This is a not a story about the last time I went to Italy. I am merely recounting the sad tale of my friend, who has finally found the courage to relate these strange and perhaps disturbing facts. Here in his own words:
Omg, thought I, as my bus reachd the outskirts of Partapane, "We're all gonna die!!"
I was on my way to Castelfidardo, for a course in accordion repair at the Academy when the road literally began to shake under the wheels.
"Scappar via! Get out now!" yelled the driver as we all piled out. I staggered across the road, looking up in time to see a bright red object hurtling toward my head! An object obviously dislodged by the quake from a balcony or window of the "upper village" of Partapane, a hill town outside Castelfi, so small it doesn't even show up on Google.
I got my hand up just in time to dampen the blow, trying to avoid certain death, but not to avoid being knocked out cold, curled up beneath a prickly pear bush. Some time later, could have been hours, could have been years, I opened my eyes to two incontrovertible facts:
One: It was definitely an accordion that knocked my cold. A Scandalli, probably LMMH, possibly with a row or two in cassotto.
Two: I was definetly dead, as I looked into the deep set, dark eyes of the Madonna, probably guiding me to the pearly gates to be judged, hopefully by a benificent God.
"I didn't mean it!" I cried, "It was my cousin Danny's idea to set that barn on fire back in 2005! I've been good all my life, I even took the kids to church for a couple months when they were young!" "What are you talking about?" said she, "Calm down, that's a nasty hit you took to the head, we gotta get you fixed up. Come with me."
It was only later that it dawned on me that she spoke perfect English, a matter I will reflect upon soon. Grabbing that Scandalli with one hand, and leaning on her arm, we limped into downtown (if you call it that) Partapane.
I looked around. Here was the butcher with the bloody apron, the plumber with the big old mustache, the parish priest with the black cassock and far away look in his eyes. The cobblestoned streets, the sand colored buildings fronting alleys so narrow you could hardly open your bellows all the way.
Omg, I thought, "I've died and gone to heaven, I'm in the Real Italy." No sooner had I had these thoughts when my hopes were sorely dashed by the erstwhile Madonna. "No, silly, you're not dead, you've just entered Italy 2.0, the Stereotype, the land of 1000 cozy mysteries and 2000 awful rom coms. The tarantella dancing, grape stomping, under the Tuscan (or in this case Marche) sun land where the paesani smile and everyone knows your name."
We stumbled back to her house, a typical stucco and chestnut beamed affair with artesian well, stands of lavender and olives, and a bubbling ragu in the faux wood fired oven. After administering to my broken head, she said, "Piacere, mi chiamo Mariangela, I'm Mariangela. I'm a journalist from Milan, here for an investgation of Mafia corruption in the building of accordions. It's been alleged that undocumented workers from China are smuggling in leathers and palettes, disguised as real "a mano (handmade)" but actually the fruits of forced labor in the far south."
This being the stereotype Italy of rustic sunsets and all, we enjoyed a fabulous 8 course dinner, followed by a night of the type of incredible bliss you find only in your wildest dreams. (This is a family novel, giallo perhaps, but not explicitly rosso).
The next morning, although famished by the nocturnal exertions, I awoke not to uovo and prosciutto, but to nuclear espresso and a crusty cornetto or two. "But why me?" I asked, not imagining for a moment my earthly charms would interest such a worldly and beautiful Italiana. "Oh, you're just for a little fun," says she, "What I need is an accordion. You see, I need some traditional and slightly sinister backing tracks for my documentary. When I saw that Scandalli by your head, I figured you'd do just fine!"
So, after a long morning of recording, mixing, mixing, recording, we finally got some acceptable tracks laid down. "Man," thought I, "if only my buddy Jerry were here we could have done this in half the time, but then I would have missed the day with the lovely Mariangela. I think she likes me.
"
It being noon, Partapane would totally shut down until 4:00 so I decided a little walk to check out the town was in order while Mariangela worked on her documentary. Returning 2 hours later, I was startled to see yellow crime tape on the door, and an official looking man holding the Scandalli. "This yours?" he demanded. Uh oh, not this. "No," says I, "I was escaping an earthquake when it fell from the sky and knocked me into this Italy 2.0."
"Yea, right, and I'm Babbo Natale! Actually, I'm Commissario Salvo Brunetto, of the Partapane Police, and you're coming with me. A woman has been murdered and you're the last one seen entering and leaving her humble abode....."
To be continued.....
Omg, thought I, as my bus reachd the outskirts of Partapane, "We're all gonna die!!"
I was on my way to Castelfidardo, for a course in accordion repair at the Academy when the road literally began to shake under the wheels.
"Scappar via! Get out now!" yelled the driver as we all piled out. I staggered across the road, looking up in time to see a bright red object hurtling toward my head! An object obviously dislodged by the quake from a balcony or window of the "upper village" of Partapane, a hill town outside Castelfi, so small it doesn't even show up on Google.
I got my hand up just in time to dampen the blow, trying to avoid certain death, but not to avoid being knocked out cold, curled up beneath a prickly pear bush. Some time later, could have been hours, could have been years, I opened my eyes to two incontrovertible facts:
One: It was definitely an accordion that knocked my cold. A Scandalli, probably LMMH, possibly with a row or two in cassotto.
Two: I was definetly dead, as I looked into the deep set, dark eyes of the Madonna, probably guiding me to the pearly gates to be judged, hopefully by a benificent God.
"I didn't mean it!" I cried, "It was my cousin Danny's idea to set that barn on fire back in 2005! I've been good all my life, I even took the kids to church for a couple months when they were young!" "What are you talking about?" said she, "Calm down, that's a nasty hit you took to the head, we gotta get you fixed up. Come with me."
It was only later that it dawned on me that she spoke perfect English, a matter I will reflect upon soon. Grabbing that Scandalli with one hand, and leaning on her arm, we limped into downtown (if you call it that) Partapane.
I looked around. Here was the butcher with the bloody apron, the plumber with the big old mustache, the parish priest with the black cassock and far away look in his eyes. The cobblestoned streets, the sand colored buildings fronting alleys so narrow you could hardly open your bellows all the way.
Omg, I thought, "I've died and gone to heaven, I'm in the Real Italy." No sooner had I had these thoughts when my hopes were sorely dashed by the erstwhile Madonna. "No, silly, you're not dead, you've just entered Italy 2.0, the Stereotype, the land of 1000 cozy mysteries and 2000 awful rom coms. The tarantella dancing, grape stomping, under the Tuscan (or in this case Marche) sun land where the paesani smile and everyone knows your name."
We stumbled back to her house, a typical stucco and chestnut beamed affair with artesian well, stands of lavender and olives, and a bubbling ragu in the faux wood fired oven. After administering to my broken head, she said, "Piacere, mi chiamo Mariangela, I'm Mariangela. I'm a journalist from Milan, here for an investgation of Mafia corruption in the building of accordions. It's been alleged that undocumented workers from China are smuggling in leathers and palettes, disguised as real "a mano (handmade)" but actually the fruits of forced labor in the far south."
This being the stereotype Italy of rustic sunsets and all, we enjoyed a fabulous 8 course dinner, followed by a night of the type of incredible bliss you find only in your wildest dreams. (This is a family novel, giallo perhaps, but not explicitly rosso).
The next morning, although famished by the nocturnal exertions, I awoke not to uovo and prosciutto, but to nuclear espresso and a crusty cornetto or two. "But why me?" I asked, not imagining for a moment my earthly charms would interest such a worldly and beautiful Italiana. "Oh, you're just for a little fun," says she, "What I need is an accordion. You see, I need some traditional and slightly sinister backing tracks for my documentary. When I saw that Scandalli by your head, I figured you'd do just fine!"
So, after a long morning of recording, mixing, mixing, recording, we finally got some acceptable tracks laid down. "Man," thought I, "if only my buddy Jerry were here we could have done this in half the time, but then I would have missed the day with the lovely Mariangela. I think she likes me.
"It being noon, Partapane would totally shut down until 4:00 so I decided a little walk to check out the town was in order while Mariangela worked on her documentary. Returning 2 hours later, I was startled to see yellow crime tape on the door, and an official looking man holding the Scandalli. "This yours?" he demanded. Uh oh, not this. "No," says I, "I was escaping an earthquake when it fell from the sky and knocked me into this Italy 2.0."
"Yea, right, and I'm Babbo Natale! Actually, I'm Commissario Salvo Brunetto, of the Partapane Police, and you're coming with me. A woman has been murdered and you're the last one seen entering and leaving her humble abode....."
To be continued.....
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