40. Beach holidays on the Adriatic in the 50s Nicoletta Barbarito (with his father in the picture) will experience, a master, an ancient world of holiday-makers and poor fishermen, and dive in the '50s of the last century
A bruzzo Adriatic. Than before. E'sedimentato in my mind with colors, smells, tastes, names, faces, gestures and voices. It seems fixed with the glue that once took place did not give more grip. I'm talking about a specific place where I come from more than 40 years. I would not even go back, but now thanks to the highway the distance is short, it is enlarged and transformed by tourism and its progress. For the best, from many points of view, if it had remained as it was inside me for because of that glue so little current in its incorruptibility.
My father, born in 1908, told us that his family had spent the summer for the first time in two years. One hundred years ago! Having always going to go there regularly, just after the war he had built a small house, which sold then in the Seventies.
Although not a native of the place, had come to be regarded as a character in "historic" in the country. For one reason or another, there was no one's a stranger. As an adult she loved to wear a head cap navy (they used to, then, the sea) and many called him "Captain" instead of "professor" as he was. And as a young man he wanted to become a naval officer instead of a degree in letters, obviously delighted in the temporary, albeit false, identity. Because he loved the story, he was curious about the history of each particular local, basically meaningless if not from the human point of view.
In 1910 the little group of houses - Appendix "sea" of a picturesque old village on a hill, Montepagano - called Rosburgo, a village of the roses, as she had called a German nobleman, painter, Von Thaulero that, left fascinated dall'abbondantissima flowering roses that had welcomed him in the spring. Later in the Italianate name was on a par with other place names deemed inappropriate or non-native.
The name of the German painter, true discoverer of the place, is remembered in a small road with an underpass (under the railroad tracks), long-only connection to the coast. That subway was commonly called "Tauler," why certainly incomprehensible to most. Tauler was the little shop at the entrance of a potter who made pitchers, bowls, plates, jugs and briquettes, warmers, both simple and decorated with roses, roosters or landscapes. He also gracious toy tools. At home we children tried to do similar "Coccetti" collection with clay here and there, then cooking them in a gas oven. Usually, alas, the result was rather unhappy.
exit of Tauler was a cast iron fountain, water becomes precious fresh from the sea to return home after one o'clock. The country is flat, no trees or shade, apart from the waterfront. Then do not eat packed lunches, there were no restaurants or bars on the sea, the habit of eating out and quickly came much later, with the well-being and quickly. He then returned home for lunch, on foot or by bicycle, and the beach is practically deserted. It was like to cross the Sahara desert. After the meal, traditionally warm and substantial, large and small sag overheated and exhausted on the bed, eager for a bit 'coolness. Tired were mostly women who were anxious right from early morning to prepare and tidy up. In the gloom, indomitable, hissing mosquitoes.
Romans seasonality, "bathers" has no great means rented houses usually in simple rectangular as the Via Nazionale, the streets come to the foot of a hill. Moreover there was little to choose. Later, now loyal to that neighborhood, my father, as well as some relatives and old friends built their small houses. The wealthy families lived in the hinterland of the country or rather in large, fresh-owned homes with a garden on the National or the sea.
large and small spend all their time together, they could call from one house to another. Smells of food, thuds, gossip, Amoretti summer, screams, laughter, tears, arguments: there could be no secrets between a house and another, the windows were almost always open. The adults gathered in the afternoon to play cards, "conquin," the French word was pronounced "concerts". They smoked all: National Giubek, Lucky Strike, some more refined lady, or just pretentious showcase Turmac oval, more expensive.
From 1910 until the early '50s, the changes were not radical. The men of the country were still tailors, barbers, fishermen, builders, workers at the furnace. The women were in the home, chores from morning to evening, the families were numerous. There continues to be a port and fishing boats, sail all, they had difficulties in returning if there was a storm. It was not uncommon for a boat crashing. In those tragic occasions my father never failed to mention I Malavoglia Verga, finance Iceland Fisherman by Pierre Loti. On the death of "Tithonus," the strongest and most courageous fisherman, whose boat sank a few tens of meters from the beach, my father later wrote a moving piece for a local magazine. I connected "Tithonus" and "Triton" and I was convinced that being lost at sea was inevitable for him and congenial. Perhaps his death was not true: that same Titone instead swam off toward the horizon, free, including octopus and jellyfish?
My father loved the sea because it was romantic and adventurous spirit, nourished the imagination of readings. A couple of times every summer joined to the fishermen. Admired them for modesty, the skill, the fatigue strength, the courage to take risks to bring home, after all, very little money. In this family, its outputs were considered inconvenient, unnecessarily dangerous, even a little 'ridiculous. No self-respecting holidaymaker would have dreamed of exposure, fatigue, so dirty. Least of my grandfather, gruff patriarch who wore silk pajamas around the house clear, striped, or my uncle, stage actor, nor the other fathers, middle-class conventional and sedentary. The teenagers were more interested in girls and fishing. The girls, however, were excluded, the world of the sea was masculine and tough, not a hobby.
The fishermen gathered on the beach at night, with a canvas bag on his shoulder. The departure, three or four men per boat, which had a mysterious, fascinating. They went, it seemed, into the unknown. Taken off, casting a net, then slept. With the fish waste, the next day, cook the soup, ate it before throwing back the nets. Fell in the late afternoon with boxes of fish to sell both ancient large fish on the beach and in bulk to those who presented promptly to the landing. My father, after those releases, was given some fish to take home. If a bit ashamed of it ', as if he had taken the bread to the poor fishermen. Praised the soup cooked in sea water, then clean and eat on board fish from the pan with pieces of bread, without a fork. I find it shameful that the ground tirassero buyers on the price of fish, does not realize the hard work of the fishermen.
In those years a few families had a car. There was the great highway that now connects Rome to Pescara and Teramo, Rome was a great trip. At first, the only direct train from Termini started just before midnight and arrived at their destination around 6.30 am. With other trains had to change in Pescara. Nothing seems to change, but it was not. The resort - albeit modest - it lasted no less than three months, the school began again in October. It all started together, with arms and baggage, parents, grandparents, children, babies in a wheelchair, dog and cat when they were there. Upon arrival in the morning we found out the station porters half asleep, on which carts were loaded with luggage and then head up to the house at the end of the village, traveling in a procession, with rumpled clothes, the ladies with his hat on. The fathers, if they were not teachers, not holding back 3 months in a row. But the first arrival, and departure at the end of September, could not miss. Without men, the journey must have seemed a real company.
The houses were rented for the summer is usually a plan, exposed brick, with the courtyards at the back, without modern conveniences. The laundry was delivered to a large woman, often the hostess (who was renting the house to go to live somewhere with his family), which brought him back washed and ironed. The white linen pants or blue and white stripes worn by men carrying laundry to another, more accurate in the stretch. There were no refrigerators, but small wooden iceboxes and zinc: one fell into a large cylinder of ice delivered daily by a specific vendor. On the streets you could see the women go home with big copper basins they had filled with water from a fountain. Dressed in black, casual walking, straight, eyes fixed forward. Sometimes they gave the hand of a little child. Altera and regardless of the weight and bystanders, self-confident, I looked like queens.
On Sunday there was always a big market. No Chinese stuff, then! Several schools of shoes and light and heavy fabrics for clothing and household linen, blankets, all for the kits in short, in abundance. From the top of Montepagano and houses away came to shop at the farmers, some on foot, some by bus, someone in the back of a cart or donkey. Men in dark suits, the hat, white shirts buttoned up to their necks, the women also dressed in black, long sleeves, skirts, scarves knotted under the chin. Neck, strings of coral and glittering gold necklaces with the cross.
With baskets full of stuff bought at the market, went on the beach. It was now lunch time, there was almost no one else. Sweaty, tired, farmers on Sunday enjoyed a long walk to watch the sea, as dazed. Then, with the decision, the women rose shoes and socks and pulling up the water entering the dark skirts. Standing still, your legs to soak up the calf, I hear them whispering in dialect, laughing. Men and women then he crouched on the sand, pulled out from big bags stuffed bread, a bottle of wine, eating and drinking. The Adriatic was then green, the endless golden beach, half-empty. Those figures black, solid, faceless image was timeless, unforgettable. Perhaps such a scene that he painted the German painter who was so fond of roses.
Nicoletta Barbarito
