic I’ve experienced, everything she sets her hands to is a work of art. Her breads, her pizze, the cookies she crafts into intricately decorated masterpieces for baptisms, birthdays, and other special occasions. Once for my birthday, she made me the most beautiful cake with which I’ve ever celebrated. Or eaten with such alacrity! When I tutored her in the making of “biscotti Americani”, she formed each cookie into perfect, uniform rounds by hand, so very different to my haphazard dropping from a spoon.

My house is next to the main church in town, snugged between that spiritual fortress and the residence of our town priest. For the past two years, since improving my Italian, I’ve been able to more frequently converse with the priest and the young acolyte living there. Often the talk was about the remarkably prolific and healthy “pomodorini” (little tomatoes) they grow in small pots outside their door. Recently, the young acolyte was installed as a deacon in a luminous and moving ceremony in the church. I was invited to join in witnessing this and to attend the celebration dinner afterwards. I was the only English-speaking person present. My heart swelled to levels previously unknown.

Pasq – For several summers he was our town trash collector. In the wee hours of the morning, even in the dark, I would hear him whistling over the thunder of the bins rolling through our cobblestone alleyways. Off hours, he could be seen riding his bike through town with his tiny dog, Camilla, in the front basket. Just round and round – talking to everyone he passed, including me. He introduced me to his wife, who became a regular on my coffee and visitation circuit.

Gio – She has been my housekeeper for 15 years. Energetic, talkative, in constant motion flitting from one task or conversation to another, she moves through house cleaning like a whirling dervish. We now clean the house together like two old friends. At some point during our work, she takes a rest and I make HER coffee. She loves my husband’s banana bread, so when he knows she is coming, he’ll make it for her. I always send her away with a hunk of it. The gift does not stop Gio from giving my husband a hard time about not speaking Italian. Every. Single. Visit.

Fior- She is somewhere north of 80. I met her through Gio. She is Gio’s aunt. Her accent and mixture of the local dialect makes it difficult to converse with her. Nevertheless, I sometimes stop by her house for – yes- coffee. She has told me she is illiterate. The only school in the town was closed during WWII when she was school eligible. The German army had requisitioned it as their local headquarters. At the end of the war, the retreating army blew it up. That was it for schooling. Fior can often be seen walking uphill from her house to the church for morning mass. The journey is slow and laborious, but she always smiles and makes time to chat when I see her. I’ve asked if she would like help, but she gives me the standard answer, “No, grazie, Piano, piano!” (No, thanks, slowly, slowly).

Fior is not the only intrepid older person living here. I once observed a woman on crutches ambling up the steps to the church’s front door. I asked if she’d like me to get someone to activate the exterior elevator for her. She thanked me, but said that the elevator was “only for crippled people.” The phrase used to describe the Abruzzese- “gentile e forte” (gentle and strong)- is exemplified every day in the people who surround me.

Il Professore: There is a country road leading out of town that I often take on my twice-weekly runs. Slogs, really, but they do the trick of helping to keep me in shape. I usually take doggie treats with me, both to stave off any unfriendly canine species, but also to give to some of the forlorn, stray ones who stand or lie in the road along the way. One day a free-roaming but cheerful dog approached me. He was followed by a distinguished- looking older gentleman, who I assumed was his human. I asked if I could give the dog a treat. That is how I began my connection to “Il Professore”. He is a retired French teacher, but doesn’t speak English. His clear, articulate Italian, however, allows me to carry on an extensive conversation. He has told me his life story and I have shared mine. His standard opening line each time we meet is “Sei ancora tanto giovane” (You are still so young!”). It is unrehearsed dialogue that nevertheless repeats in the ongoing run of our common walks.

Gabri- Probably the one who tugs at my heartstrings the most. A small, compact man, he walks continuously through the town day after day. Usually alone. He is the town’s Samaritan: He walks coffee from the bar to the post office clerk and construction workers; he collects grocery lists from older women in town, purchases the items, and delivers them; each morning he waters the flowers in the pots that line our scenic overlook. Once I saw him helping to unload crates of vegetables at the local market. Heavy loads that seemed to weigh more than he does. He worked methodically and silently, non-stop until the job was done. He accepts no compensation. He just includes these deeds as stops on his walks. He rarely smiles. Once, when I made a joke of thanking him for the tray of coffee he was on his way to deliver, his face lit up in the kind of grin I’d never seen on him. The endorphin boost it gave me was better than any spate of laughter from any audience after my delivery of a punchline.

These and so many others are the people that populate the new theatrical enterprise I call “Life in Small Town Italy”. Their backstories, their personas, their interactions with me and each other are singular enough that whether I am an audience or participant in the daily drama, there is a shimmering sense of having stepped into a world beyond which there is no other like it. I am continuously intrigued and enlightened by the unique interactions I have with them. As I dive more and more deeply into the daily scenarios, I can’t help but wonder, though – what character am I? What is my role? I ask what I’ve asked over 45 years of preparing for roles – How can I execute this one as an integral, vital part of this stellar cast?