On New Year’s, Italians will tell you that fertility and marital devotion are a consequence of eating the ruby seeds of a pomegranate. And if your money belt is too short for buckling both sides of the month together, fear not. Lentils, like tiny coins made soft from boiling, are sure to bring wealth one day. If it’s a pure dose of fortune you’re looking for, try and meet a hunchback just as soon as the New Year carries midnight over the chilly threshold of morning. Hunchbacks possess magical powers any day of the year, but on January 1, they are luck incarnate. If adequately understood, that tidbit alone could easily serve as the substitute for an entire article. But if said picture is really worth a thousand words, read on, my friends, read on.
Hunchbacks are somewhat hard to come by, of course. And Italians, being the purely practical people they are, find a sufficiently lucky alternative in post-midnight meetings with any stooped older person, symbolizing longevity. On the flip side, very young children and priests of any age should be encountered only once the year is not so spanking new. Youth and holiness can be saved for other days.
It was not until after Epiphany that I had the chance to fully investigate the nature of Italian new-year luck or ask why red underwear must be purchased, worn and thrown out with the trash on January 2. Or realize with surprising relief that Italians refuse to make New Year’s resolutions. ‘It is not part of our culture,’ my friend Enrico explained. ‘And if it weren’t for American sitcoms, I wouldn’t even be able to decipher your question.’
Whether or not this was true is entirely debatable. Enrico likes to dangle his feet off the edge of ideological spectrums, and the beginnings of his debates often fly so far past the flag that it takes us a few swings to find the green again. ‘So you didn’t make any resolutions?’ I insisted. Italians prefer to be asked things twice.
‘Linda, we don’t even have a word for resolution.’
‘What about proposito?’
‘That’s more like a good intention. And in Italy, intenzioni are good for every day of the year.’ He grinned and I settled into the statement with a smaller smile. There is nothing like the lack of an adequate translation to reveal the true nature of a culture. Intentions are fueled by the vague idea that change must somehow come. Not by the resolute determination that you will actually be responsible for initiating it.
I had spent New Year’s at my childhood home in California, where old friends voiced new resolutions that shone like verbal Christmas packages still wrapped in holiday sparkle. While the economic crisis has left many hard pressed, the habit of future-based hope still buffered the sharp realities of their dinner-table talk. The year 2010 was going to be a winning one, they said. By the fairy dust of Willpower, bulges would tuck more tightly under belts and Father Time would save more hours for outings with the kids. Irresponsible chocolate habits would be uprooted and reckless credit cards would be sliced to stubs. To put it another way, my lovely, rather nervous crowd could barely keep their heads out of their party hats. If the English language didn’t already have the word ‘resolution’ they would have patented it then and there and used it on their bread as a substitute for butter.
‘But why don’t Italians make goals for the New Year?’
He snorted. ‘Because we seldom lie to ourselves.’
‘Right. Or, even believe in yourselves,’ I said with equal disdain.
Enrico looked at me, his eyes surprised. My statement had snapped forward suddenly, recoiling with identical quickness. Frightening allegations spring from me at times, hitting both speaker and listener with an unexpected sense of finality. Mostly it happens with accusations that I’m conscious of only once they are already articulated. Fixing this habit is very possibly prime resolution material.
Enrico was struck but by no means grounded. In fact, maybe he was not even struck. The man has Matrix speed when it comes to dodging karate chops. ‘That could be true,’ he mused. ‘Italians are individualists who don’t really have faith in individual progress.’ Enrico seemed to have become both smarter and more cynical during the two weeks of my absence. That he actually had growing room in either area amazed me.
‘So what do you have faith in-pessimism?’
He grinned again. The man is entirely likeable whenever that happens. All ugly theories topple-overturned by the mere slant of his smile. Once admitted, cynicism dissipates. I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘Where you look to good will, we look to good luck. But we are not hopeful otherwise. A country with so few natural resources must depend on smarts, not optimism.’
I listened even after he had finished speaking. ‘In a strictly fraternal way, I’ve missed you,’ I finally told him.
He looked at me. And to show that he’d heard, he turned serious. ‘Do people ever actually do what they promise?’
‘Does anyone ever make money with lentils?’
‘I asked first,’ he argued.
Yes, and I asked second. And there are about 50 weeks before any of us will find out. Only a hunchback ever knows in advance.
