Italy has changed a lot since my first trip backpacking with friends one hot July in the 70s, fresh from A levels. We arrived sleep-deprived in a Transalpino at Milano Centrale, and I can still remember the sensorial hit – a mixture of poetic train announcements, the smell of coffee, and the arms stretched through train windows to pay vendors for salami rolls. Back then the country was still innocent of the culture of consumption that was sweeping across the Atlantic, and four impoverished teenagers could get by on simple pleasures. Our budget covered lunch in a bar: a Toast of ham and cheese, a glass of water, and a 50 lira gettone for the juke box. Et tu by Claudio Baglione was the summer hit – a triumph of plaintive yearning that reached out and grabbed our 18 year old hearts.
Nowadays Italy has inevitably embraced the culture of TV dinners and hyper-choice. I recently came back after three years to find that supermarkets now do a roaring trade in cartons of readymade broth. 15 years ago every self-respecting Italian mother would make her own brodo di carne, and I learned how a piece of chicken (tip-always a wing for flavour), beef, and bone could be simmered to produce an exquisite broth for tortellini. These days some people pay extortionate amounts for 6 tortellini arranged on a plate in a fancy restaurant, but fortunately here in the heartland of Emilia, some grannies still have time to make their own tortellini and broth for a traditional Sunday lunch. As I overheard a shopkeeper say recently, “ la Nonna ha il suo perchè”
Polentone (polenta head) is an affectionately derogatory term used by people in the south of Italy to describe north Italians. In a country known for its culture of slow eating it is not surprising that a food term should be used to distinguish people from different regions. I live in the north and am a proud Polentone. There is nothing more comforting than a dish of this creamy yellow sustenance on a damp foggy autumn day. Of course, it belongs to the tradition of Cucina Povera, as all the best dishes do.
The other day I was shopping in my corner shop for an easy supper and I saw a variation of polenta that I had forgotten about: Calzagatti. These are made of cooked polenta mixed with bacon and beans to form a thick dough, which is then cut into chunks, and fried. Surprised by joy (as Wordsworth would say), I bought some, along with a piece of deep orange baked pumpkin. That evening, with a glass of Lambrusco, I dined like a diva.
Three years after my move to the US, I have now returned to Europe for a mixture of personal and practical reasons. Not without some lingering regrets. Living in New York was the sustained highlight of my life, a late opportunity I never dreamed would be possible, and one which has enriched me on so many levels. But the downside of being a migrant – because that’s what I have been for a good part of my life- is that you always miss people and places, and that sadness is always there in the background, just as it was when I moved to NY and left family and friends behind.
This sense of dislocation and sorrow has been elegiacally captured in the work of Jhumpa Lahiri, or more recently in the adaptation of Colm Tóibín’s Brooklyn, and anyone who has lived in another country will recognise it well. Some cultures have a word for it.
Someone * once said it is important to travel so that you can look at your own country from outside. So that is what I am going to do now that I am back in Europe. And because I am in Italy, I will start with something foodie.
“The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.” – G.K. Chesterton
The popular image of New York is that of glistening skyscrapers, high end stores, fashionable theatres and chic eateries, and of course, it is all of these things.
However, the city has another side, not the shiny one shown in Sex and the City, but the grittier one of Law and Order, rawer and sometimes primitive, and all the more fascinating for being so. This is the New York I love, the one of coffee bars with 1970s décor and formica tables, Thelma Ritter look-alikes having lunch at the counter in cosy anonymity. You will need to go a few blocks above 59th street to find it, but it is well worth exploring.
One of my favourite blocks is on Broadway between 123rd and 125th, an area which I call The Strip. Here you will find a row of independent restaurants overlooked by the last stretch of overhead subway remaining in Manhattan. Your dining experience is enhanced by the atmospheric clickety-click of the 1 train passing overhead, a gentle pink in the setting sun.
Walking down from the Liquor store on 123rd, you will find a row of Chinese, Italian, Middle Eastern, Indian, and Mexican bistros, bustling places where you can eat with dignity for less than $20 a head. My particular favourite is an American restaurant, Toast , which provides casual dining at honest prices. The waiters here are friendly, efficient, and attentive without being overzealous. It has a magnificent wooden bar where real people while away the evening over a few beers.
Chatting with friends outside Toast with the subway train passing overhead, I felt like the world was my oyster.
I am carless when I visit the UK, but this has never been a problem for me. To my mind, travelling by train offers the perfect combination of pleasurable solitude with potential for interaction if I feel so inclined. Not the kind of intense conversations between strangers I was up for in my younger days, like the time I met a gentle Vancouver guy en route to Paris, where we spent the day before moving onto our respective connections and futures. These days I value my privacy more as travel has become an opportunity to catch up on reading and writing, or simply recreating myself before the next microscopic identity shift between one culture and another.
Using public transport also allows me to tune in to my home country and small details in everyday life which have changed over the years. Things like the way language is used. Changing trains in Reading Station I am soothed by the carefully–enunciated train announcements. Recorded of course, and less personal perhaps, but much more accessible than the unpredictable live delivery of train managers reminding us that we now are arriving into rather than at Swindon.
In the UK, as long as you are prepared to walk to the end of the train, you can still reserve a seat in the Quiet carriage, where you will be spared tedious telephone conversations of people recounting the daily minutiae of their lives in loud detail. I remember a woman doing this on an Italian train, and as she finally said goodbye, a blind man sitting behind her quipping ‘ Signora, please do give your friend best wishes from the rest of us’
My most frequent train journey in the UK is from Paddington to South Wales, long enough to do some productive work, with time for a trip to the buffet for coffee and Kitkat,reassuringly still available alongside fancier refreshments. This route also has some stunning skies with changing light and cloud formations.
In the not so distant future I will qualify for a railcard (how did that happen?) but am excited by the opportunities for train travel that it will bring. I’ve got my eye on a sleeper train to Scotland and a few days in a remote pub in the Highlands. I might even take a John Buchan novel with me.
I am now officially my mother. Its been coming on gradually over the last few months, which makes me think it might be a developmental thing connected with a significant birthday I have coming up. Or perhaps my new status as a grandmother.
Whatever the reason, these days I sometimes find myself coming out with my mother’s sayings, mini homilies of morality, wise woman stuff which was layered onto my mind during my childhood and after years lying dormant has started to pop out unexpectedly in my conversation.
Some of the phrases are connected with childrearing, such as ‘he can’t grasp his sleep’ to describe a wakeful child. Another favourite of hers is “you wouldn’t stop a galloping horse to notice that”. – a common sense response to dismiss problems of a trivial nature.My mother has always been intensely practical.
Others reflected a time when money had to be made go round, and were perhaps heard from her own mother in the 1930s. Phrases like ‘to be poor and show poor is damn poor, which always makes me think of Scarlett O’ Hara pulling down the green velvet curtains to make herself a dress. ‘Cheap is dear in the long run’ was another warning against false economies. But the one I dreaded most was ‘swank money’ – extra money you would take with you on a school trip to look flush, but which you would bring home without spending.
Last week I took the dreaded Probability midterm, which was (without even .01% of doubt) the most difficult exam I have taken in my whole life. Anyone who is old enough to remember the Five Boys chocolate bar will remember the five stages of anticipation on the boy’s face until he gets his darned chocolate.
During that two-hour exam I went through a similar process, but in reverse, from delusional optimism at 3.01 p.m that I might be able to scrape through, to sullen resignation as I submitted my paper that this stuff was way, way, way out of my league. The next lesson we got our results, people getting knocked out of the running like a grotesque academic reality show. I did spectacularly badly, so bad that Nancy and I laughed at the absurdly low mark I got. The funny thing is, I quite enjoy the conceptual part of the course – I used to work in a betting shop as a university student- but the more advanced theorems are impenetrable.
I’m doing the resit next week, and remembering the Beckett quote: