The Dance

 Saying goodbye is one of the most natural things in the world, isn’t it? It is universal, something common to every culture. We all say goodbye in the same way, don’t we?

In Britain a goodbye usually goes something like this:

‘Bye!’

‘Bye!’

At this point the participants go their separate ways.                                                                        

In Italy however, saying goodbye is a little bit more complicated. When you say goodbye you are inviting someone to a dance. At first, I didn’t know how to do this dance. I didn’t know the moves. I had to learn that the first ‘Bye’ is not the real goodbye at all. It is merely the beginning of a complex and sophisticated dance routine. Now I know this dance, and I happily join in. But at the beginning, I was a hopeless and confused beginner.

When a Goodbye is not a Goodbye.

This is what usually happens in Italy.

‘Bye!’

‘Bye!’

The group then shuffles two or three metres towards the door. Then someone says:

‘Did you hear about my neighbour?’

‘No what happened?’

‘He had a fall last Sunday, now he’s in hospital. I don’t know how his wife is coping.’

A conversation that lasts from ten to thirty minutes follows. The group then shuffle another two metres towards the door. Then someone says:

‘Oh, I forgot, you have to give me that recipe for apple crumble.’ The conversation turns fruity:

‘Here it is!’

‘What apples should I use?’

‘Any apple will do, but I prefer Granny Smiths’

‘Granny Smith’s? Where can I get them?’

‘Well, there is a new supermarket on Corso Cavour that has them, have you been there?’

‘No, but a new supermarket seems to spring up every week these days.’

‘You’re right. I don’t know how they survive………

Then there are a series of smaller shuffles, as the door gets nearer. The dance routine gets more and more complex. Shuffle-Stop-Talk-Talk-Shuffle-Talk-Stop-Shuffle-Stop-Talk, until finally, two hours after the first ‘bye’, we arrive at the penultimate goodbye.

The door is open. It is minus five degrees outside. But someone, for some reason, thinks that now is the perfect time to speak about her mothers’ ‘cervicale.’

When this gets sorted out, and doctors’ names are exchanged, there is the last goodbye.

I personally like this dance now. The message behind the dance is, ‘I don’t really want you to go.’ It is a wonderful dance. It reflects the original meaning of the word goodbye. God-Be-With-You. It is a dance of friendship.

But sometimes I wonder. Wouldn’t it be more efficient if we all said goodbye at the beginning of the evening? Then we could spend the whole evening doing this dance and saying goodbye in this wonderful way.

The Green Book Part 1

When I was a child I loved reading. In fact, I loved everything about books. I still do. I like picking up a new book. It has a wonderful smell. When you finish reading it, you put it away on the shelf. But it doesn’t stay there long. Soon you want to read the story again. The next time you read the book though, it doesn’t just tell you one story. It tell you two stories, because it reminds you of the time you last read it. You remember how you were feeling and what you were doing at that time. It tells you your own story. It brings everything back. It’s magical. A book is like an old friend. My favourite book at that time was ‘The Railway Children.’ I don’t know how many times I read it.

Now I’m no longer a child, but I take The Railway Children off the shelf again, after so many years. I open it and the book begins to tell me another story. A story that takes me back to when I was twelve years old. This story starts in the living room of my house in London, and I am speaking to my father.

‘Dad, can I ask you something?’ I said one day. Dad put down his newspaper. He had his angry face. He didn’t like being interrupted.

‘What Michael?’

‘Have you ever read a book?’ I asked.

‘Yes I read one once.’

This was interesting. ‘Really! What book was it? What was it like?’

‘I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.’

‘Don’t you remember anything?’ I insisted.

‘Well, it was green.’

‘What do you mean green? Was it about animals and plants, and things like that?’

‘No, the colour of the book, the cover, it was green,’ he said. And after saying this he went back to his newspaper.

Now this was a mystery. Dad had read a book. I had never seen him with a book. What book could it be?

‘Dad is always so silent,’ I thought. ‘Since mum left he never seems to enjoy anything.’ Dad and I did many things together. We cooked, we cleaned the house and we went shopping. And we had learnt a lot of things:

Things we learnt:

1 If you leave your clothes on the floor they stay there.

2 Toilet roll and toothpaste don’t buy themselves.

3 Chips for dinner every day sounds good. But it isn’t.

4 If you don’t open the window sometimes, the house smells like the dog.

5 Cups and plates have to be washed if you want to use them again.

Yes, we did a lot of things together. But one thing we never seemed to do was talk. Talk about real things. Important things. He seemed far away when I was with him. He just sat in the living room, watching TV. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. Whenever I tried to speak to him I could see that it made him angry.

The next day I tried to get some more information. ‘Dad, can you remember anything about that book?’

‘No son I can’t. Can’t you see I’m trying to rest after a hard day’s work? Look, I didn’t even finish reading it.’

Dad was so sad. But I was sad too. I missed Mum just as much as him. The house was so quiet. The only sound you could hear was the television. It was on even when nobody was watching it.