Agusto and his son Andrea are finishing up their third day of work on the bedroom, and the work is stunning. Andrea feeds him bucket after bucket of intonaco (Previously I used the word plaster, but in fact intonaco is a mixture of cement, lime, and sand) and he flicks it on the wall, constantly checking that the surface is plumb and smooth.

Agusto was born in Calabria, though when he was a child his mother moved to Nice, and he grew up speaking Calabrese dialect at home and French outside the home. Italian is his third language. When he was a young man he worked in the Nice fish market, though fell in love with Lina here in Taggia. They married thirty years ago when Lina was 16, and he in his late twenties. Lina, also of Calabrian heritage, told Lynn once that part of the attraction of marrying Agusto was so she could go to the movies without her parents or brothers as chaperone. They are among the happiest couples I’ve ever met.

Back then in Taggia, Calabrese had fairly recently immigrated to Liguria to work in construction and in the flower industry. The new imigrants from the South were looked down upon, and largely segregated into derelict areas of the town, typically in ancient apartments without electricity or running water. Industrious ones saved to buy pieces of land in campagnia to have their own small farms and maintain a way of life they left in the south, raising their own livestock and growing their own vegetables, producing ”roba genuina,” real stuff.

Around the same time many Ligure became more interested in urban life, and thus over the years many areas of the countryside, especially outside of towns and villages, has developed into a mixture of Calabrese and Ligure culture. There still exists some tension between the two cultures, but at a much lower level than previously.


Though he doesn’t say so I can see that Agusto’s shoulder is bothering him. He has had at least three shoulder operations to repair tendons, as the work of a muratore is brutally physical. Yesterday afternoon after the work was completed for the day Lynn, Agusto, Andrea and I were sitting on the front terrazza having a beer in the shade of the house, and a fresh breeze was blowing in from up the valley to the sea. It happens every day around five oclock, the breese shifts directions, the warm breeze stops, and the cool breeze begins. “Que bella aria,” Agusto said, as he settled into his chair. “Do you two have a difficult time sleeping in this heat?” I said no, except for maybe the last two weeks of August, things are pretty bearable. He said that at this time me needs to sleep in campagna because the heat is so stifling in Taggia. He remarked, “This breeze is a little to strong for me, though. It kind of pushes me too much.” I laughed and said sometimes when we have Italian friend for dinner in summer, the coolness is too much for them and they want to eat inside, He said, “So just have to eat diner by yourselves!”

Perhaps in my next entry I will reflect a bit on the Italian sensibilities relating to breezes, water, and other miscellaneous items that I as an American seem to be immune to….