It will be alright on the night

I have commented in previous resoconti upon the virtues of Italians in what have become repeating themes:

* The ready (immediate?) acceptance of foreigners by Italians
* The fact that detail is unimportant but that the things that are really, truly important are achieved, always brilliantly, often in spectacular fashion
* Italians love having a good time which always includes eating and usually involves music and dancing
* Italian commerce works exclusively on word of mouth referral. Location and position of the business are not important – many, many businesses are located off the beaten track. Advertising is non-existent and Italians have not yet discovered the internet as a commercial vehicle.
* It is a waste of time trying to “work out” why or how Italians do things. Just hang on for the ride. It always ends well, safely and usually joyously.

So, I won’t mention any of those things – I will simply tell you the story of my seventieth birthday celebration.

Word had gone around, Man From Snowy River fashion, that I had a significant birthday approaching about a week out from the event. It just seems to be one of those things that are important to the locals in the paese (the small country villages and towns) that people want to know your birthdate – a bit like opening a Facebook account, or talking to your bank over the phone, Centrelink or discussing your electricity account with your service provider.

The keen ones that like to keep track of things (like the aforementioned) take account of it and recall it when a particular milestone is about to be reached. Well the wandering minstrels, our happy band of twenty festa chasers, thought it a grand idea to make my birthday an occasion for rejoicing (as if they actually needed one in a season of almost daily attendances at grand events).

In very uncharacteristic style they actually appointed a committee of two to make the necessary arrangements which boiled down to selecting and booking a venue and keeping the RSVP list having made contact with each minstrel to ascertain their attendance. There was also the orchestration of events, activities and instructions to staff on the night of the event.

Now this is a bit innovative. Usually things just seem to fall into place without much attention to pre-planning and delegation of duties. It almost took on the appearance of these guys trying to show this Inglese person that they could cope with doing things on his terms.

With four days to go it looked as though everything was in place. I was told that a place had been found (and presumably booked) and I was shown an impressive list of confirmed attendees. Sit back and relax and just let it all come together, and I did. While I had a few reservations about my compari’s ability to organise I had absolute confidence that the show would be a ripper.

On the night of the event I made some discrete enquiries about the location of the venue and conjured up a veiled understanding that it was a very “nice” ristorante that served pizza and somehow I was led to believe it was in San Cesareo, one of the group’s established dancing haunts. I’d hoped that it wasn’t the local social club where we go for our three course five euro meals. While the tucker is quite acceptable (in fact pretty good for an inexpensive feed) I thought a change of scenery would be a good thing. Alas, none of my mates could confirm the actual, or even, approximate, location. I wondered how we would all get to the designated ristorante if no-one actually knew where it was – but, as I have reported previously, that does not seem to faze the locals. Somehow, magically, things just materialise on the night.

I suggested that I drive. I had cleaned the Peugeot inside and out, the air con works (whereas it doesn’t in Domenico’s Panda!). I figured that the Peugeot station wagon would have offered a little more comfort than the Panda for what would certainly be a car full of passengers, traveling for about a forty-five to sixty minute drive in forty degree heat. No. Domenico thought it improper for the celebrant to drive on such an auspicious occasion. I am sure his thoughts were admirable and the intention honourable but I considered it more appropriate that we arrive at the destination, wherever it turned out to be, in better condition than was likely after hanging out the window for about thirty or so kilometres.

Be that as it may, the Panda set off for the circular route to Lariano to pick up Franca and then off to Artena, then Valmontone en route, presumably, for San Cesareo. Usually we “board” the autostrada at Valmontone when going to San Cesareo, although there is an alternative route via Cave which is used on those occasions when we have to pick up Sergio from his nephew’s pizza shop midway between Cave and Genazzano and Lorenza who lives five hundred metres down the lane from the pizza shop. We went straight past the autostrada entrata. Bad sign!

We travelled the accustomed route to the usual pick up spots but didn’t pick anyone up. Another bad sign! Just when I was thinking “Why in hell are we out here in the bush if we were supposed to be heading for San Cesareo?” we headed down a sort of private track, going further into the bush and straight past what appeared to be an abandoned pizzeria with no lights on and no sign of activity. We went as far as we could and when the track terminated we pulled the Panda to a holt under the shade of a tree.

Now, the fact that there was no obvious activity was not terribly disconcerting because, remember, we are always arriving at every event before anyone else, even the staff. Well, I thought “That’s good. We won’t miss the event but I hope the restaurant staff and the rest of the crew make it here too. Domenico disappeared through some stone pillars and came back with the reassuring news that he had found a light on and a cook, so seemingly everything would come together at some stage. The rest of the invitees were equally confident because they soon arrived en-mass.

The arrival of the guests acted like drought breaking rains in the Outback. Just as the rains signal the regeneration of plant and animal life, the materialisation of the guests germinated staff who started to set tables. There was still no real clarity around where we would sit and no sign of welcoming drinks or starters but wandering around the Garden of Eden was delightful. The setting was from Bali. Lots of shady trees and ornamental plants and thatched gazebos and our little ristorante was perched in the centre of this tranquil retreat. What a wonderful setting. And I had thought that we had all lost our bearings, ending up at an abandoned pizzeria at the end of a dirt track in the scrub.

We had a wonderful meal, orchestrated by Domenico who had spent his lifetime working in restaurants in Rome, London and San Paulo. We had an extraordinarily wonderful time together – a truly wonderful group of people enjoying excellent food together on a balmy Roman evening in a tranquil garden in the middle of the Italian bush. It was a truly unforgettable experience.

To cap off this event I had a surprise for the group: a little speech that was a week in the making and three minutes in delivery. With a little assistance from Translator and Cinzia, in perfect Italian, I thanked Domenico for his organisation of the event, Mimma, and Lorenza for their dance coaching and the group generally for its wonderful acceptance, genuine friendship and shared good times.

There had been no hint in the past eighteen months that I could converse with them in their own language – they had invited me to make a speech which only one of them had expected to comprehend. It went down well. They were suitably amazed – for them, the highlight of a great evening. It was for me too. I got some satisfaction out of giving back to them a little of the tremendous camaraderie that they have and are sharing with me.

When it comes to the end of the day, after the mystification, doubts and uncertainties, everything - magically - comes together for an occasion that will survive in memory for a long time.

It’s like that every week in the Italian paese. Why would you want to be anywhere else?