Our days have been so jammed packed with visiting cousins that I'm actually writing this one a day late.
The train ride from Parma to Fidenza is only ten minutes and costs less than the equivalent of ten dollars for the four of us. We arrived in the town where my aunt lives a little before noon.
In the short ten years since my last visit, the town had become unrecognisable: while the train station had not changed an iota since I had waited patiently for a cousin whose voice I had only heard on the phone, the town outside it had been transformed - or at least the parts closest to the train station.
Now an apartment building - about six or seven stories high - towers over the train station. It is gleaming and feels somewhat misplaced here, at least to me.
I tried to find the way to the main street but was so disoriented by the new constructions that I led us astray, and we ended up walking around the industrial zone. We made our way back to the train station and called my cousin, Martina, who came to meet us.
She looked the same as always: rail thin, in stilettos, impeccably dressed and fresh faced - a typical Italian woman. She had tears in her eyes as she greeted us all. "I'm old now: I cry at everything," she said. At 51, Martina does not look her age, but I guess she is starting to feel it.
After taking us on a little tour of the central part of the town, including getting us a private tour of the small but elegant theatre, Martina brought us to a local restaurant for lunch. We had primi and secondi (pasta followed by meat and grilled vegetables) and left to go to a "bar" for coffee. Here, bars are cafes, and coffee is an espresso.
Everywhere we went in town, Martina greeted friends and acquaintances. She invited her colleagues to coffee with us so we could meet them,
and then we went up to her office for a quick tour of the place.
Then it was time to go visit my aunt. When we arrived at the flat, I pointed out my family name on the door (Italian women keep their names) and felt a sense of familiarity, seeing it there. As we walked up the one flight of stairs I saw my aunt there, waiting for us at the door.
My zia looked the same to me: a tiny woman, with a bend in her shoulder that makes her even smaller, grey hair in a bun, and those sloping eyelids now partially covering sparkling and mischievous brown eyes. Zia Marina.
She, too, had tears in her eyes as she greeted us. We spent a while chatting, then it was time for the exchange of gifts. Martina brought out pretty little bracelets for the girls and a beautiful necklace and pendant and matching earrings for me. We gave them some Niagara icewine, some maple candies and a citizenship study guide to give them a small introduction both to what I do at work (sort of) and what Canada is like - though I was careful to tell them it's one of many versions of what Canada is (propaganda of a sort). We had also given gifts to Monica and Pietro the day before: candies and the citizenship guide, as well as a knitted poncho for Giulia that I had bought in the Byward market at home. Besides the toys they bought for the girls in Verona, Monica also gave us some of her own "propaganda": some information on the University of Parma's program for disabled students, where Monica works.
After we had exchanged our gifts, Martina packed us all into her car and drove us out to my aunt's little farm a couple of kilometres from their house, and she returned to work for the afternoon.
My aunt's little farm is in fact a small piece of land with an outbuilding made up of four or five consecutive rooms where she keeps rabbits and chickens. Derek noted that it was the cleanest barn he'd ever been in, and well it should be: my aunt goes everyday, rain or shine. She now has a woman to come help her, but she is still committed to keeping her animals. They keep her busy, she says.
The girls were very excited to see the five bunnies and their big mother. They got to pet a couple that my aunt pulled out from the pen by their ears. The girls thought it funny that the little things were screaching a little; I must admit that I just wanted her to put them back. I guess, though, that when one sees them as food, it's hard to imagine them as suffering creatures. I'm just glad that the girls don't understand much Italian because my aunt kept talking about what
a great stew they will make. There would have been tears all afternoon after that kind of talk!
Outside the little barn is a large enough piece of land, but more than half of it is no longer kept or even mowed, since my aunt no longer has the energy. But there is a small vegetable garden and some beautiful flowers and herbs growing around the edges.
While my aunt and her helper cleaned and fed the animals, Derek, the girls and I went for a walk in the countryside. The girls skipped along the path ahead of us, and Derek and I managed to hold hands for a bit and enjoy each other's company.
We returned an hour or two later; that is the one thing about this place: we have managed to lose all track of time. Meals are at very different times than what we are used to, so we have not been able to keep up with clock time. And we've been enjoying ourselves enough that we needn't worry about what time it is or whether we need to hurry.
When we did return, we had a little drink, which my aunt had planned for: she had brought some drinks and cookies for us. And we made our way back.
Everyone met up at my aunt's house before going out for dinner: Martina was there, then Monica and Giulia arrived, immediately followed by Monica's parents, Vilma (my first cousin, aunt Marina's daughter) and Angelo. Pietro followed soon after. Before we left, there were more gifts, this time from Vilma and Angelo: white gold
pendants for the girls - a cat and a bear. They had guessed right and given the cat to the right kid. Then it was time for a quick photo session before we went off to our dinner reservation.
My aunt, who is 85, opted out of the restaurant dinner, so we said our goodbyes at her house. After having chatted with her and remembered all the time we'd spent together when I stayed with her nearly a month last time, I felt close to her again and knew I'd miss her. But I didn't realize what that meant. She put it into words for me: "this is the last time we'll see each other," she whispered as I hugged her gently. By now we both had tears in our eyes. Derek and the girls said their goodbyes and I went back to be alone with her for a moment. I knelt by her feet and we looked at each other for a moment and held each other again. I assured her that we'd see each other again, some other time and space. But for now, this was surely goodbye.
We walked out, Solanne holding my hand. She asked me if we were going to see zia Marina again, and I said no. Ever ever? No, I said again,
if we come back she probably won't be around anymore. Tears welled up in her big blue eyes, and I knew that I couldn't spare her the pain of the thought of death this time. "Sweetie, auntie is old and she will probably die before we can come back again for a visit." Solanne cried quietly, in the way she does when she is profoundly touched, and we walked on.
***
Il Canton is the kind of restaurant that should be in a tourist guidebook if it isn't already. The service was attentive, if a little slow at times, the menu representative of the area with a little twist here and there, and the food was spectacular. We arrived a little before 8 pm and left close to 11:30. Four courses in about four hours: seems about right. The girls, mine along with Giulia, were incredibly well behaved, given the circumstances. They had each other and some
free range (reign) over the diningroom we occupied. We arrived back at the apartment just before midnight, thanks to my cousins who chaffeured the four of us back in two cars. We all fell into bed and heard nothing until 8:30 the next morning.
A tavola!
This is the hardest one to describe, if only it's the most diverse. We tried a number of different things.
The meal started with a thin slice of frittata made with various vegetables and local sausage, served with a drizzle of thick and rich
balsamic vinegar.
Next, we had a tasting of three different pastas. I knew it was going to be a great gastronomic experience when the server brought out a triple plate/bowl - a type of dish that is basically three bowls stuck
to one another. The first pasta they called "i caramelli" (the candies). They are like tortellini but look like candies in wrappers; they were served in a rich yet light truffle sauce. The second was a tagliatelli, a kind of fettucini-like noodle. This tagliatelli was made with cocoa and served with olive oil and porcini mushrooms, along with thinly sliced cured ham made from the pig's back. The third dish was made of small round noodles served in a bean sauce; at the table we added fresh olive oil and ground pepper.
By this point I had already eaten so much that I wasn't terribly hungry, so I ordered an antipasto plate of prosciutto. Derek had a bistecca tagliata (sliced rare beef steak) with thinly-sliced Parmesan cheese and fresh greens. He said it was delicious, and it made him understand why people like steak (even when he was a regular meat-
eater, Derek never really liked steak).
Next was dessert. The girls managed to find their seats again for this one. Maia had the fiore di panna (flower of cream) gelato, the only gelato they make. It was what icecream should always be: just fresh
cream + sugar + culinary magic. Derek had crema catalana, a kind of creme caramel, though richer and tastier than I've ever tasted. It had a thick, cristallised crust on top and within was a sweet, full syrup.
Derek and I have never eaten so much in one day, and likely never so much good food. Today, our experience lived out the Italian saying: "In Italia, si mangia bene (in Italy, we eat well)."
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