About this Memoir
A few days ago, I discovered this memoir written by my late mother, Irene Marchese (née Jagusiak). She wrote it more than forty years after a once-in-a-lifetime experience in Florence during the aftermath of the devastating 1966 flood. I’m sharing her memoir here in tribute to her.
________________
How I Tried for My MA and Got My MRS as Well
by Irene Marchese (née Jagusiak)
I might never have been to Italy nor have ever married if it hadn't been for an Italo-Canadian girlfriend, Olga. We had become friends during our undergraduate years, and had continued to correspond even when we went separate ways. So when she wrote to me of her plans to do Ph.D. research in Firenze and Roma and suggested I apply for an Italian Government Scholarship, I was elated and skeptical. My marks had been good but not great. However, having sounded out the professors for me concerning a recommendation, and having sent me the paperwork, largely thanks to Olga, I found myself the happy recipient of a full scholarship: return passage, paid tuition at the Italian University of my choice, and a good monthly allowance. I eagerly looked forward to joining her in Italy.
This was the year I would be totally serious in my work. There would be no romantic distractions. I would finally show my true intellectual colours. Ha! My mother, who knew me all too well, could see beyond these laudable aims. She cried as she saw me off at the airport: "I just know you'll get married and I'll never see you again." Mother had left Ukraine in 1930, never to return and never to see her family again. "Oh, Mother!" I had exclaimed.
Eleven months later, September 1st, 1967, Egidio, my Italian husband, and I returned to Canada. Two simple matching gold bands joined our newly wed hearts. "I wanted a souvenir," I quipped.
Ours was a whirlwind courtship, played out against the romantic but devastated background of Firenze during the flood. Everything was a shambles after that fateful night of November 3, 1966. The water rose ten meters in certain churches, an uprooted tree impeded passage over the Ponte Vecchio, we formed human chains at the libraries to carry out the priceless books covered with "melma", river bottom mud. Electricity and water were unavailable. We used candles for light, and carried water back to our pensioni from springs and wells located nearby. Two staff members of the British Consulate arrived at my pensione to inquire after my well-being for worried parents. Luckily no lives were lost [among the people we knew]. The Florentines, stiff-upper-lipped and ironic, responded courageously and pragmatically to the situation. They immediately began the clean-up. Jokes abounded. One gem: Dei bei mobili di casa were floating down the swollen river. Dietro ad essi, su un asse paddled un signore. "Oh, dove vai con questo tempo, Ettore?" esclamava un suo amico. "Vado a vedere dove starò di casa." (Fine pieces of household furniture were floating down the swollen river. Behind them, a gentleman paddled along on a plank. "Oh, where are you going in weather like this, Ettore?" a friend exclaimed. "I'm going to see where I'll be living.")
So, for a few months, Egidio and I were without work obligations. The courts were closed until June, the university classes would begin again in January. What to do? I rented a piano and to my great surprise and pleasure, my classical repertoire was finally of interest. I played, and the students in my pensione would come to study in the same room. They had intelligent comments to make – they knew the pieces. I finally had someone to share my love of music with. Egidio took me to concerts and the opera. We visited churches and museums. I was so impressed with his knowledge and the culture of his friends, too. I felt humbled by my inferior Canadian education, although I had done the classic academic courses offered me. I suffered the usual trauma of living in a foreign land with imperfect language skills. I could read and write, but my understanding and speaking were very weak. Egidio became my cicisbeo.
I discovered the Italian way of leisure life. “Where's your hurry?" asked the Italian students when we "americani" would step lively instead of strolling slowly during a walk. I learned the pleasure of the aperitivo before lunch; "Oh, ciao! Come stai? Prendiamo qualcosa insieme prima della collazione?" I learned to shake hands with all twenty people in the group before and after un incontro. I learned the use of "insomma,” and the Florentine dialectical words, ganzo and biscaro. I learned not to ask "What does ... mean" at my pensione, when "friends" would laugh, but not tell me the meaning of a word. The Italians introduced me to a whole new world of cuisine: cozze fresche, col limone, sulla spiaggia, la bistecca alla fiorentina, pasta e fagioli alla villa dove stava Machiavelli in esilio, i biscotti di Prato col vino, una cucina sempre varia e gustosa, alimentata col vino Chianti.
I discovered a whole new landscape, the monumental mountains and the terraced hillsides, the enchantment of silvery green olive trees and contrasting dark green cypresses, the glittering Mediterranean Sea, the luxury of an early and leisurely spring, the oppressive heat of the Italian summer and its de rigueur remedy of the holiday at the seaside.
I learned to relax and enjoy life. I forgot about running around madly to accomplish something. I began to enjoy life for itself and for its people. I was happy. I thought I could spend my life here. I had found a new family in Egidio's brothers and sister. My family could all live here too, I thought. But first we wanted to have an esperienza in Canada and here we reside to this day.
But even after forty years, the memories of that singular year abroad remain fresh and vital in my mind. For many years thereafter, the simple sound of a Vespa on the road, or the scent of springtime in the air, the aroma of espresso in an Italian Café would evoke memories of this enchanting year abroad. These memories and others acquired on later return trips nourished my soul. For years, I have derived sustenance and succor from the experiences, many of which have become more meaningful and better understood in retrospect. A love for things Italian continues to enchant. To this day, I continue to learn more about Italy, its customs, its people. My Italian experience expands. Of course, having a living specimen – a constant, live dictionary / grammar – has added enormously to the experience.
The subsequent decades after our whirlwind courtship progressed in typical fashion: career, family, friends, interspersed with occasional trips back to my adopted patria. At the end of my first trip, an Italian friend had asked me what my stay in Italy had meant to me. It was a hard question to answer, perhaps because I was still too close to the experience, too involved in living it. Perhaps ultimately and over time, what it did was define for me what I was as a non-Italian and a Canadian of Polish-Ukrainian descent. Before my experience abroad, I had always attempted to insert myself in the English-Canadian world. I didn't deny my roots but I didn't seek them out either. But my unconscious curiosity for things foreign manifested itself in my flirtation with the Italo-Canadian community as a teenager and my study of French and Italian even at the high school level.
So what did this year mean? Among other things, it taught me to appreciate what I took for granted as a Canadian, such as myriad career opportunities, and to value the diverse gifts that another culture can bring to Canada. I learned that being a hyphenated Canadian is a richness in itself and I am proud to be a part of this enrichment of Canada.
