Speaking (Southern) Italian American: Draft Dodging
The sun was just starting to rise over the fields of poppies growing around the ancient Aurelian walls as my early morning train zoomed past Rome. I was bound for Naples. My friends in Florence had offered all sorts of advice about traveling in the Mezzogiorno. Watch your purse, don’t go out at night by yourself, and don’t trust anyone. It seemed as though the land of my ancestors came with all the same warnings that I received every time I left the front door of my parent’s house.
I was lucky enough to find a train compartment, made for six, that had just two other passengers—two women, probably in their seventies, who referred to each other as “Sorella” and “Sorellina.” We engaged in some minimal small talk—they were en route to Reggio Calabria—but fortunately, they seemed to have family business to discuss. When I am tired, all of my verbal skills go right out the window. Since they occupied the window area, I stretched out on the opposite side, put my feet up on the seat across from me and rested my head on the side of the cabin door. I had just begun to doze off when I was suddenly awoken by a sharp whisper directly in my right ear.
“Spiffero!”
I lifted my head to see Sorella’s face about two inches from mine. I pulled back, startled with weary confusion. I had no idea what she was talking about and being too tired to care if she was putting a curse on me, I mumbled, “Non ho capito, signora. Mi dispiace,” and rested my head back against the door.
“No!” she said, this time with her full voice.
“Spiffero!” She physically moved my head back upright and pointed to the tiny crevices on the hinge of the door. I looked for bugs, cigarettes, terrorists...anything that could be the spiffero! It suddenly dawned on me that she was trying to protect me from the drafts of air coming from outside the cabin. I looked down to see that she had sealed off the bottom of the door with plastic grocery bags and the sorelle had covered the vent directly below the window with a long towel.
The only reason this made sense to me was because my grandmother lived in mortal fear of drafts of air her entire life. She blamed the hearing loss of her old-age on a draft that sneaked through a window she was cleaning and entered her ear canal. She even had a sound effect for it. If anyone ever complained of a cold, a stomach ache, or back pain, Nana would immediately ask if they had sat in a draft. Other causes of such maladies could be sleeping near an open window, going out with your hair wet, or a cold drink with too much ice.
Shocked by the realization that my grandmother was not nuts, just Italian, I felt grateful to the sisters and let them protect me from the threatening spiffero. Encouraged by my submission, they carried on. Sorellina pointed to my feet. “I piedi,” was all she said as her sister got to work. Sorrella grabbed the coarse train blanket from the rack above us and set to covering my lower half. I reached down to pull off my sneakers before they collectively erupted with a mighty, “BASTA!”
Trying to figure out where I had erred this time, I recalled that I had never seen Nana’s bare feet in my entire life. (My mother has no recollection of seeing them either.) I tried to pass off my foolishness as an attempt to scratch my heel. Sorella, following the instructions of Sorellina wrapped my lower half tighter than Tutenkhamen before feeling satisfied that I was no longer in danger. Now that I was tucked in, I could finally doze off for the last two hours of the ride. But I found that I couldn’t because I was acutely aware of the lack of air in the train cabin.
I have relayed this story to many of my Italian friends and acquaintances ranging in age from 18 to 80, and have found that a fear of catching a draft is the one consistent factor binding Italians throughout Italy and spanning generations. If you don’t believe me, the next time you’re in Italy, note how many times you will have a drink served to you with ice in it. Not many. Beware the spiffero.
About the Author:Danielle Oteri shares her experiences navigating Southern Italy with all of its linguistic and cultural quirks.
I was lucky enough to find a train compartment, made for six, that had just two other passengers—two women, probably in their seventies, who referred to each other as “Sorella” and “Sorellina.” We engaged in some minimal small talk—they were en route to Reggio Calabria—but fortunately, they seemed to have family business to discuss. When I am tired, all of my verbal skills go right out the window. Since they occupied the window area, I stretched out on the opposite side, put my feet up on the seat across from me and rested my head on the side of the cabin door. I had just begun to doze off when I was suddenly awoken by a sharp whisper directly in my right ear.
“Spiffero!”
I lifted my head to see Sorella’s face about two inches from mine. I pulled back, startled with weary confusion. I had no idea what she was talking about and being too tired to care if she was putting a curse on me, I mumbled, “Non ho capito, signora. Mi dispiace,” and rested my head back against the door.
“No!” she said, this time with her full voice.
“Spiffero!” She physically moved my head back upright and pointed to the tiny crevices on the hinge of the door. I looked for bugs, cigarettes, terrorists...anything that could be the spiffero! It suddenly dawned on me that she was trying to protect me from the drafts of air coming from outside the cabin. I looked down to see that she had sealed off the bottom of the door with plastic grocery bags and the sorelle had covered the vent directly below the window with a long towel.
The only reason this made sense to me was because my grandmother lived in mortal fear of drafts of air her entire life. She blamed the hearing loss of her old-age on a draft that sneaked through a window she was cleaning and entered her ear canal. She even had a sound effect for it. If anyone ever complained of a cold, a stomach ache, or back pain, Nana would immediately ask if they had sat in a draft. Other causes of such maladies could be sleeping near an open window, going out with your hair wet, or a cold drink with too much ice.
Shocked by the realization that my grandmother was not nuts, just Italian, I felt grateful to the sisters and let them protect me from the threatening spiffero. Encouraged by my submission, they carried on. Sorellina pointed to my feet. “I piedi,” was all she said as her sister got to work. Sorrella grabbed the coarse train blanket from the rack above us and set to covering my lower half. I reached down to pull off my sneakers before they collectively erupted with a mighty, “BASTA!”
Trying to figure out where I had erred this time, I recalled that I had never seen Nana’s bare feet in my entire life. (My mother has no recollection of seeing them either.) I tried to pass off my foolishness as an attempt to scratch my heel. Sorella, following the instructions of Sorellina wrapped my lower half tighter than Tutenkhamen before feeling satisfied that I was no longer in danger. Now that I was tucked in, I could finally doze off for the last two hours of the ride. But I found that I couldn’t because I was acutely aware of the lack of air in the train cabin.
I have relayed this story to many of my Italian friends and acquaintances ranging in age from 18 to 80, and have found that a fear of catching a draft is the one consistent factor binding Italians throughout Italy and spanning generations. If you don’t believe me, the next time you’re in Italy, note how many times you will have a drink served to you with ice in it. Not many. Beware the spiffero.
About the Author:Danielle Oteri shares her experiences navigating Southern Italy with all of its linguistic and cultural quirks.
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