WRITTEN by JOHN MORRIS
Roatan to Italy, the holiday adventure continues
I did not know Angelino, but he was the father of the husband of my wife’s cousin. His passing was sudden in spite of his 87 years, so we followed the Italian tradition of viewings, church service and burial.
The church was freezing cold at 10:30 in the morning and the priest, even with my limited Italian, sounded like and looked like a distant relative of General Patton. Even his fire and brimstone did not warm my feet!
The service was relatively short as is customary in Italy, whereas the gathering following outside of the church consisted of my wife being “ciaoed” to death by everyone in her small town even remotely related to her.
You see, Barbara is an anomaly in this town of Cusano Milanino because she left. Her presence back in town is announced in the local newspaper – you know – the Italian version of the Coconut Telegraph.
And speaking of the tradition of saying “ciao” when seeing someone, be sure to kiss their left cheek first and then the right. Mixing this up may lead to an affair down the road!
But the hardest part of getting to the funeral was finding a parking spot. I swear that Italians spend over half their life looking for a legal, or close to legal, parking spaces. They are few and far between and often require walking a half a mile back to where you need to go.
And when they do find one, they seem to embrace getting as close as possible to the car in front of them… to make it nearly impossible for that car to exit. An evil smile always seems to ensue.
Then there was the family Christmas.
In Italian there is a word “casino.” This is not a gambling establishment but a term for chaos or confusion, a situation that every Italian embraces and pursues. You see, Italians love to yell at each other, although they are seldom mad. It’s just the way it is.
Where Christmas dinner will be held, what will be served and at what time are all subjects for lengthy, heated discussions.
My wife and I made the mistake of thinking we could introduce roast beef and Yorkshire pudding into the tradition. Uncle Lorenzo summed it up best by saying, “Sounds good, but you know homemade lasagne is the best!”
Of course, lasagne at Christmas – what was I thinking!
And now I am writing you on the 26th. Yes, I survived an Italian Christmas. Over nine hours and ten courses of every food you can imagine!
Thanks to my wife’s sister, all family traditions were followed and all were happy. As the day turned into night and the wine and limoncello flowed, conversations abounded and laughter filled the room.
I am truly honored to be a part of this extended Italian family and cannot help also thinking of my Roatan family, celebrating Christmas so many miles away. A phone call to a dear friend whisked us back to the island for a Christmas moment and smiles and laughter remained until exhaustion won out.
I am a blessed man to have experienced so much love in two beautiful places in such a short time.
Today we are off to the Italian countryside for a Boxing Day lunch at a restored villa, and then south to Cortona in Tuscany tomorrow morning. The adventure (and eating) goes on.
Until next week my friends! Merry Christmas & Buon Natale!
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