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| Pretty Lavagna |
LAVAGNA, Italy - In Lavagna, a small town on the Italian Riviera, the
sidewalks are made of slate. They use to mine slate in the hills behind this town, but that was before white boards put blackboards out of business. It’s a
nice town. It’s small, which is why I don't think I would want to live here, but I’m exploring
today, just to see what I can see.
Take the bar I’m in now. I stopped for a quick sandwich and stumbled
into the one bar in town where the old guys hang out. It’s the kind of just tables and chairs kind of bar you find in most Italian
towns that don’t see many tourists.
“Are they here every day?” I ask the girl behind the counter.
“Yes, every single day,” she says rolling her eyes. “their wives throw
them out after lunch so they can clean the kitchen in peace, and the guys
congregate here and play cards.”
From behind me I can hear their voices rise, friendly disagreements
engaged at the top of their lungs. Every now and again one of them breaks away
from the pack and retreats to the relative solitude of the table around the
corner from the action. A small breather, and then after a bit of semi solitude
–back into the fray, starting at the edges and carefully inching in to the
center of the discourse.
“How long do they hang around?”
She glances at her watch, “the crowd thins after the local news, which
should be on in about one minute. That’s when most of them go home to take a
nap.”
Just as I was about to ask her another question, the TV Telegiornale
started with a Special Announcement – a fast moving storm was coming in off the
sea and flooding was expected along the section of the Via Aurelia that passes through Lavagna
and Sestri Levante. Residents were being advised to stay off the roads.
The men all stood up at the same time and began putting on their
jackets. “I’d better get home, the wife will be worried,” I heard one of them
say.
“Christ, I hope the town doesn’t flood again,” said another. “We just
cleaned up from the last disaster.”
Several men nodded in agreement. Flooding is a real problem in these
small towns along the sea.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting this,” I said. “You don’t happen to have an
extra umbrella do you? I can bring it back tomorrow, I only live over the
bridge.”
“Let me look,” said the girl, and she went into a back room. A minute
later she came back out with an umbrella in hand. “You can take this one, don’t
worry about bringing it back tomorrow. It’s been back here for ages, so I
guess no one is looking for it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Much appreciated,” and I set out for home. Life as lived within the confines of the
Bar Corso in Lavagna, was exactly like life lived in so many other towns in Italy, and in some strange way I found that very comforting.
