The Honest Truth

“Gli Italiani perdano sempre (Italians always lose)” says the blonde woman, with makeup dripping off her face. She’s in her 60s with wrinkles around her painted lips and teeth stained from years of smoking. We’re in Bovolone, an Italian town in the North of Italy about half an hour from Verona, watching a group perform traditional Italian dances in the street.

My Nonna (grandmother) was born here, and I’m visiting her cousin, the last of the family left in this small town.

Carina is 75, but looks older. She is small and witch-like, with a slight hunchback. Every week she gets her short jet-black hair washed and blow-dried. Her jet-black eyebrows are usually furrowed around her deep-set eyes. She frowns as she sits infront of the t.v. and follows up long pauses with “è cosi (it is what it is)” and a sigh. Her eyes twinkle when she laughs, but only for a second.

After her younger sister died of cancer about five years ago, Carina lives in the too-huge family apartment by herself. Though there’s two floors and three bedrooms, she sleeps in the smallest one with a single bed. Neither of the sisters ever married.

When I arrive, she greets me with the awkwardness of someone who hasn’t been visited in awhile. “Hai sete? (Are you thirsty?)” she barks seconds after I walk in the door. She hates to cook, and takes me out for dinner every night, insisting on paying.

I have fond memories of visiting Bovolone eleven years ago: Falling asleep to noise in the streets after Italy won a soccer game; walking around the city and feeding stray cats with Carina; buying gelato down the street and coffee for my mom at the bar downstairs; going out for the best thin-crust pizza.  Maybe I was just smaller, but Bovolone felt bigger when I was 12.

This time, I walked the sleepy main strip in ten minutes and went back to the apartment. Bovolone, with a population of just under 14,000 is the kind of town where when someone dies, a poster goes up, and everyone talks about what happened in hushed voices.

I don’t remember how they got on the topic of immigration. The blonde woman may have been feeling patriotic watching the traditional Italian dance.

In the past fifteen years, more immigrants have come to Italy from third world countries. According to Russell King, a professor at Trinity College and author of “Recent immigration to Italy: Character, causes and consequences” this is for a couple of reasons: ease of entry into the country, Italy’s increasing prosperity, more employment, and higher instability in immigrants home countries. The problem is, Italy is not used to diversity, and especially in small towns, foreigners are an unwelcome addition (citation in the blog, Heyooooo)

“Sai che c’è tanti Marocchini, Turchi e Romeni qui (You know there’s lots of Moroccans, Turks and Romanians here” the blonde woman says, leaning in as if telling me a secret. Her and her husband are acquaintances of Carina’s we bumped into on the way back from dinner.

“Gli immigranti vengono qui per lavorare, ma prendano tutto il lavoro da nostri giovanni (The immigrants come here to work, but they take all the jobs from our kids).”

A band is playing on the church steps and the people dancing in front wear red and white. A young girl with a page-boy haircut wears a serious expression, as if this is more than just a dance, as she twirls arm in arm with an older looking man.

“Loro prendono nostra cultura (they take our culture)” says the blonde woman, who’s wearing a too-tight white lacy skirt that shows her underwear. “Non parlano Italiano, ma loro verzione della lingua. L’accento di Bovolone non existo piu (They don’t speak Italian, but their version of Italian. The Bovolone accent doesn’t exist anymore.”

The dance changes, and the kids in red and white move to on the church steps to play instruments. Women standing on the street dance with the men in traditional dress. The girl with the page-boy cut blows into her tuba and looks seriously at the dancing below, as if jealous her partner is dancing with somebody else.

“Anche sono sporchi (they’re also dirty),” says the blonde woman with an earnest expression. I wish she wouldn’t lean in so close.

“Non fanno la dolce (they don’t shower either),” says Carina, who up until this point had her arms crossed staring straight ahead. I remember her describing an immigrant run restaurant near her house with disgust. “Avanti c’erano molti immigranti Tedeschi e Francese che avevano la cultura piu come noi. (There used to be many german and french immigrants who had culture more similar to us),” she says. “Ma dopo la guerra e cambiato…(But after the war things changed…)”

“Gli Italiani perdano sempre,” says the blonde woman, trailing off…

The conversation switches to me, and I answer basic questions about where I’m from and what I’m doing here.

“E’Fantastico di viaggiare (It’s great to travel),” says the blonde woman enthousiastically, as if she didn’t just spend the past ten minutes bashing diversity. “Sei brava. Devi farlo quando si è giovane (Good for you. You have to do it while you’re young.”

It’s obvious none of us are going to dance, and Carina looks more slouched and tired. We say our goodbyes and the blond woman grabs my face. “Che bella che sei (You’re so beautiful.)”