#21 Pizza with kilts and bagpipes (English)

Where on the first of January we not only wished each other a happy new year but also a happy new decade – The Roaring Twenties had begun! – now, not only three months later, 2020 has practically been cancelled. The Eurovision Songcontest, the Eurocup, the Olympic Games, everything is postponed to next year. Big events that millions of people were eagerly looking forward to, but now make for an empty summer ahead of us. Perhaps having an even greater impact on our daily lives are all those small, personal things that can’t take place anymore either: the appointment at the hairdresser, that one concert, the football tournament and that wedding of a colleague. Our agendas have been collectively cleared. Despite the fact that the world is facing an enormous challenge making all other things insignificant, you are still allowed to feel disappointed from time to time. Last week was one I had eagerly been looking forward to: Wednesday 25 March had already been marked on my digital calendar for months. I was counting down the days as it should have been the day that Sara, my dear Scottish-Italian friend, and I would be reunited. She was going to visit me in Rome – the plane tickets had been booked a long time ago – and all our recent conversations had been about where we would go out for dinner, and what other fun things we would do in Rome.

Next to me sat a blond girl with bright blue eyes who introduced herself to me in English with an accent that almost made me choke in my wine. What did she just say?!

Sara and I have been best friends from the very first minute we met in Rome. With some people, you just immediately feel a soul connection. Almost five years ago, we went to an old-fashioned wine bar on a very hot night somewhere mid-September as part of the introduction week of the University. In the cellar-like room without windows or any other ventilation, large wooden tables were placed. On every table, there were plenty plastic Coca-Cola bottles filled with sparkling red wine coming directly from the barrels of the neighbouring vineyard. Most likely you have tried sparkling white wine, however in the surroundings of Rome sparkling red wine is a thing. This quite tasty type of red wine was the only type of beverage they served and was refilled unlimitedly. Still feeling a bit awkward and hesitating as nobody really knew each other yet, everyone took place on the cramped wooden benches, having to sit very close to each other in this sweaty environment. Next to me sat a blond girl with bright blue eyes who introduced herself to me in English with an accent that almost made me choke in my wine. What did she just say?! I asked her where she came from, and to my biggest surprise she answered: “Italy”. Well, her father at least, her mother was from Glasgow, where she herself had grown up. Hence the accent. We immediately started talking and basically never stopped again. After loads of pasta and red wine I hardly noticed the rolling R anymore and I acted as a true interpreter between Sara and Julia, a Brazilian friend who clearly had more trouble understanding the Scottish accent, causing hilarious scenes. A Dutch person who had to translate the English from a Scottish – whose mother tongue is English in fact – to a type of English that the Brazilian could understand. Are you still keeping up?

From that moment on, we were inseparable, Sara and I. We did everything together

From that moment on, we were inseparable, Sara and I. We did everything together, from our self-invented ‘Fitness Tuesdays’ (on which we went to my apartment after classes on Tuesdays, put our beach towels on the floor for a lack of real yoga mats, followed a super intensive fitness video on Youtube for half an hour and then ate chicken with spinach so we could eat pizza, pasta and gelato the other six days of the week without any worries) to drinking coffee and chitchatting for hours under the parasols of the university bar. From dancing in the Roman discotheques for nights on end to a cringeworthy presentation in a completely Italian-spoken course for which, during the preparation weeks, we emailed our poor team member Antonio – who was the unlucky one to be placed in a group with two close-knit and hyperactive girls – at any time of the day (and night) with the ‘urgent request’ to make better contributions to the project. Of course we always signed with a cheesy ‘Grazie mille, sei il migliore’, ‘you’re the best’. 

Already in the first months we knew each other she invited me to join her on one of her family visits. A weekend in April it was then finally happening

The longer Sara and I hung out, the more it became clear to me what fantastic combination of heritage she was blessed with. The great hospitality, cheerfulness and humour of the Scots combined with the stylish, passionate art of enjoying life of the Italians. By now I can say without any doubt that both Scots and Italians are my favourite people in the world. Sara’s nonna and aunts (and nephews, uncles, great-aunts…) live in Barga, a small village in the mountains of Tuscany, not very far from Lucca. Already in the first months we knew each other she invited me to join her on one of her family visits. A weekend in April it was then finally happening. We had a long – by Sara very carefully planned – journey ahead of us. On Friday afternoon we took a bus from the university to Rome’s big train station, to board the high-speed line to Florence. Here, we changed trains in the direction of Lucca, and from there we took a small train heading uphill to Barga.

Every time I visit Sara in Glasgow, we end up in a place with a pictured scene on the wall that looks very familiar to me. “Is that…?”, “Yup”, Sara answers when she sees my questioning gaze. That’s the church and little piazza of Barga

Barga, the most Scottish town in Italy, is such a unique piece of Italy that even Jamie Oliver once dedicated a whole blog to it. Far from the beaten tracks of Tuscany that attract millions of tourists each year, sits a village in the mountains where the conversations in the pizzeria are effortlessly changed from Italian to English (with a Scottish accent), where the inhabitants have been dialing Scottish phone numbers to catch up with family members for decades already and where the Italian priest has long ceased to be surprised by grooms appearing in his church in a kilt. To explain all this, we have to go back in time. From the end of the 19th century until after the Second World War, large numbers of Italians left their country in search of a better future. Some inhabitants of Barga ended up in and near Glasgow, where they built up a new life. Because of the positive stories, many families followed. Including Sara’s grandparents, who returned to the Tuscan sun after their working life in Scotland. Her father stayed in Scotland however, where he married a Glaswegian girl. Just as Barga is a ‘wee piece of Scotland’ (‘wee’ being the Scottish word for small), Glasgow is home to a large Italian community. Every time I visit Sara in Glasgow, we end up in a place with a pictured scene on the wall that looks very familiar to me. “Is that…?”, “Yup”, Sara answers when she sees my questioning gaze. That’s the church and little piazza of Barga.

Just getting off, the serene evening air was filled with an enthusiastic female voice “You look like twins!”

It was evening already by the time the little train crunched to a halt at an almost deserted train station. Just getting off, the serene evening air was filled with an enthusiastic female voice – “You look like twins!” – that belonged to Sara’s aunt, zia Frida, who came to pick us up. A whirlwind of energy with the passion of an Italian donna, but an unmistakable accent of the west side of Scotland. From that moment on, I was completely immersed in the happy chaos of the village. Only just installed in her lovely and cozy house, we had to hurry ourselves to the Irish pub, where we enjoyed a dinner of burgers and yes, fish and chips in a company of about twelve people – all family members or acquaintances. A live band played rock classics and zia Frida climbed onto the stage to make us enjoy her wonderful voice. Drinks were served abundantly and it was well after midnight already when we walked back home. However, we still had to make a pit stop at a bar whose owner was a good friend of Sara’s dad, whom we of course had to send our best regards. Surely we were not allowed to leave without having taken one last shot. It was no surprise that the next morning we sat on the piazza silently enjoying our cappuccino from behind our sunglasses, despite the absent sun today. After a refreshing walk through the beautiful medieval village the family lunch followed. Sara’s cousins came back from school – in many places in Italy children still go to school on Saturday morning – and again we sat at the table with a large group of people. Sara and I enjoyed it a lot, both being real family people but now living far away from our families in Rome.

We willingly sat down on our knees to pose with the labrador, but immediately the old man started shouting that we had to stand upright

The whole weekend was actually a series of highlights, but my favorite moment came on Sunday afternoon, when we went to the local trattoria for a traditional Sunday lunch with Sara’s nonna, great-aunt (sister of her nonna), aunt and second-degree aunt (daughter of the great-aunt). After one of the older gentlemen at the table next to us had been glancing in our direction from time to time – with zia Frida immediately making a sharp comment however so he quickly turned his gaze back on his steaming plate of pasta – he grabbed his chance after lunch. We were all chatting outside in the sunshine when the older gentleman asked the chef of the restaurant to take a picture of Sara and me with his dog. We willingly sat down on our knees to pose with the labrador, but immediately the old man started shouting that we had to stand upright. “But in that way I can’t get the dog in the picture” the chef said, and as a response the old man began to rant loudly in Italian, saying that he didn’t care about the dog at all. Meanwhile zia Frida could barely stop laughing. 

“Oh nonna, please”, Sara said, not understanding what was going on. Until we looked up

Sara’s nonna turned out to be a real Italian donna with a fair sense of drama. Although she could perfectly walk by herself only minutes earlier, she now commanded Sara and me to support her by taking her arm, each on one side. At a snail’s pace she put one foot after the other. We tried to speed up a little, but then nonna hissed to us “slow down!”. “Oh nonna, please”, Sara said, not understanding what was going on. Until we looked up. A police car had stopped and the two carabinieri– real macho men in their early thirties – casually leaned against their shiny polished car while they took in the situation from behind their golden pilot sunglasses. Nonna knew this game all too well, and was willing to join the performance like a true actress. The three of us jointly moving forward, we slowed down even more the moment we passed the two gentlemen in uniform. Sticking her nose in the air and pretending she hadn’t even noticed the two carabinieri, she hissed to us just a little too loud: “Are they watching? Are they looking at you?”

And that Scottish accent? Well, after five years, I don’t even notice it any longer. Until the other day in Rome when an English woman asked me if I had Scottish family members perhaps…

What a fantastic weekend it was. I had to constantly remind myself to be in Italy, when I heard the familiar and unmistakable sound of the Scottish accent echoing in the narrow streets. Now, four years later, Sara and I still often talk about these wonderful days. Last week her nonna turned ninety and after the days she was supposed to spent with me in Rome, Sara would join her family in Barga that would finally be complete again for this special occasion. Unfortunately, the coronavirus prevented this happy reunion from taking place but it was with a big smile however that I watched the videos that Sara sent me this week of an equally happy nonna, still being in good health. I understood how grateful we should be for all these modern digital ways of staying in touch. Of course Sara and I facetimed each other over the weekend and I realised once again how special our friendship is. Only seeing each other once or twice a year (but when we do, it’s four full days of fun), we still manage to share every little detail of our lives with each other. And that Scottish accent? Well, after five years, I don’t even notice it any longer. Until the other day in Rome when an English woman asked me if I had Scottish family members perhaps…