In Terelle Tradition

by Dan Drumm (Ireland)

Making a local connection Italy

“A boy?” Benito did not attempt to mask his horror. The friend his daughter had invited to stay was a boy. Maria seemingly forgot to mention this. He’d met me years prior, when he was in Ireland, visiting Maria. But that didn’t seem to matter now. I arrived in Italy, after a two-hour delay, as an unwanted surprise. The drive from Ciampino airport was sour. He spoke little. I couldn’t tell if he was a naturally introverted person, or if he was coming to grips with the boy sitting in the backseat. After two hours of sleepy silence, we arrived at the base of Terelle. A mountain village, we circled up dirt roads endlessly. As we climbed, the valley began to unfold beneath us in the moonlight. Benito dropped us to the house Maria and I would be staying in, stuffed into an alley in the middle of the sparse village. The next morning, Maria’s aunt, Claudia, came to collect us. In a barren car, lacking even seatbelts, she drove us up to Maria’s grandmother’s cottage. I would quickly become accustomed to the Italian driving philosophy - far more laissez-faire than may be considered safe. She stared at her nails as we drove. “They’re too pink.” She looked over the side of the seat. “Maria, baby, do you think they’re too pink? They were only twelve euros in Cassino. Would you believe it?” We soon arrived - Nona’s cottage was nestled on the side of a dirt road, surrounded by chain-link fencing. Chickens were cooped together in one section, swathes of crops in another. From the house, I could see Benito’s swooping back amongst the crops. He peered up through the foliage, and waved to us, before stooping back again. Nona, Maria’s grandmother, had already prepared lunch. Crispy slices of Italian loaf were laid out, topped with a rich and tangy bruschetta and drizzled in olive oil. Nona spoke hushed Italian to Benito. Despite my brief foray into Duolingo, I needed Maria to translate anything pertinent. The main concern was the fact that I was male. Again and again, I heard “suo ragazzo” - her boyfriend. Maria hastened to remind them that I was not her boyfriend. And that she did actually have a girlfriend. Maria was far more a product of her mother’s Irish upbringing than her father’s. She seemed more out of place in her own family home than even I did. She, the metropolitan teenager, had sprung from a family of rural farm owners in the Atina valley. She, the lesbian, the animal rights vegan, seemed so greatly at odds with her heritage. I began to understand why she was always dreading her return each summer, and why she had begged me to come with her this time. Soon after lunch, Claudia quickly discovered my penchant for an afternoon espresso and a wafer biscuit (or two.) “Are you gonna take him to the bar tonight?” She asked as she poured a small cup of black tar espresso. As one of the very few things to do in Terelle, visiting the bar was near the top of the list. As we had finished the topmost item last night - go for a walk - we had little better to do. After lunch, Benito took us home. He drove us through the valley that strung between Nona’s and the base of Terelle. He pointed at the various silhouettes of buildings hidden among the trees, telling tales of Terelle during World War One. Maria, having endured this history far too often, protested. I interjected, eager to hear more. This surprised Benito. He beamed with newfound pride and began to trace the imaginary paths of foot soldiers along the hills as he drove. Back in the house, I stood on the balcony, angling my phone for signal with one hand and smoking a cheap Italian cigarette with the other. The house was a dead zone for 4G, bar one tiny corner of the balcony. Maria was inside, trying on a third outfit. Í leaned against the balcony and watched. “Ready?” I asked. Gold hoops hung from her ears, and vibrant makeup painted her face. In Terelle, a village of 388 people, she still wanted to stand out.