It must be a sign

It must be a sign

Some come to Italy to cram for an exam at a university-villa and others come to dig up their roots in a countryside comune. Some arrive for adventure and others stay for love. And those who were born here are curious to uncover our reasons: ‘Come mai sei

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Thu 27 Jan 2011 1:00 AM

Some come to Italy to cram for an exam at a university-villa and others come to dig up their roots in a countryside comune. Some arrive for adventure and others stay for love. And those who were born here are curious to uncover our reasons: ‘Come mai sei in Italia? Do you study? Are you married? Do you plan to stay long?’

 

I once heard a tired but pleasant acquaintance justify her decision to stay in a wonderful way: ‘I’m here for the schiacciata,’ she said. The earnestness of her answer earned my immediate admiration. For if you need an excuse to live abroad, then cream-filled cake must be among the best of them. As for me, I’m here for the sound of church bells ringing 10 minutes before the start of mass and for the way balcony geraniums are wrapped up for the winter. And I’m here for the way people walk in the middle of the road or for the fact that there are people walking in the road at all. And if that isn’t enough, I’m here for the red of the roofs, the strange smell of the stairwells and for the graying frescoes you find in unlikely places. And, I’m here for the bold but sweet brokenness of things. Italy always needs fixing. And in that way, I am twin to it.

 

I’m tempted to ask you about all of this – to make a public plea and collect your own unofficial reasons as to why this country has become your true place. I am in Italy because co-workers offer trays of bignè on their birthdays and because you don’t have to give your name to the counter clerk to get a good cup of coffee. And I’m here for the signage. Sapete cosa voglio dire, immagino. I mean those signs scribbled in marker and taped to market crates, declaring which apples are ‘mele nostrane.’ Early foreign fruit imported from Spain is not ‘ours’ and thus merits no handwritten caption.

 

A photographer friend recently told me that he wanted to write (or for me to write) a guide of Florence where the only real criteria for being in the book would be the nature of an establishment’s self-produced signs. Leonardo’s photos are spectacular, and the idea – though a worthy one – intimidates me greatly. I’m not sure people will believe that the best bar in town is where you find a sign saying: ‘È vietato parlare di politica. Ci basta il calcio e il Grande Fratello.’ Based on my friend’s pictorial evidence, the guide would be packed with loads of arguable advice. ‘Life-changing sandals can be purchased from the shoemaker whose shop is ‘Chiuso per ferie dal 7-08 al non si sa.’  Locals eat best when ordering off a placemat menu where ‘Sprait’ is the alternative to Coca-Cola. And the town’s top finocchiona meat can be sampled at a delicatessen where cold-cuts are hidden by a chilling sign that reads ‘Non sdraiatevi sopra i vetri.’ For though I’m not the squeamish type, it’s best to shop in places where no one’s laying on the display window.

 

Thankfully, Italians have been slow to adapt to the mass market demands of pre-prepared signage. I, for one, could not bear missing out on that central bancomat whose avviso reads ‘L’ATM funziona senza bisogno di dare pugni sulla tastiera e sul monitor.’ No punching the money machine, people. Let’s hear it for the Florentine fondness for a well-placed affront; there’s nowhere else in the world where a bank offers such sound advice. But the sage nature of the city’s signage can be seen in much simpler ways as well. At a recent British Institute lecture on ‘Adventures in Italian Expression’, a man from the audience mentioned one of his preferred linguistic quirks. It was my favorite part of the event: there is nothing like sharing sayings on a Wednesday afternoon in winter. ‘My favorite idiom is torno subito,’ he said.

 

The expression engendered a debate on the cultural implications of time and the freedom that comes from ‘not knowing’ when you’ll manage to ‘come back again.’ The British attachment to fixed timetables and the American concern for what’s penciled into the day’s agenda is no match for the liberating Italian ability to admit the truth: time is a force much bigger than the best of us; struggle though we may, one will return when Time decides.

 

Ecco, another reason for staying. But if that’s not enough, then I’d suggest you look for your own sign. Most likely, it’s there. For Simon and Garfunkel, the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls. In Florence, there ain’t no subway. But from the signs of it, we have most everything else.

 

 

 

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