Imagine a nation of people who have worked for centuries at perfecting pleasure.  A nation that has worked long and hard at enjoying the simpler and beautiful aspects of human life; like the subtle joy of the company of close friends and family, almost celebrating each gathering as if it may be their last. These people cultivate the arts like a necessary science of the heart, yet have also produced some of the world’s finest scientific minds.  Their culture treats each meal as it should be; the nourishment needed to fuel a productive life.  Their families are typically warm and inviting, no matter if you’ve known them for twenty years or twenty minutes, you feel like you’ve known them you’re entire life.

To me, this is what it means to be Italian.

But this was not always the case.

Growing up, even until my late teens the idea of being Italian was fairly one dimensional, either you were one, or you were a “Caker”.  You ate spaghetti carbonara or you ate kraft dinner, there really wasn’t much middle ground.But no matter where I went I always took my proud heritage with me, a source of self-esteem with really no reason for it.   At the time, sadly, the main thing I identified with being Italian was the mafia.  It seemed to be the subject of every movie, or movie legacy at the time; Goodfellas, The Godfather, Casino, the Untouchables, Donnie Brasco, and the list goes on and on.  Truth be told, I don’t particularly even care for these movies. I enjoy the Godfather because its a quality film, but the subject matter I could do without.  I remember always thinking to myself, is this what I’m supposed to be proud of? Is this what it means to be Italian? We’re just a group of menacing, uneducated bullies, who eat too much, disrespect women, and live a life of ignorance and crime? I used to compare these films to my family, who don’t fit that stereotype, and found it frustrating to always be associated with the Corleone’s of the world. Not to mention that my peers at the time were acting out their mafia dreams at any time possible.  The words, “Do you know who I am?” were certainly not a stranger to my high school hallways.

Thankfully, I went away to university, to expand my horizons and meet new people.  The first Jewish person I ever met  in my life (a great guy named Abe) lived on my residence floor, during my first year of University. I remember thinking it was sooo cool that I now lived with a Jewish guy, like he was a celebrity. Unfortunately, as it turns out, it was Abe that reminded me of my heritage’s image problems later that same year.

With 20+ students gathered in the common lounge, someone decided to put in Goodfellas (“this is a classic”), as I feigned enthusiasm. Not twenty minutes into the film does Abe declare to the crowd, “So Mike, this must be like watching family movies for you eh?”.  Ironically , I successfully furthered the stereotype I was against by tearing a verbal strip off of him as if he had called my mother a hooker. I didn’t know I had that sort of anger readily available, but it was too much of a reminder of everything I wanted to leave behind at the time.  Looking back, I think I was getting sick of being Italian.

It was not until a family trip to Italy as a teenager that I began to understand that many Italians were like me, and despised the mafia. They believed the growth of Italy and its ability to succeed as a nation was always curtailed, if not completed subdued because of the mafia.  I learned that many honest and hard-working Italians see the mafia as a black mark on their nation’s beautiful and celebrated history.  The nation’s lowest common denominator standing up tall for the world to see (this must be how American Democrats felt for the past 8 past eight years).

The revenue generated by the Italian mafia accounts for $204 BILLION, sadly, making it Italy’s top business. To see a recent article on the matter, click HERE.  Not surprisingly, the loudest opponents I have ever heard on the mafia were two residents of Campania and Sicily, the regions that are home to the largest crime syndicates in the country.  The gentleman from Agrigento, Sicily was a city councilor and the gentleman from Campania owned a small business.  Both of them had similar views in that the mafia, especially in the south, castrated local economies from growing and were effectively “killing” the south.  As the mob takes money from small and medium sized local businesses, they do not have the capital to expand, and therefore halting free market progress.  The effects of this is that the Italian government (who I believe to an extent are likely involved) is forced to take taxes from northern Italy (which is highly industrialized) to subsidize the lack of funding and revenue in the south. As you can imagine this has caused quite the rift between the two halves of the country each resenting the other.  This was hardly the type of legacy I wanted to be associated with.

It was not until I traveled to Europe to visit our family at the age of 20 that I discovered the means to appreciate the lineage that ran through my veins. More specifically, it was on the steps of Venice and Florence in particular that humbled me both to the history of the world and that of Italia, bella Italia.

I still recall the first time I sat in the first row pew at St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice.  It had nothing to do with religion, god, or the unnecessary chanting going on at the time, but with the power of history.  For some reason, it hit me like a giant bowl of ravioli in the face, I was now sitting in a building that was built nearly a thousand years ago.  It had been shelter and home to some of the most powerful and influential men in the world, and here I was a twenty year old “boy” on a trip with his cousins, still trying to figure out life. It was humbling. It was beautiful.  It was on this trip that my cousins, Mauro and Alessandro’s English skills progressed to the levels that, combined with my shaky Italian allowed us to forge real conversations.

I learned more about my own family, my heritage, and the world in which they lived.  Local and national customs were fully explained to me, and the mask of the country I had come to believe corrupt and poisoned began to reveal its true self.

The next stop on this trip, Mauro and Alessandro decided it was time for me to experience Firenze (Florence’s true Italian name).  If Venice hit me like a bowl of ravioli, Firenze was like an opera singer sitting on my head.

All the names I had read about in Italian school and seen on the History channel were suddenly coming to life.  As if the Medici Family had lined the Uffizi Gallery to welcome me to their home town.  Yet it was not until I stepped inside the church of Santa Croce that a rush of history consumed me.  This church is filled with the elaborate tombstones of some of the greatest minds in world history, Dante (the grandfather of the Italian language), Galileo, Michelangelo, Marconi, Machiavelli, and many more.

Our final tourist stop in Firenze before returning home was to climb the 643 steps to the top of the Duomo, the city’s basilica.  It was a grueling climb, but worth every second when we reached the top.  I still remember making a seat for myself in between the standing tourists, sitting cross-legged, leaning forwards against the safety fence looking over the entire red roofed city and into the Tuscan country side.  I sat there mesmerized for over half an hour, taking it all in.

I have been very fortunate to have visited the country a number of times since that trip, mainly to visit my grandmother (nonna), and once to tour southern Italy, which is equally as beautiful as the north yet in a completely different dynamic.  Picture the difference between New York City and the Grand Canyon, both majestic and awe-inspiring, but in two distinct ways.

My grandmother Antonia who lived in Italy passed away a few months ago, and I guess I never realized the impact she had on me until I began writing this post.  She was an amazing woman, who at 90+ years of age still chatted with her friends on her cell phone, gave you a good smack if you needed it, and spoke with the force of Tony Robbins and the compassion of Oprah (except intelligent).  It was my nonna who was the glue that kept the family so close together for so long.  It was at her house as a child that I received my first Spiderman doll for my 4th birthday, and began a bond with my cousins that I still consider extremely important.

So in essence I believe it was my nonna, and every part of her that has instilled in me the love and appreciation that I have for Italy.  The tough as nails matriarch that would scold me for  my crazy behaviour with one hand, yet soften the blow with the other.  Always a kiss and a hug, and the perfect panino (sandwich) tucked away just waiting for Michele.  I think the Italia I have now come to know and love, is the Italia my Nonna Inez loved and its beauty largely reflects everything she stood for.  It was the significance I had been looking for in my heritage when at the time all I was told to think in North America was, “fughed aboud it!”.

That’s why I look so forward to returning this summer to witness my cousin Mauro’s marriage to his beautiful fiance Claudia. After my trip when I was twenty, no matter how many times I return, my heart seems to beat a little different while I am there.  It beats with the understanding of where I came from, who I am, and what it truly means to be Italian.

In April of 2008 I published an article that started quite the conversation on Perfectly Turbulent and at times follows me outside the blogosphere.

The “When Harry Met Sally Debate”, essentially my view (and that of Billy Crystal’s) that men and women cannot ever be close friends, they just can’t. Good acquaintances, sure, share a cab, absolutely, but close friends, sorry, no dice.  Some way, some how, either party cannot leave good enough alone and someone throws down either the sex card, or the mother of all cards, the loooove card…el trump card.

I was lucky enough to meet a wonderful girl several months ago, Estero, and though we are tragically similar, our major point of contention is that my Harry/Sally theory is dead wrong.

Blasphemous.

We’ve had a number of discussions on this topic and I always admire her confidence and well thought out points when we debated back and forth, using her bestest of best friends, Dave, as her prime and seemingly unflapable example.  Now I must admit, Dave seemed like a contender to shatter my theory, but as I’ve learned in the past, all I need to prove my point is time.

I asked Estero to write a guest post on the topic chronicling her experience and she was gracious enough to do so.  Below is the story of Estero (Sally), and her history with Harrys.

Thanks Estero.

Hey Harry…Sally hates you

by Estero

We met in junior kindergarten, and he had my phone number memorized before I did. We played shoe shopping in my bedroom before school, and he showed me his and I admittedly showed him mine in my parent’s stale, dark garage, which was laced with the smell of fresh cut grass. His name was Robert Allan – my first male best friend. This was the first of a long line of men who I would love like a best friend, a brother even, and who would also love me.

I chose my side and argued to the death. Men and women can absolutely be platonic friends – no question!  I had never really been able to connect with women as much as I could with men. I found women friends to be too catty and jealous. Men were easy going and less dramatic, and I also felt they were usually as driven and as independent as I, therefore we had much more in common. Men and women could be grand friends without the prodding of sexual tension and awkwardness. Any sexual inclination I had ever felt for a male friend  had always vanished with the flourishing of the  friendship – two specific friendships come to mind.

Wayne and I had been close friends for over seven years. We did almost everything together until I moved to Washington DC to complete my second degree. This is also when I met my long-term boyfriend. Wayne had coached me through difficult times, helped me pick out clothing, as he was quite the fashion guru much like myself, and was the person whom I had the most provocative, thought provoking conversations with. We wrote together, laughed together and did a lot of things that my boyfriends hadn’t been interested in, like going to the Opera. I deeply loved Wayne like a brother and couldn’t imagine my life without him. I had even decided that Wayne was to be my “Man of Honour”, as my long-term boyfriend had proposed to me. Shortly after, Wayne finally got to meet my fiance and this is when I began having a difficult time getting a hold of my dear friend. I would call and e-mail, but he was no where to be found. After a few weeks of this, I finally got a clue and realized that he was no longer interested in being my friend. It was a complete shock and quite puzzling to say the least, as I was unable to come up with a reason myself. It wasn’t until nearly eight months of silence Wayne finally spoke to me and confessed  that seeing me with Gary had nearly killed him, and that he couldn’t continue our friendship any longer.  Why had I not seen this before? I had been completely clueless that Wayne harbored any feelings other than friendship for me.

Then came Dave. I met Dave in DC as a married woman. He and I connected instantly, and I have never been able to laugh with someone like I do with him. I have since left DC and moved to Toronto a single woman, so we have been divided by many miles for the last little while.  A few days ago, Dave confessed his love for me and even proposed that I move back to DC and live with him in his newly purchased home.  Though I don’t know what will become of the friendship Dave and I once had, I do know that I can never look at him in the same way he looks at me.

There was also Jamie, Bryan, Adam and Miguel. All strong friendships that have either ended for the same reason, or are threatened by sexually charged tension that I know now is alive and well on their end. Miguel and I have had a long distance friendship for years – first when I was in living in DC and once again after I moved back to Toronto, as Miguel, ironically enough, moved to DC.  He has been quite frank with me when telling me the only way he can have a platonic friendship with a woman is if she is unattractive, or overweight. He has also told me that the only way he and I continue our friendship is because he doesn’t  live anywhere near me.

I have a disgusting ability to walk away from people once I’ve decided to do so.  I have done this many times with girlfriends  and men that I have either dated, or entered into relationships with. I have never been able to exercise this ability with my close male friends. Losing them, as I have lost so many, has been completely annihilating for me each time – an old wound unstitched by their desire.  Ridding myself of the fragments of their companionship that embedded themselves into my DNA has been arduous each time.  But each and every time I enter into a new friendship with a man, I fail to see the ending to an inevitable story.

In likeness to Sally in When Harry Met Sally , I once truly believed in platonic friendships. I have always been maddened by Harry’s (and many other men I know) suggestion that sex and the intention of a possible relationship will always get in the way. In my naiveté , I regarded it not as a sweet love story but a dejected sardonic statement on the infeasibility of real, non-sexual friendships between men and women.

Now that I have been ultimately wizened by my most recent events,  I have finally come around. The veil of illusion has been  snatched and I can clearly see the underlying notion that sex in a male/female friendship is somehow always present.  I have had too many male friendships that ended over the clouded and sexually charged struggle between friendship and relationship to be able to deny this anymore. And though I have always felt that each close male friendship I had was true, I know the reality is that they thought differently. They tell the story differently.

I have also come to a more internal realization that I am not without fault. My appetite, in most recent years, for a close male friend is loosely based on the fact that I haven’t wanted an exclusive relationship for some time. With a friend, I get a level of male intimacy without the overbearing weight of a “relationship” in its true sense.  Other intimacies are satisfied by the lovely men I enter into relationships with, but the possibility of exclusivity is never an option for me, god forbid!

In life, I believe that we get certain things from many people, things that cannot always be provided by a partner. And even though I still believe this, I supposed it wouldn’t be so bad to attempt to look for all that you can out of a partner, perhaps even an exclusive partner,  and find what is missing from a girlfriend.  This doesn’t mean I’m looking for exclusivity, but it does mean that I am willing to be more open to the idea, and not go running like hell when a man I’m dating  asks me to meet his family.  I always thought that when I found that person I liked enough for me to want those things with, it would all fall into place. It seems as though a little effort on my part needs to be exercised in order to even see that person.

A New Year’s resolution in the works.

When I started to realize what was happening I desperately fought my emotions back and tried to convince myself that what I was feeling wasn’t real, that it could never be, but love doesn’t listen to reason.  Sometimes you have to except that no matter how right it feels, it can never be.

I first noticed her a couple years ago on a run of the mill Saturday Night, I thought she was cute and quite engaging but never really thought much of it.  She’s always been very unassuming, yet there was always something about her, a quite confidence that’s exudes from every word from her lips.

She’s bookishly stunning -which is secretly my kryptonite- and appears to have a small facial blemish that gives her a vulnerability I can’t help but be drawn to.  Her quick wit and biting humour has pulled me closer and closer, though it would surprise me if she knows I exist.  In the past few months, she’s sent my heart reeling into submission, its like I can’t get away from her.  I seem to see her everywhere, magazines, the internet, television, and in my dreams… it was as if some higher power wanted us to be together.

When I found out she was not only married, but happily married and devotedly faithful I was devastated, beside myself with grief.  It takes a big man to be able to let the love of your life go, and admittedly I am not that man, not yet. Its much too early and the pain runs far too deep. Each time I see her face and hear her voice, though she continues to make me laugh like a 7 year old school girl at a slumber party, I cannot help but think what could have been. Another lifetime. Another world.

I leave my love on this blog for her to hopefully find one day, at the hopes of some sort of connection no matter how fleeting.

So here, in the open air of the internet I shout from my cyber rooftop, I love you Ms….

Tina Fey

The fact that we were not close friends I think is what grabbed me most significantly.  I began to realize how connected each one of us are.  No matter if you’ve known someone for 20 years or 20 minutes a connection is made and you may have influenced the rest of their life.  I believe we take for granted not only those that we consider our friends and loved ones, but also those people from our past that have somewhat added to our lives.

I hope you enjoy this blast from my literary past.

Sometimes its thousands of thoughts lost within thousands of moments, and sometimes its just one moment lost in a thousand thoughts.

No mattter what the cause for this sort of irregular thinking may be, the outcome will always make you a wiser person. Perhaps the passing of a yet another birthday, the appearance of that first grey hair, or today, in my case, the sight of an old warm friend in that cold dark casket.

I think a lot of us have stopped realizing how affected we are by each and every individual that has somehow crossed our paths throughout the many steps we have taken. And no matter how little of an affect each person has on your life, they have made you the person you are today.

Life is not to be lived cautiously, it is not to be lived listening to the “Ya, buts” or the “What ifs” that may stand before our most important decisions…it is to be lived with the thought that tomorrow may NEVER come. That today IS the first day of the rest of our life, and that EVERY moment should be seized with the passion of a lifetime.This does not mean for everyone to grab the first plane to the nearest tropical island, or drop out of school to pursue that lifelong dream of becoming a street mime.

It just means to ALWAYS keep your dreams in front of you…right beside that smile.Because things COULD be worse, life isn’t about always being in a good mood, its about just being here. When I think about the alternative, that’s more than enough to make my day.

And don’t take your friends for granted. I’m not just talking about those you see from day to day, but those you saw a month ago, a year ago or even 10 years ago. They haven’t forgot about you, just as you haven’t forgotten about them. And for those you see everyday, there is a point where these people go from being your friends, to becoming part of your family, and that is something to be cherished everyday.

Sure its tragic when such a carefree soul that brought joy to so many people passes from one world to the next, but how much worse is it that it takes such an unspeakable event to bring people together.

Our life is a chain of events, a chain of ideas, and most importantly, a chain of personal encounters and relationships. People that have made you laugh, made you cry, and made you wish you could turn back time.

In any event, I would just like to thank all of you for being in my life, wherever your place IS, WAS, or WILL BE. Without each one of you, there would be no chain of life, just a lot of lonely, meaningless pieces.

Send this to whoever you can, the message will be different everytime. -Michael Cecchin Wednesday, May 24th, 2003

In memory of:

Thomas “Tommy” William Hamilton

Rest In Peace July 3, 1979- May 24, 2003 You were loved by many, and you will be missed by more!