And so, back in line at the post office, with a discouraging number to mark the wait for my turn, I decide to go and sit in the “south curve”, among the elderly who were already speaking thickly and in an archaic dialect.

I love the elderly Abruzzese population, the true, peasant one, who through marked faces, swollen hands with hard work and incredibly sweet and understanding eyes, transmit so much dignity and pride. And I love the ability they have to involve you in their life when they talk about it as if you were “at home”

They welcome me with smiles and greetings as I sit down and the lady on my left, in her eighties, makes me understand that from that moment on I am “one of them” with a pat on my knee. She is talking about the daughter who works in the north and the neighbors of chairs each intervene with the story of an emigrant relative. I must say that I struggled a bit to follow them because the dialect was very “narrow”.

I listen with amusement to the description of the north that they only imagine, as if they were talking about science fiction. Then the lady tells me that she would never leave her land, waiting for some answer from me. I tell you that I understand, here we have sea and mountains and bla bla bla. Silence. They stare at me.

Miss, are you a foreigner? Where do you come from?
From the North.
Eh, then you didn’t understand anything of what we said
No, no, I understand everything, really, now I’m more Abruzzo than anything else

“Signurì, ma voi siete straniera? Da dove venite?”
“Dal nord”.
“Eeeeeh, allora nin zi capite niend di quill che seme ditt!!!”
“No, no, ho capito tutto, davvero, ormai sono più abruzzese che altro!”

Down to teasing me good-naturedly and apologizing for their difficulty in speaking Italian. And, an extraordinary moment, they begin to compete with the Abruzzo sayings to test my understanding. And between the teasing and laughter, I went back to my first experience with the Lancianese dialect.

I was 13, just moved from Turin. Dad takes me to the hospital for blood tests. Waiting room. Chaos.

Too many people. A very elderly gentleman turns to the clerk behind the glass to show his commitment in a dialect still totally unknown to me. I am surprised by the nurse who addresses the white-haired man with a very loud voice, taking his deafness for granted.
>She hands him a sachet and explains that it is a rectal swab and that he can sit in the bathroom.

The old man is hesitant but moves away anyway making his way through the crowd behind him. Shortly after he reappears with the discarded tampon held in his hand like a flag, the crowd opens up in horror and he crosses the room more decisively and turns to the clerk / nurse behind the glass:

“Scusate, ma nin zo capite a do’ laja mette’…”
L’infermiere, guardando fisso il tampone con sguardo allucinato: “nel retto.”
“A ‘ddo???”
“Nell’ano!”
“…giuvino’ nin zo capit!”
“L’ha da nzaccà ‘ngul! e da po’ l’ha da rimett nella busctin sennò c’ariesce li scurfane!!!”.

I was only 13, for God’s sake.

Badi come parli! A collection of thoughts, musings, and meditations by Paola De Pillo
Illustrations by Chiara Puddu

admin witty