We go back to Sassello in the afternoon. For no reason other than I like to go there. We walk up to San Giovanni, a pretty church in a little park, up a little road, a little away from town, with a view of the wooded hills. The roof of the church has a curved pattern that’s unique. To get up to it there are wide stone steps, and at the top of the steps, there are stone columns with a flame motif at the top. There are stone benches. I have a picture of my uncle sitting on one of the stone benches, and I take a picture of George sitting on the same one.
The front of the church is cobble stoned, and there are some tall trees around. It’s one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen, I love this place.
When we got back from Brazil as teenagers we started coming back to Sassello in the summer again, to a different house right by the old one. The new house used to be occupied by a woman named Giustina who made mattresses. When we told someone where we lived we would say, “Where Giustina used to live, Giustina of the mattresses,” and everyone would know exactly which house it was. She made mattresses stuffed with wool.
Our friends Paola and Maria Elena were still there, and we picked up our friendship where we had left it off. Sitting on the steps. This pattern of friendship has stayed with me all my life—just a very few really good friends. Sometimes I think I don’t have enough friends, but I’m sure that if I wanted more friends I could get more. I really just want a few very good friends with whom I have many connections.
On Sunday we would walk up to San Giovanni to attend the mass, my sister and I and our two friends.
We did not usually have a car in Sassello, my father had the only car in the family, and he was in Milan during the week. We also didn’t have a phone. We walked to the Bar Isaia when my mother had to make a phone call, they had a pay phone service. The Bar Isaia was on the main road, not in the town, it was pretty large, and it had parking outside. At times, it was a cool place where teenagers hung out and played foosball. At other times, it seems that no one went there, but it kept going, with its pay phone service, the only thing we ever went there for.
In the mornings we would go food shopping in town. My mother sent us. She sent us because it was a battle, it was a task for the strong. Each little tiny shop was crowded, and there was an invisible line, where you had to mentally account for who was ahead of you, and then be sure to request to be served when it was your turn. And anybody at any time, these meek looking ladies, would look to cut in front of you if you weren’t quick enough. And then you’d have to call her on it, “Scusi, I was here first.” The whole process is socially acceptable, it’s acceptable to try to cut in front of someone, and it’s acceptable to claim precedence. As long as it’s claimed in a cool tone of voice. If you get heated then you’re considered rude. Even if technically you’re right.
In the afternoon we would go hiking or go splashing in a river, both things I still like to do today with George. Then we’d go into town to Bar Gina for ice cream.
In the evening we would sit on the steps and talk until dark. One year there was a soccer tournament in the evening, and Bar Gina fielded a team—that was the team we rooted for, we became rabid Bar Gina soccer fans. We’d walk home chanting after the games.
