"Vicenza? Where's Vicenza?" That's what I asked the man on
the train as I was heading back to London with my eurail
pass about to expire. I was on my way up from Pistoia, a
little town just north of Florence where I had spent the
weekend and fallen in love. After traveling around Europe
all summer I finally made my way down to Italy, not
knowing what to expect. But one thing was certain, the
Italians I had met during the course of my travels had
touched me in a way nobody else had, except for perhaps
the Spanish.
 Coming
from America and fresh out of college I was a babe in the
woods, in search of something that could give meaning to
my life. I needed a fresh start, and Vicenza was as good a
place as any. "Vicenza's got a NATO base, you could find a
job and stay" he told me. I had been playing the guitar I
brought along with me from back in New Jersey, writing a
song about the girl I had fallen in love with. Everyone
came over to where I was softly singing and just stared at
me in wonder. As strange as I may have seemed to them,
with my long hair and guitar, equally strange were they to
me. In America people would have turned away, pretending
not to notice. But Italy in 1980 was far different from
where I had grown up, and people were genuinely curious
and wanted to share my story.
 Immediately
they began asking me questions about myself, trying to
size me up and understand what drove me to the point of
tears rolling down on my face while I sang. "I'd love to
stay here in Italy" I told them, "but I don't have any
money left, my eurail pass is going to expire the day
after tomorrow and I've got to go back to London to catch
my flight home." I was resigned to the fact that I would
have to go back to the U.S. and start a 'normal' life.
"Listen" said the man, "I'll put you up in a hotel
tonight, and tomorrow you can go into the army base here
in Vicenza - Caserma Ederle, and look for a job. If you
don't find anything you still have time to get back to
London for your flight. If you really want to stay here
and start all over you can do it!" Wow! I had lived in New
Jersey for 22 years and nobody had ever offered to help me
out like that. My first thoughts were why someone would be
so kind and want to help me out, I was a total stranger.
What I really wanted to know was what made people so
generous and trusting, and how could I ever become so?
This was an opportunity that was staring me right in the
face, and I knew if I turned it down I would regret it
forever.
 I
took him up on it, not knowing how to thank him, and vowed
to one day find out what makes people want to give the way
this man had. Italy in 1980 was still a relatively poor
country, and hadn't been overwhelmed with all the
immigrants it now has. It seems like everyone wants to
come to Italy, and I know why. In spite of all the changes
I've seen over the last 30 years, Italy is still a
genuinely simple, happy place to live. Italians are
spontaneous, fun loving people with a deep sense of
family. It's part of their culture to want to help people
and take care of them, just as if they were family. This
was something I needed, and Italy was the right place to
start afresh.
 One
of the first experiences I had was picking grapes that
September, or perhaps I should say eating grapes! Not
having found work inside the army base I promised myself I
would make it somehow, not wanting to let down the man who
had so graciously helped me out earlier. After running
thru the many addresses I had collected while traveling, I
came across one that was from someone who I had met back
in London at a place referred to as "tent city" in East
Acton. Francesco was from Vicenza, so I contacted him to
say hello, hoping of course he might be able to help me
out too.
 Interestingly
enough, I was hesitant to contact people and ask them for
help, thinking they would feel uncomfortable. But what I
later realized was that Italians actually want to help,
and while they do have their limits, they genuinely give
as much as they can. I can't recall all the people who
invited me over for lunch or offered me a warmer shirt as
the weather changed, but these people took me in and
wanted to make sure I was ok. Francesco told me he had a
place where I could sleep, a sort of outdoor work yard
with a roof overhead and running water. It was far
different from staying in a hotel, but my sleeping bag
would be warm enough for the next month and a half, and I
could look for something in the meantime. I took him up on
his offer, grateful again that such generosity had
befallen me.
 The
next few weeks were a turning point for me, as I made many
friendships and got to know Vicenza better. Francesco also
dug up an old bike he had and lent it to me. Vicenza was
easy enough to get around on foot, but the bike made
things even easier. I was all set. I had a place to stay,
wheels, and money coming in for a few weeks. The day I
began picking grapes I made friends with 2 young men from
Vicenza who were more than happy to practice their English
with me. They told me they'd come by and pick me up the
next day so I wouldn't need to take the bus. Again I
wondered what it was that drove people to want to give so
much. What happened the next morning was something that
best reflects what people were like in Vicenza back in
1980.
 I
had woken up early, about 6:00 am. After washing my face
from the hose and playing with the dogs in the work yard
(they had become family too), I walked to the condominium
where we had scheduled our rendezvous, waiting for my new
friends to come and pick me up. It was a chilly morning,
and as I blew into my cupped hands to warm them up a
window opened on the 2nd floor above me. "Ma cosa fai
laggiù?" said a voice from the window. Not understanding
much Italian I tried to explain that I was waiting for my
friends, and apologized. "Scusi, I'm uh...waiting for
friends...AMIGOS" (what little spanish I had retained from
high school came out). I got up, thinking I had better
move away and started walking around a bit. A few minutes
later a woman came down the steps with a hot cup of coffee
and offered it to me. "Mettilo qui quando finisci" she
said, showing me where to put it after I finished.
Needless to say I was stunned, this had never happened to
me back in New Jersey! Yes, Italy was definately the place
for me, I knew then that this would become my home.
 Vicenza
in 1980 was a small town, with family run shops every few
meters. There were milk shops, bike repair shops, fruit
and vegetable shops, delicatessens, basically everything
you could imagine within easy walking distance no matter
where you were. What amazed me most and still holds true
today was that everybody knew everybody, even the new kid
on the block. There were times when pockets ran empty yet
it seemed everyone was ready to feed me and come to my
rescue should I really be in dire straights. The woman who
ran the bar just around the corner from the work yard
where I slept went thru the morning paper everyday with me
looking for potential job opportunities and never charged
me for the cappuccino. My Italian wasn't very good, but we
managed to communicate somehow, often with simple hand
gestures.
 In
late September I had the good fortune to meet with a
family who would become my 'Mama' and 'Papa' here in
Vicenza. Francesco introduced me to a high school friend
of his named Antonio, who quickly deduced I was in need of
a good meal. "You come to my home, we eat" he said,
"doctor's orders". Antonio's father was a doctor, and he
(Antonio) was an only child. If truth be told, I had eaten
many a good meal since my arrival in Italy, but never had
I eaten as well as I did that day at Antonio's house. Mama
and Papa took me in without question, and everyone watched
in delight as I ate everything put in front of me. "Mangia
mangia che ti fa bene!" Mama said as Antonio translated
for me "eat eat, it is good for you". After lunch Antonio
pulled out his guitar and we shared a few songs together.
This was a family in need of another son, and I was in
need of a family.
 I
felt a little strange calling them by their first names,
so I asked "Do you mind if I call you Mama and Papa?".
From that day on they were my family here, Mama telling me
to come and eat every day if I wanted to. She even
provided me with a towel and told me to come over and take
a shower anytime I wanted to. Although there was runnng
water in the work yard where I was staying, it was a bit
complicated to wash. The place was muddy after it rained
and the dogs were always eager to put their paws on me
whenever I returned. I was just as happy to let them do so
as they too had become 'family'. Papa took me aside one
day and put some money in my pocket, "you go out and have
a pizza tonight". This family gave because it made them
happy to give. Years later when I bought the first
apartment it was Papa who offered to loan me the remaining
money (no small sum) I needed to close the deal. "Papa" I
said, "I have no words to thank you". "It's ok" he said as
Mama stood next to him and smiled, "we want you to have a
'home'." What followed was a total surprise to me. I
couldn't thank them enough for their complete trust in me,
and told them that they would be the first people I paid
back once I managed to save the money. "No" he said, "this
is our gift to you".
 Vicenza
has changed in many ways thru the years, but the heart and
soul of the people have remained the same. There are now
big shopping malls around town rather than small little
shops every few meters. Everyone has a car now where once
there were many more bicycles on the road. The economy
grew in the 80s and 90s and Vicenza has changed from a
relatively unknown quiet town into an important center for
gold (there is an international gold fair held here 3
times a year). And while the town has increased in
population, it's still retains that "small town" feel to
it. You can easily walk around town and often run into
people you meet. Yet in spite of its growth there is and
will most likely always be a small town feel to it. People
seem to appreciate the simple pleasures like having a cup
of coffee together when you run into an old friend. The
concept of 'time' is still very Latin, and people are
never too busy to stop for a moment and chat. After
growing up in a society where you have to program every
appointment I particularly enjoy the spontaneous moments
and chance encounters that small town Italy offers.
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