Column: Thoughts from Dr. Joe: Stories of Italy at our local Constantinople
I am fascinated by stories, especially those that never quite leave you. Stories that touch and stay with you, unique haunting memories. Last week at Starbucks I happened to overhear a woman tell of a sweet memory, and by the star-crossed-gaze in her eye, I knew she was telling such a story.
“Do you mind if I listen in?” I asked.
She returned a generous smile.
Starbucks has become the Constantinople of La Cañada. Napoleon said of the ancient city, “it is the hub of civilization.” Constantinople was the confluence of story that would enthrall a millennium.
The woman explained, “Giovanni Tempesta looked very Italian, very distinctive. And as part of a full Italian experience, he’d tell his class, ‘if you go to Italy, you must visit my parents.’’’ Mr. Tempesta taught Italian at an adult night school in San Francisco; the woman was his student. Her story, from 1976, was her memory of the time she visited Giovanni’s parents in Foligno, an ancient village in the Province of Perugia, centered between the quaint hilltop towns of Spello and Montefalco in central Umbria.
I interrupted her, “How do you recall such detail?”
“This experience is in my DNA,” she replied. “My Italian heritage has been a benchmark for my life.”
While in Florence, the woman called Giovanni’s father, Vincenzo Tempesta to announce her visit. “What will you be wearing so I can recognize you as you as you exit the train?” he asked. “A sleeveless white dress,” she said. If you’ve seen “Under the Tuscan Sun,” perhaps you’ll understand the imagery of a white sleeveless dress.
What was compelling about the woman’s account was its simplicity and the manner in which she told it. By her nostalgic demeanor, I could tell that she hoped for time to roll back. “Tempi Passati,” she said. Times past and the beauty of the moment. Only a quixotic nature can appreciate such.
She explained that, as she got off the train, “Here is this tall carabinieri, a military police officer, wearing a three-piece suit standing with his daughters by his side. In his arms were a bouquet of white gladiolas.”
That afternoon Antonietta, Vincenzo’s wife, cooked Giovanni’s favorite dishes. The woman relating the story recalled the thinly sliced zucchini leeched with salt and drying in their garden’s sun. Antonietta was from Brandizzi and influenced by the Mediterranean; she dusted the zucchini with mint.
“To this day, this taste remains on my palate,” the woman said. “How endearing they would show such kindness. Perhaps, this coming year, we can show such hospitality to others.”
Again, I interrupted. “It’s grace,” I said. “I’m not using this term in a strictly theological sense. Grace is the loveliness of life.”
Grace evolves from being at peace with yourself; it’s the purity of intention. Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote that “grace is an inner harmony, essentially spiritual, which can be translated into outward harmony.”
Again, the woman smiled, and I knew that we shared the same thought. It was obvious that the quintessence of Vincenzo Tempesta connected with a lifeblood that already existed within her.
The woman explained that throughout the house small pieces of paper containing Vincenzo’s scribbled poetry were pinned on the walls. “Poetic inspirations,” she attested. He would recite such verse while Antonietta looked in awe. “In Tuscany, even a simple man is king when quoting Dante,” she said.
There is something in us as tellers and listeners of stories that awakens our primordial nature. In mythology, we learn we were once shivering for a lack of human connection and as we gathered around the fire telling stories that would solidify our villages and permeate our world, we discovered the quintessence of our existence.
The woman at Starbucks was doing the same. She was telling a story that would enrich those of us who were lucky enough to listen.
JOE PUGLIA is a practicing counselor, a retired professor of education and a former officer in the Marines. Reach him at doctorjoe@ymail.com. Visit his website at doctorjoe.us.
