Recently asked on the Fodor’s travel forum: “We’ve been told it is customary and acceptable for men in Italy to pinch women’s bottoms. Is this true and, if it is, what is the customary and acceptable response?”
Over the years I’ve lived in Italy I’ve been asked this question several times. And it always makes me laugh because, while it may once have been normal behavior for Italian men, I experienced this kind of thing far more in India (where it’s called “eve teasing”) than I ever have in Italy.
When I was a teenager in India in the late 70s/early 80s, foreign women were considered “easy” and therefore worth a try (verbal or physical), though Indian women out alone were also harassed. I don’t understand what drives men to do this. How stupid do you have to be to believe that some woman whose bottom you grab or to whom you say “Hey, sexy baby” is going to swoon into your arms?
By the end of my high school years in India I had been groped and “hello darling’d” enough to know how to avoid it (as far as that was possible). When I returned for a college year abroad in Benares, I was surprised to find myself the only woman in our group who was never bothered at all. In retrospect, I think I went around that year with such a forbidding expression that no one dared come near me. (I am also taller and heavier than many Benarsi men, which may have scared them off.)
I didn’t know much about Italy when I first began travelling here, so it never occurred to me to expect such. (I was always accompanied by Enrico in any case.) And, in all these years, it’s never happened. Except once, riding in a very crowded bus in Rome, I got groped. If I could have identified the culprit I would have slapped him, but of course these slimeballs judge their situations very carefully, and I didn’t want to slap the wrong man.
An Italian colleague tells me that she’s been groped a few times in the metro in Milan. It’s called palpeggiamento, and the favored technique is the mano morta – the “dead hand” left dangling where it will brush up against something, but the culprit can claim innocence if confronted.
My colleague’s response is to step back hard onto the guy’s foot with her sharp high heel, then turn around and say sweetly, “Did I step on you? I’m soooo sorry.” This or something similar would be the response of most Italian women – who do NOT consider being fondled by strangers to be expected or tolerable behavior!
Someone else in the Fodor’s forum said that her daughter, on a study abroad year in Florence, had been warned by her university to expect verbal and physical harassment, and that the best response was simply to ignore it. She duly was hassled, and, as instructed, ignored it.
It seems to me that the administrators of these college programs are encouraging bad behavior by instructing their students to put up with it, when no one else in Italy would, and the girls themselves would not tolerate such treatment back home. So the Florentines obligingly perpetuate their grandfathers’ myth of the butt-pinching, wolf-whistling Italian man. (Perhaps if we pointed out to these young men how desperately old-fashioned this is, they would be embarrassed into stopping.)
Then there are the American women tourists who, having heard all the stories, claim to feel disappointed if they don’t get grabbed in the street – they feel they’ve missed out on a quintessential Italian experience. Umm, well, the guy who pinches your bottom is surely not one you would actually want to have sex with – it’s not exactly a smooth approach, is it? Wait for the one who hands you a good line and buys you a good dinner. Quite a few tourists have had a great vacation this way, and some have even ended up married!
(On the other hand, don’t be surprised or shocked to learn that he’s already married. Adultery is something of a national sport, and what could be easier or safer than a fling with a woman who will soon be leaving?)
Note: Some of what follows will be incomprehensible and/or dull to those who did not attend Woodstock School. I have recently learned that I have far more readers among Woodstockers than I ever imagined, so this one’s for them – and anyone else who’s interested!
The annual reunion of the Woodstock Old Students’ Association / North America (WOSA NA) was held at the YMCA Blue Ridge Assembly in Black Mountain, NC. Our “extended 81 reunion” group – aka the young ‘uns – was staying in the family lodge, which sleeps up to 62 people, but can do so comfortably only if they are mostly in family groups of 3, 4, or 5. So it was just as well that we didn’t fill the place – we were few enough that couples and families could have privacy, and there was plenty of room for the singles and the snorers to spread out.
Ross and I drove down to North Carolina with Susan ’78, sister of the classmate we’d been staying with in Virginia. Susan had impressed the Sikh rental car agent with her ability to correctly pronounce Uttaranchal (the name of the new Indian state in which Mussoorie now finds itself). For that or whatever reason, he gave us a convertible instead of the plain old mid-sized car we had reserved.
We took full advantage of it, making part of the trip on the Blue Ridge Parkway, which runs along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains from Virginia to North Carolina. It’s a slow road – speed limit 35 mph – so the trip took longer than it might have, but was well worth it to enjoy a top-down view of the beautiful scenery. Other drivers kept moving out of our way; either they were very polite, or they thought we were Thelma & Louise with a sidekick.
While Ross lolled in the back seat listening to her iPod, Susan and I found plenty to talk about. She was three years ahead of me at school, which seemed like a lot at the time, but such age differences are hardly noticeable now. It’s a pity we didn’t get to know each other better, sooner – we have much in common in our attitudes and behaviors, beyond the shared experiences of Woodstock and India.
After ten hours on the road, we arrived at Black Mountain on Wednesday evening, August 2 nd. We weren’t the first – the class of ’46 were having a big reunion, and, of our own group, Anita ’79 and Beth ’80 had already arrived from different parts of Florida. The Blue Ridge Assembly campus is beautiful, the land so heavily forested that you can hardly see the buildings. The family lodge, when we found it, proved to be spacious and comfortable, with huge living and dining rooms and an industrial-strength kitchen.
…which we didn’t actually use til after 10 pm, when James ’79 finally arrived. Though he lives nearby in Asheville, it had taken him hours to fit into his car all the food he had bought for us. He had been back and forth to his local Indian grocery store so many times that they’d finally asked him, mystified: “Kya shaadi ho jayega?” (“Is this for a wedding?”)
In the meantime, we sat around and talked. And talked. And talked. Some in the group had known each other well at school, but had new spouses to introduce, such as Laura’s (’81) husband Billy (who was a blast and a half). Others had been at school together, but had hardly known each other back then. And some were already good friends with fond memories, e.g. me and Beth.
But, when we were all there together, our previous relationships hardly mattered. Having a base of Woodstock gives you so much in common, even if you came from different backgrounds and went on to very different lives. There’s a level of comfort in being with other Woodstockers that comes from not having to explain anything. We don’t know all the details of each other’s lives, but in some deep sense we are family, closer even than blood.
There were about a dozen of us in the family lodge that first night, with more trickling in (and out) throughout the weekend. Neerja ’81 and her husband Anil, neither of whom had been to a Woodstock reunion before, enjoyed this one, and plan to attend more. Sharon ’79, after ten years’ work at Woodstock, was now free to NOT represent the school to the alumni, and excited about her new job at a United World College in New Mexico. (She didn’t entirely escape notice – she received a speech of thanks for her long service to alumni, and a commemorative fruit bowl.) Chris Starr ’81, whom we hardly saw because the alumni job is now his, so he had to concentrate on the larger Woodstock family, as well as his own parents (former staff) throughout the weekend.
David E.’78 came with his lovely wife Beth and three (also lovely) daughters – he’s still a musician, to nobody’s surprise, and so is Beth. And he still has in a binder somewhere the lyrics to the songs sung by the “Babushop Quartet” way back when – I have fond memories of those concerts, and am itching to get my hands on the lyrics to songs like “I’d like to be in my dhoti” [sung to the tune of “Octopus’ Garden”]. Even better would be a commemorative video, if we could get the four of them together… My own daughter asked me why one of David’s was wearing a sweatshirt with crosses on it (from a Christian summer camp). Culture gap: many Italians wear small crucifixes around their necks, but never on their clothing.
David T. ’80 is still a runner and hiker, and now a coach of runners. He’s raising mission funding to go with his family to teach in Tanzania. On the face of it, David and I have practically nothing in common, and I doubt we ever said ten words to each other back at school. But I learned at the reunion that he’s funny and warm and fun to be with. When he departed Saturday night (his wife was home coping with four kids and packing!), he left us copies of his family newsletter. Presumably aimed at raising funds for the mission, it was couched in religious language which was at best meaningless to me. But his motivations for wanting to teach in Tanzania were such as anyone could sympathize with: one of David’s life goals is “teaching kids to have a healthy lifestyle.” That’s a goal I’m willing to support.
Anita ’79 is doing civil rights work in Florida. Beth ’80 has just moved to Florida, where her musician boyfriend hopes to find more paying work. Beth is writing music-themed mystery novels, and has a flourishing business selling rare records on eBay. If you’re looking for something unusual, let me know!
There was so much to catch up on that our group felt no particular need for organized activities – just as well that we hadn’t organized any! A few went on a brief hike Thursday afternoon, while Ross and Laura took advantage of the YMCA’s crafts room.
Thursday night, after a fantastic meal of kheema (ground meat) and chole (chick pea) curries made by James, we had a bonfire at which we sat around and gabbed still more (while James went to the airport to pick up Boni ’79). Once again, most of us didn’t get to bed before 2 am and, once again on Friday morning, I bounced up at 7:30, unable to sleep any later. I amused myself in the kitchen with the industrial dishwasher, and prayed for James to hurry up and come make chai (spiced Indian tea) – we all drank gallons of his yummy chai throughout the weekend, which undoubtedly contributed to the not-sleeping.
There’s a lot to see in the Asheville area, and some people went on Friday to visit the Biltmore estates. I stayed on campus to do more meeting and greeting. The main reunion group began arriving Friday afternoon, so there were plenty of other old friends for me to talk to. My only regret at these reunions is that there simply isn’t time to talk with everybody as much as I’d like.
James was cooking not only for our subgroup, but also for the main reunion, supervising the making of endless chai and a big banquet for Saturday night. For the banquet, he put together all the spice mixtures and provided recipes and supervision to the YMCA kitchen staff (though he wasn’t allowed to actually be in the kitchen, for insurance reasons). Because he expected to be busy Friday night, I had committed to cooking Italian food for our group, which came out pretty well in spite of unfamiliar ingredients. I hadn’t expected the sheer physical labor is involved in cooking for a large group – stirring and turning 10 pounds of ground beef in a pan is hard work!
But it was fun having our own kitchen. Everyone pitched in on cooking, serving, and cleaning, which somehow seemed appropriate to a Woodstock group, even though we rarely had opportunities to cook while we were in school. The constant availability of informal shared spaces meant that we could all drift in and out as we liked. Conversations eddied and swirled as people moved from kitchen to dining room to living room to dance floor. (I teased Neerja’s husband Anil: “I bet you never expected to come here and dance bhangra with a bunch of gringoes!”) The lodge also featured a long front porch with rocking chairs – perfect for hanging out and hanging loose.
Friday night saw the arrival of Lauri S. ’81, who, after years as a merchant seaman, is now working for an educational publisher back home in Finland. He brought his daughter Meri – a tall, gorgeous 13-year-old with a delightfully creative fashion sense (she makes some of her own funky outfits) who wants to go into fashion. Lauri’s brother Kris and Kris’ wife Karen also came, though I barely got to speak with them.
Stan L. ’78 was a late addition to the group, and (as part of the official reunion activities) gave a talk on AIDS – he works for the CDC in Atlanta. Davy S. ’80 was persuaded to show up suddenly from Florida, where he does something in real estate and has recently become involved in race horses. (Joe P. ’80 hoped to make a surprise appearance, but couldn’t pull it off, and I didn’t get his email about it til my return to VA.)
Sunita ’81 and Shashi ’82 made it for lunch on Sunday. (They were in Black Mountain Saturday night, but somehow didn’t manage to find us!)
The official WOSA reunion began Friday night with an opening ice-breaker led by David Weidman ’76. Everyone had tags pinned to their backs; each tag contained a word in a category (Indian foods, names of hillside homes, names of hiking destinations, Indian cities…). You had to circulate and, by asking questions which could be answered with a yes or no, figure out what your word was and what category it belonged to, then find everyone else in your category. Then there were more activities to do within the groups, to learn each others’ names.
I didn’t actually participate in any of this because I had arrived too late to get a tag and was running around filming, plus constantly distracted by seeing more people I knew (such as the Wray girls).
After all this warming up, there was a presentation from a local resident about the Appalachian mountains. I didn’t stay for it: didn’t feel like sitting still that long. I went back up to the lodge for more chai and talk.
I don’t clearly remember who all showed up when. The family lodge was perfect for informality, so people came and went all weekend. Even many who had more formal lodgings as part of the main reunion group spent a lot of time with us, especially the younger set. Patty G. ’78 with her TCK/French husband Francois and their large, amiable dog. Greg W. ’78, though he lives nearby, had not been intending to come to the reunion at all, but was eventually persuaded (browbeaten?) by a combination of his mother, sisters, and other attendees – I never got a chance to talk to him, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.
Nathan Scott ’83 was present in his role as SAGE representative. Studies Abroad in Global Education recruits students for exchange programs at Woodstock and its sister school Kodaikanal, and has recently launched a summer “experience India” program as well. Nathan is the younger brother of one of my classmates, and I’ve gotten to know him over years of us both working on WS stuff. Plus he and his wife spent part of their honeymoon at our home in Lecco, though my visit with them on that occasion was cut short by the sudden death of my father-in-law.
There was an even younger contingent from the class of ’93, but, again regrettably, I barely got to see them. They seemed to be enjoying each others’ company, at any rate.
Amal C. ’78 and Brad T. ’75 were present as new members of the WOSA NA Council, which oversees fundraising and other alumni activities in North America, including these reunions. I hadn’t known Brad before, and greatly enjoyed talking with him.
WOSA NA has a demographic problem. If you’ve read some of my previous articles on Woodstock School, you’ll know that my four years there came during a tipping point in the school’s history when, under the guidance of Bob Alter, the student population changed from primarily missionary children to become, first, more international and, later, more Asian.
WOSA NA is currently Woodstock’s largest alumni group. Some missionary families can boast long histories at the school (the record is five generations), and most of those missionaries were American. But, as the missionary presence in India began dwindling in the 1960s and 70s, so the American alumni population is ageing now and will eventually decline*. Many Indian/Asian alumni of my generation have ended up in the north America as well, but younger alumni have not so far been eager participants in WOSA NA activities (though many make strenuous efforts to see their own classmates all over the world ).
So the WOSA NA reunions have tended to be populated by, and cater to, an older group, a fact which worries the Council and the school – to keep things going, you need to keep the younger alums interested. Which our modest initiative seems to have done!
We took steps to encourage a mingling of the generations. Saturday night we lured a bunch of our favorite “oldies” up to the lodge with promises of illicit substances (YMCA campuses being dry). Sunday, we had 50 guests for lunch. The YMCA refused to serve the (abundant) Saturday banquet leftovers in their own lunch line, so James had it all brought up to us, and we dished it out to everybody who showed up – and we invited as many as we could find after the Sunday morning activities. People still tended to congregate with their own age groups and old friends, but it was a start.
In the end, WOSA NA were so pleased with the outcome that they decided that future reunions should include an informal space like this for anybody who prefers it – and they will do all the organizing and money-gathering that was so painful for me this time. James and I will be happy to come along as consultants on how to throw a good party. <wink>
The formal events included several lecture tracks, with so many interesting topics that it was hard to choose between them. I saw part of Gabriel Campbell’s presentation on the people of the Himalayas (fascinating), then Marty Alter Chen’s on her studies on widowhood in India (grim, but not entirely). I accidentally missed part of Brian Dunn’s presentation on Woodstock’s new Religious Life Statement, but what I heard made a lot of sense, and seemed to be well received by the crowd. (More on that another time.)
Saturday evening saw a presentation by and then a salute to Bob and Ellen Alter, important “fixtures” at Woodstock for so many years, and beloved by many. Sunday morning there was a church service (which I slept through – finally catching up from my jet lag) and then some more activities. James (under duress) and I went along to the storytelling session, which I filmed and will eventually edit to share online.
Several times throughout the weekend, people came looking for me specifically to tell me that they read and enjoy my newsletters. I was very touched. One said, “I’m a Unitarian, so I agree with your philosophy” – which I was not expecting in the Woodstock context! Rossella was startled by the number of people who exclaimed upon meeting her: “I know all about you!” – having read my newsletters and followed my links to her fotolog. She began to wonder, a little uneasily, just what I’ve been saying about her, but so far that hasn’t motivated her to go read my site!
Laura and Billy
Ross herself got on well with everybody and was not as bored as she had expected to be among all us “old people.” Having heard that Ross would be getting a digital SLR camera for her upcoming birthday, Amal spent a couple of hours Sunday morning teaching her how to use his. One of the evenings she went into Asheville with Laura, Billy, Beth, and Nathan, and was pleased that she managed to get into a bar by claiming to be 18 (she was about to turn 17), though they wouldn’t let her drink – she hadn’t realized that drinking age was 21, or she might have tried for that. But she was mostly interested in hearing the music, and not impeding the others from entering the bar so they could enjoy it.
Ross also got to spend time with her friend Justin from theater camp two summers ago, who happens to live nearby in… Bat Cave, North Carolina (I swear!).
Sunday evening we were all exhausted, winding down with lazy talk on the front porch while some watched a weepy Hindi movie in the dining room. I had finally managed to make some compilation CDs with our old favorite dancing tunes, but no one had the energy to dance (though Davy was thrilled that I included Dum Maro Dum).
We had already said some goodbyes on Sunday, to people who had to drive home to be at work on Monday. The rest of us gradually detached ourselves Monday morning and left, Susan, Ross and I facing another long drive in our convertible. Near the end of our journey we were amused to realize that we were driving alongside Glenn and Peggy, also on their way back to the DC area, and honked when they passed us. It took two more passes back and forth and lots of frantic waving before they realized that we weren’t some random jerks being rude on the highway!
So… it wasn’t quite the Class of ’81 25th anniversary reunion we had hoped for, but it was fun, and Woodstockers are all friends, even when they’re not classmates.
* re. those old missionaries getting older, I should note that most of them are remarkably robust and active, and still travelling to far more exotic places than North Carolina! Must be the result of decades of clean living.
Reunion Additional Notes
Sep 30, 2006
…I knew I’d forget to mention some people and events…
First, I don’t think I made enough fuss over James in my original article. This satellite reunion was really a partnership, and he made the whole thing happen in so many ways – being there on the spot to deal with the YMCA people (with whom, thankfully, he has some personal contact – he cleaned up several contract messes), planning and buying all the food and cooking most of it, and in every other way playing host to my hostess. James, it was a blast, and, even though I spent five long days on my feet, I’d do it all over again (as long as someone else handles the money)!
I also wanted to mentioned that it was fun to catch up with Ajay’82 again, and I was glad to meet his wife Dhooleka. She’s at Yale, doing research on Indian immigration, which I look forward to hearing more about.
…someone remind me, who else am I leaving out? So much activity, talk, and friendship (and so little sleep) was packed into five days that it’s all become a big blur now!
Among the pleasures of a WOSA reunion are the auctions. Attendees donate items that they no longer want, most of them related to India and/or Woodstock, or other vestiges of exotic lives. As people retire and move into smaller homes, they have quite a lot to get rid of, so the pickings are rich for those of us in an earlier phase of life.
Most of the items are disposed of via a silent auction, where over several days you write your bids on a slip of paper next to the object(s) of your desire. Whoever’s bid is highest at the end of the auction period wins it. This year there were many beautiful textiles – for $22 I nabbed a gorgeous piece of cloth with embroidery, beads, and mirror work (probably fairly old, judging by the fine quality of the work), which will soon be hung in our house. I also got a teal silk sari with orange/gold trim, put up for auction by Anne, who had been a teacher during my day. When she told me that it had actually belonged to her sister Katie (who was our dorm supervisor), I realized that I have photos of Katie wearing this same sari. I’ve draped it over the curtain rod in our bedroom – we didn’t have any curtains, and the sari goes delightfully with the peacock colors of the other textiles in the room.
Ross walked off with the prize, a beautiful antique silver necklace donated by Lois, for only $37. She literally has not taken it off since she got it, and has received many compliments on it.
The best items are sold via a live auction on Sunday afternoon. I was slavering for a set of journals of the Himalaya Club, from the ’50s and ’60s. My husband loves to read about expeditions, so these seemed an ideal belated present for his recent 50th birthday. I winced when TZ (one of Woodstock’s wealthiest alumni) started bidding against me, but he let me get away with them for only $30. (These auctions probably raise less money than they could, because we all want to be nice to each other!) Turns out TZ was mostly interested in an article on skiing in Garhwal, so I’ll scan that into a PDF and email it to him. And Enrico does like them. Amusingly, one of the first items I ran across when flipping through one of the journals was a review of a book by Walter Bonatti, a famous Italian trekker.
top: a family of Indian tourists at St. Peter’s in Rome
My India travel vlog, from the trip I took with my daughter this summer, is still in progress. There’s more video to edit, more photos (by Ross) to add, and, most of all, more thoughts to share.
What struck me throughout the trip, but especially in Mumbai, was the ferment of growth and change. The atmosphere reminded me of Silicon Valley five years ago: everyone feels that they have a chance to be part of something exciting and rewarding.
My Indian friends and classmates are doing well, which may not seem surprising – most of them came from the elite in the first place (otherwise they could not have afforded to attend Woodstock School). But they, too, have ridden the economic roller coaster over the last 20 years, and the fact that they’re heading up again now is thanks to talent and hard work at least as much as accidents of birth. It’s also thanks to the entrepreneurial energy unleashed in India since the economic reforms instituted in 1991 by then-finance minister (and now prime minister) Manmohan Singh.
India’s economy is growing at 6 to 7 % a year, and anyone who has been observing the country can see the effects. New roads are being built in the major cities, and new highways connecting them that I’m told are as good as American ones (haven’t seen for myself). Delhi is very proud of its rapidly-growing subway system – our travel company driver was eager for me to take a look, in spite of the fact that I was paying him to drive me around in a private car. Traffic is horrendous, but Delhi has cut pollution noticeably by requiring all public transport vehicles (buses, taxis, and scooter taxis) to run on CNG (compressed natural gas), and allowing heavy trucks into the city only late at night.
I don’t actually like Delhi, though; there’s something about its attitude that annoys me. Mumbai is another story. It’s a delightfully insane city, the largest I’ve yet been to (Tokyo, when I visited around 1971, was at the time the world’s most populous city, but I think it had around 8 million inhabitants then; Mumbai today has 15 million*). Yes, there are millions of people living in horrible slums; I did not see those, but I know they exist. What I did see was people living in mile after mile of roadside shacks built against walls and buildings.
Just another slum, you say? Yes, but… these shacks (called “hutments”) are two stories tall, made of plywood with solid wood frames, and roofed in corrugated tin or plastic sheeting. They have doors that can be locked, and many boast television sets inside (running on current pirated from the nearest electric wire) and satellite dishes on the roof. By the standards of the villages their inhabitants came from, this is cushy living. Shilpin explained to me that these people come from the countryside to take contract jobs in the insatiable Mumbai factories, or to earn a good living as day laborers. They leave their aged parents back in the village to protect the family land, and send money home for their upkeep.
The reason they don’t have proper housing is that real estate in Mumbai has become so expensive that no one can afford it. There have been two amnesties in which hut-dwellers were moved into city housing, and took on all the duties of citizenship such as paying taxes and electricity bills. However, there is so much demand to live in Mumbai that the hutments were immediately rebuilt and re-inhabited.
This is all indicative of India’s overall growth. People come to the cities to get jobs, which are plentiful (though not as plentiful as they could be – more economic and labor market reforms are needed), and fewer people are needed on the land as agriculture has become more productive..
It’s an exciting time to be in India, and Indians have much to be proud of. There are still enormous problems, to be sure, but there is also a sense that progress is being made and problems can eventually be solved.
And what of my other “country beginning with i”? Italy… is going nowhere. It experienced heady growth in the 1960s and 70s, culminating in the sorpasso in the early 1980s, when Italy’s economy was declared the world’s fifth largest, surpassing the UK. It’s been mostly downhill from there. Italy did well in skilled manufacturing when those jobs were still in the west, but is now becoming a rust belt of abandoned factories as globalization sweeps manufacturing jobs to the east. Like Americans, Italians bemoan the loss of their manufacturing jobs even as they rush to buy goods made cheaply in China.
The same shift in economic emphasis has happened in the US, of course, but the US as a nation has a broader skill set, so has been able to move up the value chain from manufacturing to services. Now that service jobs are also going overseas, the US can concentrate on R&D. A majority of the world’s scientists and engineers live and work in the US, although many of them were not born American. The next wave of growth will come from intellectual property, and the US will lead that wave (though this source of competitive advantage will also eventually be at risk from the growing pool of intellectual talent in India and China).
Italy (and most of the rest of Europe) is not well positioned to move up the value chain. Italy, in particular, is not supportive of research. As with so much else in Italy, university research centers are fiefdoms controlled by “barons” who give positions as patronage rather than on merit. Corporate R&D is almost non-existent (with notable exceptions such as Fiat, and, on a much smaller scale, the company I work for). Italian scientists and engineers mostly flee to the US if they want to get any serious work done.
Italy’s economy is hostage to entrenched and conflicting interests, with little hope that real and necessary reforms will be carried out by governments of the right or left. Though the need for such reforms is recognized by the Italian public, as I learned in a conversation on the airport shuttle bus the other day, with the bus driver and another passenger.
The passenger (a woman) has two daughters, one working in France and one seeking work in Germany – both having given up on finding decent jobs in Italy. One had been employed at Malpensa airport, doing customer service (in multiple languages), working shifts at 5 euros an hour, with no permanent contract nor any hope of one, nor any guaranteed minimum of hours. If we assume 40 hours of work per week, that’s only 800 euros a month – not enough to live on in or near Milan. No wonder she gave up after 16 months. “Something’s wrong here,” says her mother. “We slave to put them through school [both her daughters have university degrees], and they can’t find jobs in Italy.”
The bus driver looked in his 30s, and had “immigrated” long ago from Calabria in Italy’s deeply poor south. He’s had this steady job for several years and says the salary is good, but the work is demanding and often keeps him away from home. Home is a 40 square meter (430 sq ft) townhouse out in the country, 16 km from Bergamo, which cost him around 120,000 euros – a price he considered reasonable, since the place will be easily resellable when he is ready to move to something bigger (presumably when he decides to marry). Interestingly, he has no interest in returning to Calabria except for vacations – “life is different there, too slow. I’m used to life up here now.”
Both recognize that something is wrong with the pensions system. “Perhaps we promised too much before,” mused the driver.
Neither expects any of the current crop of politicians (left or right) to do much good.
As Beppe Severgnini says in The Economist‘s The World in 2006, “…the country must decide what it wants to be. It may opt to do nothing, and become an ageing, former manufacturing country, where local lobbies and special interests can gorge until the money runs out. Or Italy can become a welcoming service country, driven by design, tourism, and technology: an accessible land, easy to do business with, confident in its tolerance, creativity and flair.”
Unfortunately, I don’t hold out much hope that Italy is ready to make the big changes needed to attempt Severgnini’s Plan B. When I ask why things are the way they are (in any context), the response is usually a shrug and “It’s always been that way,” even when the person agrees that “the way it’s always been” isn’t necessarily good. As Severgnini puts it, “People are afraid of change.”
Italy can and probably will limp along, with the younger generations living off savings accumulated by their parents and grandparents. To be sure, they can still live a very nice life: sunny beaches in the summer and snowy slopes in winter, eating and drinking well, hanging out with friends they’ve known all their lives. There’s a lot to be said for that, and most of my daughter’s peers aspire to no more. They’ll settle for any job near home that allows them to go on living exactly the way they always have. (They’ll be lucky to find that job, however.)
Maybe it’s the American in me that says: “That isn’t enough. How can you stand to sit around and watch your country slide inexorably into poverty and oblivion? How can you spend your working life doing something you don’t even care about?”
If I was a typical Italian mother, I’d urge my daughter into whatever university course and profession seemed most likely to keep her close to home. Though I’m in no way a typical Italian mother, I adore Ross and would love to live near her for the rest of my life. But, for her own sake, unless something changes drastically, I hope she gets out before she stagnates along with the rest of Italy.
I Did It Again
Apparently, I should be working for the Economist – I publish the same thoughts, before they do. This week’s (Nov 24) edition contains a survey of Italy titled Addio, Dolce Vita, whose leader goes on to say: “For all its attractions, Italy is caught in a long, slow decline. Reversing it will take more courage than its present political leaders seem able to muster…”
Italy in Decline: Umberto Eco Joins the Chorus
Feb 5, 2006
Today’s Corriere della Sera carries an interview with Umberto Eco, whose new book, a collection of essays titled “A Passo di Gambero,” (“Walking Backwards”) debuts Wednesday.
“Guardi, l’Italia nei cinque anni appena trascorsi si è messa sulla strada del declino. Se andiamo avanti così diventiamo definitivamente un Paese da Terzo Mondo.”
“Look, Italy in the last five years has set itself on the road to decline. If this goes on, we will definitively become a Third World country.”
…Da caustico il tono diventa un po’ amareggiato quando il discorso si sposta sull’immagine dell’Italia all’estero: “Mi prende un senso di profonda umiliazione vedendomi fatto segno di tante manifestazioni di affettuoso cordoglio”.
…From caustic his tone becomes somewhat bitter when conversation turns to Italy’s image in the world: “I feel profoundly humiliated to be offered so many expressions of affectionate condolence.”
Most Woodstockers are nostalgic about the monsoon, though we’d probably be a lot less so if we had to live through the entire season again!
I had not been to India during the monsoon season since 1981, and had forgotten how beautiful the hills are when they’re lush and green and wet. Every tree is covered in ferns and moss. And, after a while, so are you. Nothing ever dries thoroughly during the monsoon; bedsheets feel damp when you crawl in at night, and you have to keep a strong lightbulb burning in the closet so your shoes don’t go moldy.
In India, as you know, we are all related to each other. Kids routinely call complete strangers “Uncle” and “Aunty”, maid-servants call the woman of the house Bhabhi (brother’s wife), and the elderly are instantly your parents or grandparents (Maa-ji, Bapu-ji, etc). And so I have taken particular interest in what appellations complete strangers have used for me over the years.
As a young girl and teenager, I was a Beti (daughter), although I recall at least one occasion on which I was actually called “Daughter” in English by an elderly salesman. As a young “westernized” woman in my 20s, I would be called shishter (sister). If, however, I was dressed in Indian clothes (rather than jeans and t-shirt), I’d be called didi (older sister) if the person was much younger, or behen (sister) if the person was older. In my 30s, I noticed a gradual shift from shishter and didi to bhabi-ji (brother’s wife, with the extra respect of ji thrown in). Now, in my 40s, I am still mostly bhabhi-ji, unless I am accompanied by my children, in which case I graduate to “Aunty-ji”. With men, the shift is more or less parallel, from beta (son) to bhaiyya (brother) to “uncle”. I now await with consternation the day I finally become Maa-ji (mother), or even worse Dadi-ma (grand-mother). That’s when I’ll know I’ve well and truly aged!!
Yes, there are various words that can be and are used… these are just the ones most common in Mumbai, where the local lingo is a mish-mash of Hindi, Gujarati, Marathi and English. In various parts of India you may find Mausi (mother’s sister), Chachi (father’s brother’s wife), etc., but these are generally for older women. For a younger woman, Didi and Bhabhi are more appropriate. Bhabhi also acknowledges your status as a married woman, and therefore, presumably due the “respect” that comes automatically with marriage. Second, it also denotes a direct relationship to a close relative (i.e., the person is saying he is your husband’s brother), so you can trust them. These are just theories from the top of my head, and I seriously doubt such thoughts go through anyone’s head when they call me bhabhi, but that is probably part of the reason for its wide usage. Another possibility could have been wife’s sister, but the word in question (saali) is also used as a swear-word, so that won’t do! Also, words for relations tend to differ in different parts of the country. Bhabhi is one of the few which is more or less the same everywhere and also in languages other than Hindi.
I feel that the reason you are called Aunty rather than any Hindi equivalent – firstly, I think kids probably think it is cool to use English words (especially to a foreigner). Second, kids may not know (at least when they’re very young) that each word denotes a specific relationship, for example, they may know that both “chacha” and “mama” are uncles, but may not know that a chacha is always your father’s brother, whereas a mama is always your mother’s brother. Or, perhaps, even if they DO know, they must wonder as to whom they should relate you to – their mother or their father. So, the neutral Aunty is better!
Zafar adds some more thoughts and experiences on Indian terms of address:
[But why bhabhi, brother’s wife, instead of (I don’t remember the words) husband’s sister etc. etc.?]
Slightly more distant/less familiar? Though I think it’s probably a Bombay thing…in Delhi men shamelessly call women behenji (sisterji) with no thought for propriety.
[And, in India and/or with Indian friends, even I am Deirdre-aunty to my friends’ kids. Which begs another question: why not the Hindi equivalent of aunty?]
The generic thing:
I agree with Yuti that ‘Aunty’ is the generic fall-back. I’s also never used with your actual (biologically related) aunts, who are almost ALWAYS the Hindi (or whatever) word. In my own experience I also used Maasi etc. with very close friends of my parents, while Aunty was for everybody and anybody. (Er… unless they were Uncle, of course.)
The gender aspect:
Those couples who were friends of my parents and who had graduated, so to speak, beyond Uncle/Aunty to the Indian words when addressed, were called:
The men: Chacha (Father’s brother) and
The women: Maasi (Mother’s sister).
While the superficially correct thing to do (since they were married to each other) would have been to call them ‘Chacha and Chachi (father’s brother’s wife)’, the whole point of the exercise was to place these unrelated adults in a family context – at which point it became more ‘proper’ (and completely unconscious) to classify the women as your mother’s sisters and the men as your father’s brothers.
The ethnicity/language aspect:
Oddly enough, language/ethnicity also comes into this. (Which might explain why the instinctive ‘Deirdre Aunty’ in your case.) Sticking to mother’s friends, for the sake of consistency/simplicity, these included:
Devahuti Maasi (Punjabi Hindu)
Suchandra Mashi (Bengali Hindu, hence Maasi transforms to Mashi)
Zehra Khala (Gujarati Muslim, hence the use of the Urdu version, Khala, for Maasi.)
).
