I suppose the first gift to my father, Sal, was his first two children... the "Twins", Joan and Barbara, born three days apart but healthy, nonetheless.

This was the start of my immigrant Dad's entry into fatherhood. Just when other men were being drafted into the U.S. army to fight in World War II, he suddenly was burdened not with one, but two children--this was in 1942 when twins were a mere 1% of all births. His nickname, Sally-Boy was coming to an end. Things had just gotten serious. 

When he saw only one baby on that first day, the doctor casually told him, "The second one just isn't ready yet". He couldn't rest assured that everything was OK until the second was born three days later, an event that placed my mother's photo holding the two of them on the pages of New York City's Daily News. The war started and my Dad worked in a defense plant making springs for tanks.

As you can see from the photo above, my father was not only a proud father, but a rather goofy one. Always the joker... that was his first real gift to his children. John and Barbara were to be followed by Kenneth, Joyce-Ann and myself, the "baby" of the brood. Somehow, Dad provided. Before he was married, he and his brother had a "Three Legged Horse and Cart" and sold fruit and vegetables to the seamen down at Hoboken harbor. He had dreams of having his own Italian delicatessen or market someday, but he opted to have security for his family, always working for others for a steady salary. He clothed and fed us by being a grocery and deli man his entire life. This was another gift to us all.

Dad always played the fool, constantly at the ready to play a joke on us, to get us to laugh, putting us close to sheer embarrassment. At the beach he always insisted that we bury him under the sand, head exposed with his shoes stuck out 12' away from his head under a ridiculously long body of sand. Everyone passing by loved it. After a while (and his nap) we'd mockingly wind up stomping on his sandy "stomach" (safely clear of his real one) to the amusement of others around us, aside from my mother, who always made like she didn't know him.

When we were the only Italian family going to a New Jersey mountain lake previously only frequented by Germans, my father offered them meatballs, sausage and spaghetti and became the biggest clown in the middle of the lake, making his infamous sea monster growl that echoed from the mountainside. He taught us to put small, rounded stream stones into the barbecue so they would explode and scare the heck out of Mom when she was grilling burgers and hot dogs. He came up with the idea to put the watermelon in the stream to keep it cool all afternoon--which worked great except for one day when my sister and I had to run, splashing down the stream to recapture it after it got loose. These were also gifts from Dad.

Dad always took me fishing and crabbing down the abandoned docks and piers along the Hudson River. He taught me how to get past chain link fences and avoid guard houses to find the best fishing spot. I remember long, hot afternoons, the smell of fish and tar, and the pinching of the crabs we'd catch in our box crab nets. Some days we'd be there so long until the tide shifted on the Hudson... in the morning the river would be flowing out to sea, and in the afternoon it the river would actually flow upstream.

He'd also drop some bait lines from the wooden pilings using little screw-in springs with bells on them. A big "Mama eel" would latch on to a hook, the bell would ring and Dad would have dinner for him and Mom. One day we caught a big eel in the crab net and a big Jersey blue crab on the drop line. At the end of a long day, we'd head home with a bucket full of beautiful blue crabs and perhaps a few eels to fry up. 

Again, more gifts from Dad.

Of course, we all bought Dad gifts for Father's Day. I remember saving the deposit money I earned from collecting empty soda bottles and buying him a bottle of shaving lotion or a pair of socks. A I got older, my gifts were many and varied: bottles of Amaretto, a fishing rod, a lop-eared rabbit, a 3 foot tall basket woven bottle of Chianti, a turquoise pocket knife, a trip to Caesar's Palace in Atlantic City, and odd assortments of power and garden tools.

But looking back, my gifts never matched the gifts he gave to me. He gave rock-solid, undeniable love and pride toward me. He gave simple, sound advice when I most needed it. He even gave me the gift of my wife and son when one day challenging me, "So, when are you going to marry that girl? You spend all your time with her anyway!"

Thanks Dad... for everything.

--Jerry Finzi

OK. Now, don't scream, "sacrilege". Let me explain...

More than 100 years ago in Italy, people really would place the Nun and Priest into their beds to warm things up. The Suora e Prete (Nun and Priest) was the name of a device used to warm the bed and blankets just before bedtime. In northern dialect, they might be called Frà dël let, or Bed Brother.

They were often used until the early 1900's, and perhaps even later on in poorer parts of Italy. The Nun, or  scaldaletto (warming bowl), was a removable round bowl with handle, into which hot coals (with ashes to slow down their cooling) were placed. Placing hot bricks in place of the Nun was also an option. Wealthier folks could afford rocchetti--small cylindrical containers filled with compressed coal dust. They were heated in the fireplace and lasted a lot longer than loose coals and ash.

The Priest constituted a frame that housed the Nun along with its hot embers, holding sheets and blankets well above the coals to prevent them from scorching or bursting into flames entirely. Sometimes the Nun had a lid with decorative perforations which allowed the heat to escape. The Nun and Priest also helped dry the damp sheets--a common problem in the cold and damp of stone houses during the winter months.

What are the roots of the name? Many consider the draping bed coverings to look like the draping of a nun's hood. Why "Priest" then? With Italians' tendency to be shockingly irreverent, we can only guess. Perhaps there is a reason the priest is on top... of course, I mean to hold in the heat of the Nun under "him". Wait... I'm getting myself into trouble here.... 

The interesting thing is, the Nun and Priest is still being made today, albeit in electric versions. When considering the thick stone walls and dampness of old Italian houses, this contraption might seem like a very good idea to warm up the bed on a cold windy night.

Very common in Italian antique stores and flea markets, many people have taken to finding new uses for the Nun and Priest, especially as decorating objects.

Another tool to heat the bed was il Monaco or also Mariteddu (the Monk), a kind of terracotta amphora that was filled with boiling water and placed under the covers. The rather thick, heavy ceramic would retain heat for long periods of time and release it slowly, creating a gentle warmth under the covers. Unlike the Nun and Priest which warmed the bed before you got in, the Monk could be kept in bed during the night with you.  

Oh no... here I go again. I'll stop now.

--Jerry Finzi

This might also interest you...

Italian Warmth from the Poor Mans' Hearth: Il Braciere, the Brazier

While researching another subject using Google Earth, I came across this unusual scene just outside of Canosa di Puglia... a beautifully built Highway to Nowhere.

Oddly, the "street view" from several years ago shows nothing but dirt roads and farm fields. The satellite view taken in 2017 shows this beautifully built highway and a wonderfully wide roundabout in the middle. The only problem is, it goes nowhere and comes from no where. There are dirt roads and vineyards around all sides and the paved intersections intersect with dirt roads. There are no structures within the "development" area... just olives and grape vines.

Go figure. Perhaps the regional government thought, "If we build it, they will come."

--Jerry Finzi

There is that old saying (or aphorism), “Don’t raise the bridge, lower the river" that every engineering student knows. It describes the attitude about the obvious: there are no obstacles in getting things done. Just analyze the problem, and think of a way around it. But this doesn't usually mean literally.

"Lowering the river"  is what lies behind the design of most canal locks in the world. I've even seen canals built on viaducts, making the water travel over an obstacle, like railroad tracks or a road. But I've never quite seen the Italian solution to the problem illustrated above. In Manhattan, for example, if a work crew arrived, permits in hand, ready to dig a ditch for a sewer or communication cables, a call to the City's tow trucks solve the problem in no time at all. Tow the car out of the work zone. Done.

In Italy, however, perhaps because of the lack of a reliable city department that would actually handle this problem--before the 12-3pm riposa--these workers figured they wouldn't wait for anyone else and solved the problem their way. Furbo. Look out for your own interests. Get the job done and get back to your own life. Why worry about some future contractor trying to locate that underground run of cable that he thinks should be in a straight line.

Besides, "Why have someone's car towed away and cause someone else problems? It might be my friend's cousin, or my cousin's cousin, or, Dio mio... someone's nonna!"

--Jerry Finzi

This is a collection of the many stereotypes I've collected throughout my travels and my research on the Italian culture... I reject the idea that any of them are true.

Watch just about any old movie filmed in Italy and more than likely they'll be flirting... especially the stereotype of an incorrigible flirt coming on to a woman. An old gent pursing his lips to his fingers letting a young girl know how tasty she looks, or a young regazzo following for a few steps on the street accosting a young lady with a flurry of metaphorical compliments, or it could be a supposed innocent young boy blurting out blatantly how great a woman's legs are.

Flirting is part of life in la Bel Paese. In fact, there is a special metaphor for it...
fare la civetta, which literally means "to make like an owl", or simply una civetta (an owl) meaning "flirt". The expression was first penned in 1494 when poet Poliziano used the word civettare to describe how a woman might attract a man, by cooing like an owl to attract her prey, and then silently pouncing on them with their sharp talons as their prey approaches.

In reality, Italian women do flirt more like an owl than men do. They are more subtle and less obvious than the screeching of regazze hawks. A young regazza will start to walk away from her prey, but then turn her head back slightly with a half smile and side glance, and then keep walking away.... Hooked.

Hair dangling over the eyes is another technique. Lowering her head and letting a few wisps of hair hide her admiring glance at a young man, but then flipping them back into place shows a guy she sees something she likes... Hooked.

Subtle and blatant at the same time, una giovane bellezza (a young beauty) may be sitting at a gelateria touching a spoonful of gelato to her lips, glance over at her targeted regazzo and slyly lick her lips, putting her spoon right back to the work of enjoying her confection... Hooked.

Amazingly--but very Italian--there are many distinct variations in the way this word is used:

• civetteria - anyone using tricky means to attract not only a mate, but any admirers.
  
• civettare - to flirt, to woo.
• civettino - an immature, precocious boy who boldly compliments an older woman.
• civettina - an immature, innocent girl, using her coquettish charms to tease.
• civettone - a crude jerk using foul language or hand motions while flirting.
• civettuola - a woman who acts crudely, just like a civettone--a hussy.

The context matters, too. For instance, if someone says "Non andrai da nessuna parte con Adelina. È una vera civetta." (You won't get anywhere with Adelina. She's a real tease.") Most men stay clear of a tease once they become away of their game.

Curiously, there is even the giacca civetta (owl jacket). This is the second jacket a man leaves over the back his chair at work so the boss and co-workers think he is somewhere in the building... when in reality he is out of the office wearing his other jacket (metaphorically or otherwise) while fare la civetta.

Even more interesting, I recently discovered the expression Italians use for "bait and switch" when a company advertises one cheap product (the owl cooing) just to trick you into buying their more expensive one (the talons)... Produtto civetta!

Perhaps Italian men have gotten a bad reputation, mostly from stories of them pinching girls behinds or following aggressively down the street. In fact, Italian men are Mama's boys, very romantic and won't marry until they find l'angelo perfetto (the perfect angel), or one as worthy as Mama. Their flirting can also be very direct, but often in poetic praises:
"Hai degli occhi bellissimi." (You have beautiful eyes.)
"Mi piace il modo in cui ridi" (I like the way you laugh).
"Il tuo sorriso è davvero fantastico!" (Your smile is really awesome!)
"Ho visto che mi stavi guardando e ho pensato di venire qui a fare due chiacchiere."
(I saw you were looking at me and I thought I could come over and chat).
"Complimenti alla mamma." (My compliments to your mother).
"Nel cielo manca un angelo?" (Is heaven missing an angel?)
"Ti sei fatta male cadendo dal cielo?" (Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?)

In English these pick-up likes might sound corny... in Italian, just try to resist...

--Jerry Finzi

What does Furbo mean? Click Here.

Basilicata is a hilly, mountainous region, and its capital, Potenza sits at 2700 feet above sea level--the highest elevation of any regional capital in Italy. It has a medieval historic center on the top of one hill, and a much newer part of the city on another, with a 300 foot dip in between. People need to commute to work from the historic center to the other hill to work in modern government offices, retail outlet stores and even a conservatory of music. Multiple modern apartment towers on that hill also have people commuting the other way around--to the old town.

Vito Santarsiero, who spearheaded the project during his 10 years as mayor, has been optimistic that interest will grow as word spreads about Potenza’s attractions. He is no longer the mayor. The Scale Mobile Santa Lucia has been plagued by problems ever since it opened... mechanical breakdowns, cost overruns, lack of use, safety, grafitti, and even "up-skirt" weirdos photographing ladies panties as they rode up the escalators. 

To me, it seems the whole design has a couple of major flaws. First of all, on the Via Tammone side (the new town), there is only the entrance building for the escalator system. There is nothing there. No parking lot--so people needing to get to the old town have somewhere to park right next to the escalators. It;s not that there isn't space for a public parking lot--there is a hugh grassy field laying empty right there. There is no piazza, no park, no bar or cafe, no where for people to mingle, meet and take in a view of the old historic town on the opposite hill. And even if there was a little piazza with a view, there would be nothing nice to look at. It seems that some time ago, local politicians gave permission to builders (meaning, they were paid off) to erect tall, ugly, modern apartment buildings which blocked the view of the old town. They are built along the edge of the old town right in front of all the historic structures.  There is a beautiful bell tower, but you can't see it. There are clay tile roofs, but they too are blocked. 

Perhaps I tuned in to this because of where I grew up on the Jersey Palisades across from Manhattan on the Hudson River. When I was a kid, crooked politicians sold the citizens a bill of goods about their taxes going down (never happened) as many high rise apartment buildings went up--blocking the view from the older historic homes along the boulevard. Now, when you look back to New Jersey from Manhattan, there are parts of the Palisades that are nearly wall-to-wall high risers.

I have never seen this in Italy. More typically, Italians are incredibly proud of their hilltowns and their views. I can't tell you how many wonderful little outdoor spaces I've discovered right at the edge of the hilltop view of a valley below, the sea, or mountains. I've seen large piazzas, tiny vest pocket parks, children's playgrounds, or even just a simple promenade with benches for taking a stroll during the evening passeggiata with your family or friends after dinner. There is nothing substantial on the modern town side of this "escalator system" for several blocks. It's just sort of--there.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of public mobility projects in Italy, especially helping people get from a low part of a town to the highest parts. There are literally thousands of hilltowns in this mountainous country. In San Gimignano, I welcomed the elevators that took us up--and then back down to the old town from the public parking lot below the historic center. And I'm sure visitors parking below the "Under the Tuscan Sun" hilltown of Cortona appreciate the outdoor escalators that take them from the parking lot up almost 200 feet to the Piazza Garibaldi. 

The Potenza escalators made some people's pockets fat, but was there really a need for them?

--Jerry Finzi