On Thursday, I had the neatest historical experience of my St. Fozzie's tenure. Sandwiched by back-to-back meetings all day, I was able to slip out of the office for two hours on Thursday.A few months back, one of the secretaries, Alison, invited me to her former "homeland," for a tour. I had mentioned my love of history and she offered to show me around a small, old Italian area that is only a few miles from St. Fozzie's. It's called The Hill. The Hill used to be a hotbed of mob activity and while they've since moved on, the mafia ghosts shimmer alongside the houses in the broken-down neighborhood.
In the 50's and 60's, it was a place of beautiful, well-kept homes with kids playing in the streets. I have a strange gift that oftentimes, I can "see" the way things used to be as I tour through areas that have since been tarnished of their former glory. So I was excited to tour The Hill.
In the 50's and 60's, it was a place of beautiful, well-kept homes with kids playing in the streets. I have a strange gift that oftentimes, I can "see" the way things used to be as I tour through areas that have since been tarnished of their former glory. So I was excited to tour The Hill.
Al picked me up and while driving slowly through the cobblestone streets, explained how things used to look and where her 18 or so aunts and uncles used to live. I saw the old Italian church, visited the steel mill that paid everyone's mortgages, and learned about Chicagoan Italians' preferred methods of sausage-making, ham-curing, and wine-making.
After the tour, Al took me to a hole-in-the-wall Italian bar that was rumored to serve the best homemade Italian pasta (next to Al herself, who makes homemade pasta...in fact, I just purchased 3 pounds of the homemade pasta for Jack!). The place was scary and smoky and you could just hear the racketeering of years past! Pictures from as early as 1903 lined the walls and I saw The Hill's history unfold before me.
For lunch, I had homemade gnocchi, which were heavenly dumplings that melted in my mouth. While I felt out of place in my black suit and heels, the food transported me to a tiny village in southern Italy. Then the cook herself (a 90+ year-old Italian woman!) came out to greet us and make sure the gnocchi were perfect. Al spoke to the cook in fluent Italian and I just shrugged my shoulders, able to only pick out the word "Gratzie!"
After the lunch, Al took me to her folks' house, as they still live in the area. Typical of all Italian immigrants, their house was decorated with pictures of their huge family, the Blessed Mother, and Saint Rocco (who was French but Italians identify with him!). Al's mom insisted I try some of their homemade wine (stored in barrels in the cool, damp basement) and take some Italian sweet bread home for later. I sipped a small thimble of wine while Al's mom was talking a mile a minute in Italian. I asked Al to please translate...Apparently, I look just like one of Al's third cousins and I must be related to the family. Therefore, I must come visit during the family's annual celebration this summer.
After the tour, Al took me to a hole-in-the-wall Italian bar that was rumored to serve the best homemade Italian pasta (next to Al herself, who makes homemade pasta...in fact, I just purchased 3 pounds of the homemade pasta for Jack!). The place was scary and smoky and you could just hear the racketeering of years past! Pictures from as early as 1903 lined the walls and I saw The Hill's history unfold before me.
For lunch, I had homemade gnocchi, which were heavenly dumplings that melted in my mouth. While I felt out of place in my black suit and heels, the food transported me to a tiny village in southern Italy. Then the cook herself (a 90+ year-old Italian woman!) came out to greet us and make sure the gnocchi were perfect. Al spoke to the cook in fluent Italian and I just shrugged my shoulders, able to only pick out the word "Gratzie!"
After the lunch, Al took me to her folks' house, as they still live in the area. Typical of all Italian immigrants, their house was decorated with pictures of their huge family, the Blessed Mother, and Saint Rocco (who was French but Italians identify with him!). Al's mom insisted I try some of their homemade wine (stored in barrels in the cool, damp basement) and take some Italian sweet bread home for later. I sipped a small thimble of wine while Al's mom was talking a mile a minute in Italian. I asked Al to please translate...Apparently, I look just like one of Al's third cousins and I must be related to the family. Therefore, I must come visit during the family's annual celebration this summer.
I have to admit...the Italian hospitality reminded me of the Polish hospitality with which I am familiar!
It was a tremendous experience and I better understand and appreciate the diversity of the patients served by St. Fozzie's. And I'm pretty sure that was the first time I've ever had any alcoholic beverage during work hours!
It was a tremendous experience and I better understand and appreciate the diversity of the patients served by St. Fozzie's. And I'm pretty sure that was the first time I've ever had any alcoholic beverage during work hours!
What a great story! Beautifully told...I could picture everything you described!
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