Category Archives: Italian culture

Mimma Meets an Atheist

I have never been much of a housekeeper, nor cared to be. I grew up in times and places where many people (not just wealthy ones) had live-in servants. My parents both had jobs, and someone else was paid to take care of cleaning, cooking, gardening, etc. When we lived in the US during my Read More…

I have never been much of a housekeeper, nor cared to be. I grew up in times and places where many people (not just wealthy ones) had live-in servants. My parents both had jobs, and someone else was paid to take care of cleaning, cooking, gardening, etc.

When we lived in the US during my late childhood/early adolescence, I learned how to wash dishes and clean a home – tasks that I was perfectly happy to relinquish to someone else when we later moved back to Asia. In college, again, I did for myself, and as a young wife and mother while my husband was in graduate school and then became a university professor, I continued to do most of the household tasks, with “help” from him. Help which I tried, unsuccessfully but unceasingly, to reframe in his mind as “doing his share”.

A few years after we moved to Milan, my own career got busy and I began traveling for work. Enrico did the cooking, childcare, and some cleaning during the times I was out of town, but my struggle for housework equality continued to cause stress in our marriage.

Eventually I was earning enough that I could take the solution that seemed obvious to me: hire someone else to do the housework, someone whose hourly wage was less than either of us could earn in an hour (as a contractor for a US tech company during the dot com boom, I was also paid by the hour – highly).

We had a succession of Sri Lankan immigrants to clean our place in Milan. Perhaps it seemed absurd to hire in someone to clean a three-room apartment (one that I was in all day, too – I worked from home when not traveling), but we ended up with a cleaner home, and one less thing to argue about.

Then we moved to a much bigger apartment in Lecco. I wasn’t working as much around the time that we moved (not by my choice!), but I hoped to return to full-time work, and had no desire to increase the hours I spent on cleaning.

We asked colleagues of Enrico’s and other acquaintances in Lecco for leads on cleaning help. Immigrants were far fewer than in Milan, but there weren’t many Italians willing to clean other people’s houses, either. Eventually, someone introduced us to Mimma.

Mimma (short for Domenica) and her husband Domenico were part of the south-to-north migration that had taken place in Italy in the 1970s. With just elementary schooling, they moved from Sicily to Lecco, where he worked all his career in a paper mill, and she cleaned and ironed for a living. Their children grew up in the north, but, like all Italians, the family kept close ties to its roots, returning to visit the extended family in Sicily every summer.

By the time we met, Domenico had retired from decades of physically gruelling work, and Mimma also wanted to slow down: rather than cleaning houses, she wanted only to do ironing (which she considered relaxing!). But she agreed to do a deep clean of the new rented apartment we were moving into – it had stood vacant for some time and was grimy.

I helped out a bit with that, but, as Mimma was horrified to learn, I really don’t know much about cleaning.

“Didn’t your mother teach you how to clean a house?” she asked indignantly.

I explained that, when I was small, we had servants in Thailand, then I hadn’t lived with my mother anymore, then I was in India… so, no, I had not had much opportunity to learn cleaning techniques, not up to Mimma’s standards. I didn’t mind her telling me (and said so), but I was never likely to be an enthusiastic house cleaner. After that first big clean was done, I begged Mimma to help me find someone who could come in and clean once or twice a week. She agreed that, until such a person could be found, she would do it.

After a few weeks of this, Mimma came in one day and said, in tones of mingled affection and exasperation: “I can’t find anyone else, so I’ve decided that – only for you – I will clean as well as iron.”

I was flattered, and pleased. Mimma was a fantastic housekeeper, but I also enjoyed talking with her, and she with me.

Which may have been unusual in Mimma’s experience of employers in Lecco. Although the factories of northern Italy had needed the labor of the southern migrants back in the 70’s, the northerners never liked the southerners, calling them terroni (“people of the earth” – peasants). Mimma told me that some of her employers over the years had been downright rude. I treated her as an equal, with respect and friendship – because I liked her, and because that’s how I treat people. It would not occur to me to be condescending to someone who’s working for me.

So, Mimma came in twice a week to clean and iron, and each day when she was ready for a break from cleaning, we’d have coffee and chat. Over the years to come, she invited us to coffees and meals at her own spotlessly clean home (she is a fantastic cook), and she and Domenico joined us at family gatherings such as this one (you can see them in the video).

I was open with her as I am with most people, and she felt free to ask personal questions about my life, America, and other places I had lived in. Although we were profoundly different in character and experience, we shared values in being honest, kind, and caring, about working hard and doing good things.

But there was one difference between us that Mimma didn’t expect.

One day early in our relationship, as we sat in the kitchen over coffee, Mimma said casually: “You’re Protestant, right?” As opposed to Catholic. Italians have little experience or knowledge of the variety of non-Catholic Christianity.

“I was baptized Catholic, to please my grandmother, but I’m atheist,” I said simply.

Mimma looked stunned. Clearly, it had never occurred to her that a white, western person could be non-Christian, let alone a non-believer. She was briefly silent, then left the kitchen to get on with cleaning.

After a few minutes, she popped her head back in the door.

“So you don’t believe in God? Any god?”

“No. I never have.”

She disappeared again.

She came back.

“But if you’re invited to a christening or a wedding in a church, would you go?”

“Yes, of course. Those are happy occasions that I want to celebrate with my friends.”

“Oh, ok.” She left again.

I was wryly amused. I’m not sure Mimma herself was a regular churchgoer, but, like many Italians, she considered being Catholic a fundamental part of her identity. She knew that others might have other brands of religion – Italy was seeing enough immigration by then to have daily exposure to many cultures and belief systems – but being completely without a religion was harder for her to fathom.

She soon got over the shock, and I’m not sure we ever discussed it again one way or another, but I never will forget that look of revelation on her face. Yes, there are people in the world who don’t believe in any god at all – and we’re just fine.

Beach Memories

When I was growing up in Bangkok in the late 60’s, Thailand’s beaches were not yet much of a tourist destination. Even Pattaya Beach was unspoiled and seemed barely used (I know that will be beyond the imagining of anyone who first saw it from the late 70’s on). We used to drive down there Read More…

When I was growing up in Bangkok in the late 60’s, Thailand’s beaches were not yet much of a tourist destination. Even Pattaya Beach was unspoiled and seemed barely used (I know that will be beyond the imagining of anyone who first saw it from the late 70’s on). We used to drive down there for weekends. I’d spend hours creating tide-based water systems: it was a never-ending battle to keep the water moving just so, whether the tide was going out or coming in, but I found that more interesting than building sand castles.

You could also pay for horse rides on the beach, something I felt marvelously privileged to do once per trip. Clinging proudly to the horse’s mane, trotting along the beach as the horse man jogged alongside, I was in heaven – in spite of the insides of my bare knees being rubbed raw from riding on a sweaty old saddle in my shorts or bathing suit.

Once, when my parents wanted to get far away from it all, they and a group of friends hired a fishing boat to take us out to one of the little islands off the coast. This was minimally equipped for visitors: three-sided palm-thatched shacks built a few few feet above the ground where the beach met the sparse jungle, food supplied by the villagers who lived the other side of the island. I hunted for shells, played in sparkling sand, and swam in crystal blue waters – once right around the point to the inhabited side of the island!

Back in Bangkok, I was in the pool just about every day and for hours on weekends, playing “Marco Polo” with the swarm of American kids who lived in our apartment compound, and diving for coins even at the deep end.

Deirdré in the pool at Red Rose Court, Bangkok, ~1969

I was a decent swimmer and loved water in any form, though I was afraid of big waves. This was a handicap when my father and I stopped over in Hawaii on our way back to the US when we left Thailand (1971) – I was only 9, and all the waves there looked big to me. My dad’s idea to “cure” this fear was to throw me into the surf. A particularly large wave promptly threw me back, tumbling me end over end, blinding me with foam and filling my ears and nose with sand. After that, I was afraid of anything larger than a one-foot swell.

Then we moved to Pittsburgh, where there are no beaches and I rarely even got near a swimming pool, though I did have a few opportunities to play in creeks at a friend’s farm in western Pennsylvania. I didn’t really see a beach again until we moved to Connecticut – whose beaches were better than no beaches, but far from my memories of Thailand.

In the following years I got still further from sea level, attending high school up in the Indian Himalayas. Coincidentally, my dad and stepmother moved back to Thailand during this time, even living for a year or so in the same apartment complex, Red Rose Court, where I had lived with my dad and mother 10 years earlier. The pool was still there, but not the swarm of kids. I never went in it.

But I did have one significant ocean experience. During a long winter vacation from school, my father and I did a scuba diving course together. That’s a story unto itself, but the final qualifier was a weekend of open-water dives from a boat off Pattaya. By this time my eyesight was so poor that I had to have a dive mask with prescription lenses – which, fortunately, optometrists in Bangkok were well able to make. This made it possible for me to see the wonders under water, which I enjoyed far more than waves and sand.

In early 1980, I took part in the Winter Tour, a six-week trip around India run by Woodstock School to keep students busy during the long vacation, especially those who were in India on a one-year “package program” and would not be returning to their families at Christmas.

We visited several beaches around India – Goa, Kovalam, Trivandrum. By this time I was not enthusiastic about sea swimming: I couldn’t see without my glasses, but was afraid to wear them into the water and risk losing them in rough surf. One afternoon at the beach some friends persuaded me to swim with them, leaving my glasses in care of other friends on the sand. When we finally came out, dusk was falling and our friends had returned to the hotel, carefully taking all our stuff with them – including my glasses. The route back to the hotel was a steep, narrow path, ever less visible in the dimming light. I had to walk with one friend before and one behind, each holding my hand. That walk was terrifying for me; I still occasionally have nightmares about fumbling, near-blind, without glasses.

This consolidated my fear of swimming in any sort of open water, and I’m no longer very keen on pools, either.

Then came twenty years of Italy, with Enrico. On our first visit there together in the summer of 1988, we were traveling around northern Italy, and stopped off to meet some friends of his at a beach in Liguria. I was deeply disappointed: this particular beach had no sand at all, just a scree of smooth stones. People were lounging under regimented rows of umbrellas, with little tables attached to hold drinks and snacks. The water was chilly and uninviting, so they seemed to be there mostly to lie in the sun and chatter with friends.

To my horror, it turned out that many Italian beaches – certainly the most-frequented ones in central and northern Italy – are set up like this with “lidos”: rows and rows of umbrellas and lounge chairs, meticulously maintained and rented by the day, week, or month. Families return to the same beach and even the same umbrellas year after year – the front row, closest to the water, being the most expensive. On the more popular beaches such as Rimini, there may be 10 to 15 rows of umbrellas; those furthest back have effectively no view of the water.

During peak vacation periods, all of these umbrellas are rented: it’s as if every Italian family moves itself into a very small living room, elbow to elbow with other families doing the same. Some bring radios. All have cellphones. The lido owners also take it upon themselves to entertain their guests with pop music from speakers on poles along the beach. Cars cruise along the lungomare (beachfront road), blaring advertisements for local events and businesses from huge loudspeakers mounted on their roofs. An Italian beach vacation is anything but peaceful and relaxing.

beach, Roseto degli Abruzzi

Like many Italian families, Enrico’s parents had a seconda casa: a second (vacation) home, which they had already owned for decades. Theirs was in Roseto degli Abruzzi, a small town on Italy’s central Adriatic coast which has not much reason for being, that I can see, except as a holiday destination. It was a two-bedroom apartment at the top of a four-story building, overlooking the beachfront road and then the beach (the view above is from the balcony). This particular patch of beach was less developed when we first started going there in 1990, with just five or six rows of blue and white umbrellas and chairs rented out by a neighbor in the building, whose main profession was plumbing. Over the years he expanded his lido concession with more rows of ombrelloni, a snack bar, changing rooms and showers – which brought him up to par with the competition.

The beach at this point was wide by Italian standards, protected by breakwaters and periodically replenished with sand trucked in from elsewhere. Its gentle slope with shallow water for a long way out made it ideal for little kids, so it was a great place for our daughter Rossella to spend vacations with her parents and doting grandparents.

Rossella and Nonna Graziella, Roseto

Cramming us plus the parents plus Enrico’s brother and his girlfriend into the tiny apartment for weeks was not ideal, nor was spending the colder Easter and Christmas seasons in Roseto when Enrico’s parents eventually retired there for health reasons… but that’s another story.

There were practically no waves on this part of the Adriatic coast, so I felt safe to go in the water a bit (wearing my glasses), but it was murky and uninteresting compared with the crystal waters of my childhood in Thailand. I built in the sand with Ross a bit, but there wasn’t enough tidal variance in water level to make hydraulic engineering interesting. And I grew very tired of being trapped at our rented ombrellone, overhearing the conversations of randomly-chosen neighbors for days on end.

There are unpopulated, unspoiled, natural beaches in Italy – we saw a few, passing in the train from Milan to Abruzzi. I’m told there are far more in the south, but we never got to any of them. Italians are creatures of habit: Stessa Spiaggia, Stesso Mare.

During the dot com boom, when we seemed to have money to burn, and I needed desperately to take a vacation that I actually found relaxing, we made a few trips to the Caribbean: Martinique, St. Maarten, and St. Barth’s. The most beautiful beach we saw among this (admittedly limited) selection of islands was the nudist L’Orient Bay on St. Maarten. In Martinique, I had brought my old dive mask along, so was able to go on a brief, guided dive. The underwater scenery was more rock than coral, overall more gloomy than my bright blue and gold memories of Pattaya Bay. The water was certainly colder – we needed wetsuits.

Ross in a wetsuit, Martinique

 

All these memories are coming up now because I’m on vacation in Australia, which has an apparently endless supply of probably the best beaches I’ve seen anywhere. I’m still not likely to swim – the surf at most beaches I’ve seen here is far rougher than I could safely handle.  But these beaches are endlessly interesting to watch, and walk, and observe, both close up and from a distance. I’ll have lots more photos and videos to share! (The photos at the top and bottom of this page are start.)

Some Australian beaches I captured on video here.

Dudley Beach, NSW

Viva la Mamma? Motherhood, Menopause & Culture

I’m a US citizen, but I lived and raised my daughter Rossella (now 22) in Italy for 17 years. I left Italy in 2008 while Ross was at boarding school in India, and subsequently separated from my Italian husband (we were already geographically apart – he did not follow me to the US). My daughter Read More…

I’m a US citizen, but I lived and raised my daughter Rossella (now 22) in Italy for 17 years. I left Italy in 2008 while Ross was at boarding school in India, and subsequently separated from my Italian husband (we were already geographically apart – he did not follow me to the US). My daughter is hurt and angry about all this; I’m told that’s normal for children of any age whose parents divorce. But Ross is further angered that I am not behaving like the mammas of her Italian friends.

During my years with Enrico, I was of course aware that I was in a cross-cultural marriage, and thought I was dealing with that well enough (maybe not). But I now realize that I had not accounted adequately for the weight of Italian cultural norms regarding la mamma.

I had worked hard to be a good wife and mother, while still trying to maintain other things I care about: work, friendships, travel. In early 2006, we were living in Lecco, I was working in Milan, and my life had settled into a steady, if hectic, groove. But I found myself pondering the many foreigners who had moved to Italy in pursuit of a dream, who were willing to sacrifice far more than I to live there.

I also began to re-examine the old wounds of a very messy childhood. I felt waves of anger – perfectly legitimate anger, but why was it coming up now? I thought I’d resolved all that, with years of therapy, and didn’t particularly want to revisit it. But I couldn’t seem to help myself.*

In the autumn of 2006, Rossella and I began discussing her desire to go to Woodstock School, and in early 2007 we began the process of getting her there. I foresaw that her going would profoundly change our family life, but the scale of those changes soon grew beyond anything I’d anticipated.

It became clear that a year at Woodstock would not be just one year away for Ross. Her school in Lecco let us know that, upon returning from her senior year at Woodstock, Ross might have to do the Italian fourth year as well, before going on to do the usual fifth year and then the maturita’ (school leaving exam). Having already repeated a year (common in Italy), she’d be in high school til age 21 – an absurdity none of us was willing to contemplate. Without the maturita’ , Ross couldn’t attend Italian university. She would have to go to college in the US. Ready or not, she was likely leaving home for good.

This was financially difficult: we had not anticipated nor saved for college in the US (university in Italy is nearly cost-free, if the student lives at home). Enrico’s salary covered our normal expenses, but would not extend to such an extravagance; I would have to find a way to pay for that, as well as the year at Woodstock. I was earning 17,000 euros (yes, that’s per YEAR) in Milan. Something would have to change.

Rescue arrived: I began working for Sun as a contractor in March of 2007, which met the immediate need to get Ross to Woodstock. But the money would have to keep coming in, so I was delighted and relieved when, after a year as a contractor, Sun offered me a full-time job. Though that offer was contingent on my moving to the US, I did not hesitate a moment in accepting it; I moved back to the US in March, 2008.

All this change occurred so quickly that I’m still processing what happened and why (while enduring still more upheavals). In retrospect, I’m more surprised that I put up with so much for so long; the sequence of events now seems almost inevitable.

And yet, for most of the time I was living in Italy, I didn’t feel that I was “putting up with” my life there. I was generally content with my home, my family, cooking, gardening, etc. Until Sun asked me to move to the US, I had no idea that I was so ready to leave Italy.

How was that possible? Was I that good at concealing inconvenient emotions, even from myself?

Louann Brizendine’s The Female Brain shed light on what kept me in that state of contentment. Her chapter on “The Mommy Brain” states: “physical cues from the infant forge new neurochemical pathways in the brain that create and reinforce maternal brain circuits aided by chemical imprinting and huge increases of oxytocin. These changes result in a motivated, highly attentive, and aggressively protective brain that forces the new mother to alter her responses and priorities in life… As long as you’re in continuous physical contact with the child, your brain will release oxytocin and form the circuits needed to make and maintain the mommy brain.”

This “mommy brain” tells you that your child’s welfare is the most important thing in the universe, with your own needs and desires coming a distant second (or third, or fourth…). As long as my child was safe and well – and those hormones kept flowing – I was content.

It now seems clear that Ross’ departure for boarding school coincided with my early menopause, when “There’s a new reality brewing in [a woman’s] brain, and it’s a take-no-prisoners view.” I’ll let Dr. Brizendine explain the details (I strongly recommend that you read the book, if you are a woman or have any women in your life), but, simply stated: the connecting and nurturing hormones (estrogen and oxytocin) are diminishing. “What had been important to women – connection, approval, children, and making sure the family stayed together – is no longer the first thing on their minds. And the changing chemistry of women’s brains is responsible for the shifting reality of their lives.”

It’s not surprising that my family were taken off guard by the changes in me – I was shocked and bewildered myself. It felt as if I had woken up from a long dream. Overnight (or so it felt at the time), I found myself wondering: “What the hell am I doing here?”

Ross’s absence probably accelerated the change: “The normal contact of living in the same house [with one’s children] provides enough sensation to maintain a woman’s tending and caretaking behaviors toward her kids – even grown-up kids. Once the kids leave the house, however… if a mother is menopausal at the same time, the hormones that built, primed, and maintained those brain circuits are also gone.”

It’s not that a mother no longer cares about her grown children, but, in American culture, she is likely to be ready to get on with her own life. Dr. Brizendine says of a patient: “she felt as though a haze had been lifted recently, and she could see in a way she hadn’t been able to before. The tugs she used to feel at her heartstrings to rescue and care for others had all but vanished. She was ready to take some risks and start walking in the direction of her dreams.”

From Brizendine’s anecdotes, and observing friends my own age, it’s very common for American women to suddenly make big changes in their lives around menopause (“65% of divorces after the age of 50 are initiated by women”). This does not happen as much in Italy, where many mothers continue their legendary nurturing as long as they are physically able. It may be that la mamma does not experience the empty-nest oxytocin shutdown because her children don’t actually leave the nest: Italian offspring may live at home til age 30 or beyond. When they finally leave, they may move no further than an apartment in the same building or immediate neighborhood, and continue to have daily contact with their parents.

Just as it is economically difficult for Italian children to leave the nest, Italian women may have no choice but to stay in a marriage, however unhappy. Many Italian women of my generation were raised by their own traditional parents to be wives and mothers. Having spent most of their lives in that role, they have few skills to offer the job market, even if there were any jobs. For this and other reasons, “fewer than half of Italian women work outside the home.”

Italy even has an informal institution which would be considered bizarre by most Americans (though I know of at least one American example): separazione in casa – separated at home. When a couple realize that their marriage is effectively over, but they cannot afford to live apart, and/or feel they should stay together for the kids, they move into separate bedrooms in the family home, and begin seeing other people. I am not close enough to any examples to know how this works out for all concerned. If amicable, I imagine it could be good for the kids, but it must be a difficult line to walk.

All in all, it’s not surprising that the mothers of Ross’ Italian friends continue to dedicate their lives to their families, contentedly or otherwise. But it also should surprise no one that I am not behaving like – nor ever claimed to be – the typical Italian mamma.

 


* Another book, “The Wisdom of Menopause” by Christiane Northrup mentioned in passing that renewed anger at one’s parents can be a common effect of menopause.

The title of this piece comes from a song.

 

Learn Italian in Song: L’Emozione non ha Voce

Emotion has No Voice Adriano Celentano. The video above comes from Rockpolitik, a variety show hosted by Celentano in 2006. Io non so parlar d’amore l’emozione non ha voce E mi manca un po il respiro se ci sei c’e troppa luce La mia anima si spande come musica d’estate poi la voglia sai mi Read More…

Emotion has No Voice

Adriano Celentano. The video above comes from Rockpolitik, a variety show hosted by Celentano in 2006.

Io non so parlar d’amore

l’emozione non ha voce

E mi manca un po il respiro

se ci sei c’e troppa luce

La mia anima si spande

come musica d’estate

poi la voglia sai mi prende

e mi accende con i baci tuoi

Io con te saro sincero

restero quel che sono

disonesto mai lo giuro

ma se tradisci non perdono

Ti saro per sempre amico

pur geloso come sai

io lo so mi contraddico

ma preziosa sei tu per me

Tra le mie braccia dormirai

serena..mente

ed e importante questo sai

per sentirci pienamente noi

Un’altra vita mi darai

che io non conosco

la mia compagna tu sarai

fino a quando so che lo vorrai

Due caratteri diversi

prendon fuoco facilmente

ma divisi siamo persi

ci sentiamo quasi niente

Siamo due legati dentro

da un amore che ci da

la profonda convinzione

che nessuno ci dividera

Tra le mie braccia dormirai

serena mente

ed e importante questo sai

per sentirci pienamente noi

Un’altra vita mi darai

che io non conosco

la mia compagna tu sarai

fino a quando lo vorrai

poi vivremo come sai

solo di sincerita

di amore e di fiducia

poi sara quel che sara

I don’t know how to speak of love

Emotion has no voice

And I’m a bit short of breath

If you’re here there’s too much light.

My soul expands

like music in summer

then desire takes me you know

and lights me up with your kisses.

I’ll be honest with you

I’ll remain what I am

dishonest but I swear

if you betray me I won’t forgive

I’ll always be your friend

though jealous as you know

I know that I contradict myself

But you are precious to me.

You’ll sleep in my arms

Serenely

and this is important you know

for us to feel completely us.

You’ll give me another life

that I don’t know

you’ll be my companion

As long as I know that you want it.

Two different characters

who catch fire easily

but divided we are lost

We feel we are almost nothing

We are two united inside

by a love which gives us

the profound conviction

that no one will divide us.

You’ll sleep in my arms

Serenely

and this is important you know

for us to feel completely us.

You’ll give me another life

that I don’t know

you’ll be my companion

As long as I know that you want it.

Then we’ll live as you know

only by honesty

by love and by trust

then it will be what it will be.

Learn Italian in Song: E la Barca Torno’ Sola

And the Ship Returned Alone Renato Carosone (1960) Erano tre fratelli pescatori,con una mamma bianca, con una barca nera e con tre cuori ancora da creatura… Il mare urlava cupo quella sera e il legno della incognita straniera cercava aiuto in tutto quell’orrore. “Chi rischierà la vita per salvare la bionda forestiera, chi sarà?” Ritornello: Read More…

And the Ship Returned Alone

Renato Carosone (1960)

Erano tre fratelli pescatori,con una mamma bianca,

con una barca nera
e con tre cuori ancora da creatura…

Il mare urlava cupo quella sera

e il legno della incognita straniera

cercava aiuto in tutto quell’orrore.

“Chi rischierà la vita per salvare

la bionda forestiera, chi sarà?”

Ritornello:

Mare!

Mare crudele!

Come puoi cantare

nelli notti scure

quando piange il cuore?

Mare,

se di un amore

soffocasti in gola

l’ultima speranza,

l’ultima parola…

Coro:

Mare crudele!

Mare crudele!

Mare crudele!

…e la barca tornò sola!…

Della leggenda dei tre pescatori,

resta una mamma bianca

ed una barca nera

che in fondo al molo a tutti fa paura!

Le vele si raccontano fra loro

che una sirena dai capelli d’oro

serba il segreto dei tre pescatori…

Ma quel segreto chi potrà svelare

se l’onda indifferente viene e va!…

They were three brothers, fishermen,with a white mother,

with a black boat

and three hearts still young…

The sea cried darkly that evening

and the ship of that unknown stranger

sought help in all that horror.

“Who will risk his life to save

the blonde stranger, who will it be?”

Refrain:

Sea!

Cruel sea!

How can you sing

in the dark nights

when the heart weeps?

Sea,

if you suffocated in the throat

the last hope of a love,

the last word…

Chorus:

Cruel sea!

Cruel sea!

Cruel sea!

…and the ship returned alone!…

From the legend of the three fishermen

remains a white mother

and a black boat

which frightens everybody at the end of the pier!

The sailing ships tell each other the tale

that a mermaid with golden hair

holds the secret of the three fishermen…

But who can reveal that secret

if the indifferent waves come and go!