Bella Italia - the beautiful country...

Bella Italia - the beautiful country...

During my second semester studying to become a professional translator (a winter semester), we had an Italian teacher, Signora Lina Mazzi. Before joining the language centre at Saarland University, she taught German at a school in Modena, northern Italy. Our class was small, with about 30 students, mostly young women. Besides, most of us only knew a few phrases: “Ti amo,” “Ciao,” and “Arrivederci.”

Signora Mazzi employed a very special teaching method—she spoke only Italian from the very beginning. Initially, she was met with blank stares from all of us, completely lost in translation. Only when she realized we sometimes had no idea what she was talking about, she would switch to German.

However, we gradually adapted to her approach. By the end of the semester, we learned Italian faster and spoke much more fluently than our fellow students learning Spanish or Russian.

Toward the semester’s conclusion, Signora Mazzi shared stories about her last class in Modena and offered an interesting proposal. In an exchange program, she would arrange for a younger Italian girl to spend the summer semester break with any of us interested. This girl would first stay with us and our respective families in Germany, and then we, the German women, would spend a few weeks in Italy with the respective Italian families. I was paired with Monica, a 17-year-old girl from Castel Rangone, near Modena. She looked lovely in her photo. I occasionally called her and managed to request in Italian to bring me a specific Italian-German dictionary that wasn’t available in Germany. She replied, “Si, si, l’ho! ” (Yes, yes, I have it!).

I borrowed my father’s BMW to pick Monica up from the train station in my small town. We hit it off immediately. She spoke only Italian, and I understood her well. She complimented me, saying, “You speak Italian very well.” My father handed me 50 DM and said, “Go out for a nice meal together; it will help you get to know each other better.”

A few days later, we all traveled to the Dutch island of Ameland, where my parents had rented a holiday bungalow that also accommodated Monica. She was quite carefree; she sat on the terrace in the sun, exposing her breasts (which my little brother Hans found very attractive) and enjoyed bread and jam.

The day after our arrival, we went to the North Sea for the first time. Monica, who had only ever been to the warm Mediterranean, expected to see ice floes floating in the North Sea. When she dipped her feet in the water, she screamed, “Io gelo, io gelo!” (I’m freezing, I’m freezing!).

We frequently visited the “De Kronkel” disco near the village of Ballum, which I had known from previous holidays. We had a great time, drank beers, enjoyed a “toasti” (two slices of toasted white bread with ham and cheese), and danced to the DJ’s hits.

At some point, I grew tired and wanted to head home, but Monica was flirting with a young man and wanted to stay. So, I returned alone, leaving the bungalow door open so she wouldn’t disturb anyone.

The next morning, she told me she had gone into the bushes to have sex with the young man. I had no issue with that; I wasn’t her moral guardian. The only problem arose when, a day later, she started scratching her private parts. My mother examined her and said, “Monica, you’ve got pubic lice.” Of course, Monica didn’t understand. But I remembered how to say “fleas” in Italian, so I didn’t translate it accurately: “You’ve got fleas down there!” First, her pubic hair was shaved off, and then my mother and I went to the only pharmacy on the island, struggling to explain our situation. Our Dutch wasn’t good enough, and we didn’t know how to say, “We need something for pubic lice.”

Eventually, we managed to get our message across and obtained some ointment, which Monica applied regularly to keep the lice at bay.

The four weeks flew by, and soon it was time to say goodbye to beautiful Ameland. Monica stayed with my family for another week, and then we set off in my little light blue Volkswagen Beetle toward “la bella Italia” (the beautiful country of Italy).

It was a hot summer day as we drove through Switzerland, along the edge of Lake Lucerne, when we suddenly felt the urge for a refreshing swim. We awkwardly changed into our swimsuits in the car, only to suddenly hear some cheeky whistles from above. Looking up, we saw a few construction workers, likely repairing a bridge. They were clearly watching our impromptu striptease! One of them, positioned below the bridge on a slope, was even masturbating in response to the spectacle.

We abandoned our plans and continued driving.

Although Monica was only 17, she was allowed to drive in Italy if accompanied by an adult (me, as I was over 18). So we took turns behind the wheel during the long journey. We engaged in deep conversations. She confided that she had a steady boyfriend, Franco, who was in his mid-twenties, in her hometown. She revealed that he had humiliated her six months prior by saying at a party, “This woman doesn’t belong to me; I don’t even know her!” This was, to put it mildly, hurtful and a betrayal. Monica said bitterly, “I love him, I want to marry him, but I can never trust him again.” I replied, “But you can't marry someone you don’t trust, that’s an immensely important thing in a relationship!”

I had already noticed in Ameland that Monica had a liberal attitude toward sex. The incident with the young man could still be considered a “holiday fling.” However, there was another young man from her past who still loved her and was sexually involved with her. I wasn’t sure if Franco knew about that; perhaps he was tolerant.

We often visited a disco near Monica’s village called “Il Picchio Rosso” (The Red Woodpecker), which featured a beautiful glass dance floor under the open sky. It was always bustling; a truly trendy place.

There wasn’t much happening in the small village. A large market square was where the men played boules over glasses of red wine and thick cigars, while the women busied themselves with household chores and prepared “la cena” (dinner). Contrary to expectations, there was no “ice cream parlour” in the German sense; instead, there was a window with a hatch that opened at certain times of the day. The ice cream wasn’t served in scoops like in Germany. It was scraped from the sides of a paper cup with a spatula until the cup was full, and there was no whipped cream, which also seemed to be a German invention.

My parents had given me 10,000 lire. I don't recall how much that was in Deutschmarks at the time, but it was sufficient. Monica had a friend who owned a boutique, and I bought some lovely clothes from there. Monica kept asking me, as many Italians do when encountering a foreigner, “Ti piace? Ti piace?” (Do you like it? Do you like it?).

Monica’s father ran a meat wholesale business, and there was a huge cold store where butchered pigs and hams hung. Every evening, we enjoyed freshly sliced ham with honeydew melon. Once, Monica’s mother boiled chicken wings, which I found unappetizing. The skin was soggy and soft, so I politely said, “I'm sorry, I'm not hungry tonight.”
This family must have thought I was a cultural ignoramus. When I ate spaghetti carbonara for the first time, I asked for ketchup, to the horror of the entire family! But I got the ketchup. They were polite and tolerant people who respected my ignorance of Italian cuisine.

My mother had given me a bottle of perfume for Monica’s mother, and in return, I received a beautiful bedspread for my parents’ bed. Monica's mother sometimes felt unwell, and her children would say, “La mamma si sente a pezzi” (Mom is feeling shattered and exausted). She would drink a bowl of chicken soup, and afterwards, she would feel better.

There was also a “nonno,” a grandfather in the family, who had a large cancerous tumour on his neck and underwent regular chemotherapy. His daughter felt it was appropriate to feed him as much as possible, which made him very angry. He would say, “Stop feeding me so much; I know how much I need to eat!” Eventually, she stopped.

The beauty of Italy lies in its diversity: the warm Mediterranean Sea with its white beaches, the majestic Apennines and the Abruzzo mountain ranges, and numerous national parks. Monica, Franco, and I once spent a weekend in the Apennines. We booked a room for three and had a wonderful time. The meals were prepared with love, and the breakfast buffet overflowed with culinary delights. We didn’t hike much; the lounge of our guesthouse was so cozy that we couldn’t get ourselves to leave. It was delightful to relax with a glass of sherry or a cappuccino.

On our way back to Castel Rangone, we detoured to Venice. We rented a pedal boat and paddled around the Lido of Venice, completely naked, and happy. The sun was shining, as it should be, and we all got beautifully tanned.

And then it was time to say goodbye. The holidays were over, and Monica had to return to school while I had to go back to university. I loaded all my belongings into my light blue VW Beetle. We cried and hugged one last time, promising to stay in touch, either by letter or phone. I often fondly reflect on the wonderful time I spent with friendly people who loved, valued, and respected my personality and my soul.

Ciao, Bella Italia. Perhaps I’ll take refuge in you, seeking solace in the embrace of your mammas, when life becomes too overwhelming...

© Maid Marion

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