To my Brother

Love him. Always have. Sometimes close by, sometimes at a distance; sometimes forgotten in the midst of life and love and travel. He married and had kids, so did I. We lived in distant cities and towns and both ended up back in Brisbane.

It isn’t a blokey kind of love – beers at family BBQs or cheering on football teams, though they are there too. It’s a love as I imagine love should be. I love him and like him for all the best reasons and this trip has shown me all those more clearly than I’ve seen them since we shared that bedroom more than fifty years ago.

He’s easy to be with; we share a sense of humour; he’s generous with his time and his attitude. We share a set of values (I can’t imagine sharing meals with a narrow minded bigoted brother – we’re lucky brothers in that). We’re both forgiving of each other’s annoying habits (which neither of us can see as clearly as the other – did I mention that he snores? He’s in denial about that.) He would have something to say about my habits but he’s much more discreet than I am (he does hint at my eccentricities but doesn’t go into details). He does think I need a new hat. Mine is loved and battered; his is loved but cared for.

We’re not identical, not in the least. He notices things I miss. I can speak some Italian (through hard work and perseverance), he can intuitively read Italian signage. I come to the rescue with the vocab I’ve learnt and we combine to make sense of the world. He has a great eye for colour and composition (his photos and dress sense attest to that - my hat is a case in point); I have a facility with written language and speak of personal feelings. He is science and art, I am art and science. He has a good sense of direction, so do I but on this trip he’s been the navigator whether on road or on foot. I trusted him implicitly.

Only once did I get frustrated, though it wasn’t really his fault. He took us on the scenic route between Udine (lovely city) and Orsago (tiny village where my g/grandmother lived with her first husband for fifteen years  1865 – 1880). We squeaked along narrow roads in the foothills of the northern mountains (the lower Dolomites) until we were suddenly blocked.  The major road through a village was closed for the day for a cycling event. We re-routed and again the nearby village was also closed to through traffic for the same event. Mick tried this lane, that road, left at this fork, higher into the hills, across that bridge, all assisted by his girl Friday on his iPad. All to no avail. Alas we were forced to retrace our steps.

It was late afternoon. I was tired. I was over the idea of by-ways so when we got to the SS something which would take us to Orsago and he suggested we take “the scenic route” for the final Ieg I was not impressed. I remained calm and said: ‘Non. Directtore per favore,’ and off we went. That was our biggest disagreement in two weeks.

For my part, I am more inclined to be dangerously social at times – hungry for connections. It was my idea to knock on the doors of complete strangers in isolated villages in the vain hope of finding a familiar Italian face (and we did). Mick never hesitated to follow, documenting each encounter on film.

And so we are two but one. We are solid. For me this has been a great rediscovery of my brother. One which is timely as we enter our dotage. Heaven forbid, one day we might end up in the same old peoples' home together. I hope we would recognize each other and remember all this.

Brothers in search of others

Mick and I came to Italy with a vague plan and no specific expectations. An Italian meal with 500 people called Perin would suffice.

We did that on Sunday; met our Lismore cousins for the first time, found out that dozens of locals called themselves Perin/Capellin with various spellings for Capelin all variations on the word capello - hat. It was/is a nick name.

What followed on Tuesday was unexpected. I'd done some research before I left home- scouring the Italian white pages for familiar names in local villages. People who might be relatives of ours (Perin, Cappellin, Cescon, Lucon), Cescon and Lucon being the maiden names of Lorenzo's two wives (one died on the expedition). There were lots of names but only a few which also appeared on the international Perin family tree which local man Antonio Perin had created. Alongside the Perin name I had a couple of other clues to follow - names of villages from death certicicates etc. It was going to be a case of luck over science.

I'll share a couple of them with you.

1. Giuditta Lucon in Cimetta.

Cimetta is six streets. I had an address but it seemed to lead us to a factory site. We pulled up outside the obligatory church to check the map and noticed a group of men in the portico. ‘Let’s ask them.’ I said to Mick.

‘Scusi. Dove?’ I said and proffered the page I’d printed from the Italian white pages. Dove is my  overused opening phrase coming immediately after ‘Sono australiano, Parle inglese?’, my attempt to demonstrate that I’m making an effort and that I’ve probably reached my limit. This is usually followed by a stare of incomprehension at my mangled Italian. ‘Dove’ comes next – ‘Where?’ With the “where are we” and “I’m lost” as subtext.

‘Ah Giuditta. Si. Si,’ they chorused. She was clearly a well known to them. One of the group (who appeared to be engrossed in the process of restoring the interior of the church), beckoned for us to follow. I thought he was going to point us in the right direction but to my surprise he jumped into his Fiat Bambino and motioned for us to follow. Five hundred metres later he pulled into the drive of a two story house beside the factory. He got out and went to enter via a gate to the garden when a face appeared at the open window fronting the driveway.

She was in her late 70s and in the background a young man with down syndrome hovered. She was suspicious but the presence of Angelo helped allay her fears that she was about to be robbed. I have little idea of what followed but between Angelo and myself and Giuditta we seemed to agree that her name was Lucon and that we were seeking information about our great grandmother Maria Lucon. Angelo was the intermediary between us which was absurd as Angelo spoke not a word of English. She talked a lot. I think her mother may have been a Lucon or maybe her husband’s mother or her Auntie’s cousin might been one but she did have Lucon in her name and Italian women keep their maiden name often using it as a middle name.

Whatever, she had a striking resemblance to our Aunty Rita who was a generation closer to Maria. Both had what was once red hair, very fair skin and a chiseled features. Aunty Rita talked at a rate of knots as well. Maybe the DNA brings these remarkable elements through time? She offered us a drink. We said yes. And she served us a cold gingerella through the window and toasted us with one of her own.

Mick took lots of photos. We were both prepared to suspend disbelief and choose to believe that Maria Lucon was here in spirit. 

1.      2 . Egidio Perin (Motta di Livenza) and Sergia Perin (Chiarano)

On paper these two people should have been brother and sister, descendants of Lorenzo’s brother Fedele who stayed in Italy in 1880. They were in the right area and corresponded to entries in Antonio Perin’s version of the family tree.

Egidio and his wife were very welcoming but clearly not the Evidio we were seeking. Notwithstanding this misunderstanding which was sorted out within seconds, they still insisted on inviting us in for a coffee and a chat. Chat!? Well you know what I mean.

Feeling a little deflated we headed for Venice and only as we left Motta di Livenza did I dare mention to Mick that there was one more possibility. I hadn’t mentioned Sergia to him or if I had he was so confused by now that it had not computed. ‘Okay” says he. ‘Why not.’

I wasn’t sure what the point was. After all, Lorenzo left 135 years ago. What would I do if I found a direct descendant? Claim the inheritance? Remind Sergia that Fedele still owed Lorenzo that twenty Lire that he borrowed before they parted? Become pen pals? Promise to learn Italian so we might actually have a conversation?

Sergia’s place turned out to be around the corner from where we’d stopped for a lunch break. The postie gave us the directions. I rang the bell. Niente (nothing). I rang again…. A woman’s large round face (nothing like Giuditta) appeared at the window. She looked like we’d woken her from her afternoon nap. Not particularly happy to be interrupted. Her face (not unlike my Uncle Cyril’s large Irish visage) was framed by an arrangement of artificial flowers on the sill. Here we go again I thought. ‘ Sono Steve Capellin . Siamo Australiani.’ I said ‘Are you Sergia Perin?’ I asked. ‘Si’ she replied. Was your father Mario Fedele Perin?’ ‘Si” ‘And your mother Marcella Semenzata?’ ‘Si.’ I kept going now offering her the family tree as reference. ‘Si, si, si.’ She kept saying. ‘I know all these people’ she was saying. Which then became a flurry of Italian telling us where each of them now lived and who was living and who dead. We got lost, but we knew we had a “dinkum relative.”

I was convinced. She was too but she still had a sneaking suspicion that these Australians behaving like Mormon preachers might be part of some elaborate sting. Bingo! She softened. I was able to establish that we were not “primo” not “secondi” but third cousins. At which she disappeared inside and seconds later joined us in the garden her face beaming. ‘Caffe?’ Oh shit. We had left the best until last and had now run out of time. The rental car was due back in Venice at 4pm. It was now 2:30 and we needed to get on the road. ‘Grazie, non.’ A bit sad but maybe better to leave everyone wanting more than spoil it with a dysfunctional and agonizing half hour over coffee. Maybe I will learn Italian and return to explore the family connections further. I’d better hurry. Sergia is 77. Fit as a mally bull for the moment but who knows what will happen in the next few years.

 It did establish a couple of things. There were Perin/Capellins who survived in Italy and this was the right place - Chiarano and nearby Giarine are home to the clan. 

Beuno. Molte Bueno.

Oh Brother! Dolomites rule.

Took a drive to the Dolomite Ranges north of Orsago where we're staying. The day began in full sunshine and went from mild to wild to wilder culminating in an ice storm at 2000 feet which blanketed the roads in white snow and the temperature plummeted to 4 degrees in ten minutes. It was 32 degrees on the plains. Quite a day.The photos tell some of the story. They don't do the grandeur justice. We were gobsmacked. and not just us - people we met all said they'd never seen mountains like these - sheer cliffs 2-3000 metres rising abruptly and surrounded by deep deep ravines. Snow chais everywhere -  evidence of snow fields on every possible mad slope and beautiful villages in hidden valleys. Don't miss it if you're in the north of Italy. Kosciuszko Mountain by the way  is 2228 metres in height. We were driving at 2239 metres and were dwarfed by our surroundings.

ICE ON THE WINDSCREEN

Took a drive to the Dolomite Ranges north of Orsago where we're staying. The day began in full sunshine and went from mild to wild to wilder culminating in an ice storm at 2000 feet which blanketed the roads in white snow and the temperature plummeted to 4 degrees in ten minutes. It was 32 degrees on the plains. Quite a day.

More than brothers - An Italian Family Reunion

San Vandemiano, Treviso Province. Sunday 7 June 2015. Perin Family reunion.

I am exhausted. I am Perin. I am Capellin, or Cape’in. Today 550 people from Friuli and Veneto, Canada, Brazil, USA, and the biggest non European contingent – Australia, gathered to celebrate the extended family - PERIN. 

I was asked to carry the Australian flag in procession into the church where mass was celebrated in Italian, complete with a choir of thirty voices and a Brazilian priest who looked like brother Mick.  I went to communion (I’m not a practicing Catholic, is that a sin?) so I could receive a host from my somewhat priest-like non-brother.

Then followed a seven course meal served over five hours in a hall with no fans or aircon and the outside temperature approaching 35degrees. It all ran like clockwork.

Was it worth it – to come to Italy for lunch (as Andrea describes it)? Mick and I say emphatically yes. We now have a clear understanding about our family name. We were surrounded by people calling themselves Perin-Capellin. All insisting their name was Perin and their nickname was Capellin (from the word for hat - capello). The Perin-Capellin representatives (about 40 of the 500) came from Australia (Lismore in particular), Brazil and a large group from a nearby village named Giarine . We were told we should change our name back to Perin  - “Capellin is not a name. Perin is your name!”they said. "we are all Capellin but we are Perin." You can see how confusing it could be.

Highlight of the day was meeting our Lismore cousins for the first time – Elda (77 year old matriarch with boundless energy), her daughters Yvette and Sonia and their children and immediate cousins some of whom have lived in both Australia and Italy. It’s a long way to come to meet cousins who live 150 km away in Lismore but what a hoot. Elda, told the story of coming back to Italy in 1948 as a child and wondering why she was being called Capellin. Her mother explained the nickname concept (a sub group of the Perins) and from then on she understood. “We’ve always known we were Perin/Capellins. What took you so long? We all knew.” 

Sonia Elda Yvette

Elda arrived in Australia the 40s, returned to Italy in 1948 and then returned to Australia in the fifties. The other story concerned my Auntie Rita who worked with Sonia in Lismore and when approached and told that they were related refused to believe the Perin Capelin story. It took another thirty years to emerge.

We spoke of keeping in touch and perhaps a joint reunion of the two streams of the Perin clan in Australia (their great grandfather and ours (Lorenzo) were first cousins.

Switch to the music channel if this is too detailed. Family history can be tedious to those not part of the family.

The other delight was meeting second cousin Linda Spinaze (her father and our father were first cousins) for the first time. We spent 24 hours together. She and husband Roger stayed at the same accommodation as us in the tiny village of Orsago and, while Roger prepared his speech for the conference he was attending the next day, we three went hunting the back streets of Orsago for the family home of our great grandmother (Maria Lucon Tome - Tome was her husband’s name so it was his home we were searching for -  Italian women don’t take their husbands name, only the children take the fathers name. a custom not continued in Australia though Elda said “Why should we. I am a Perin always.”).

Anyway back to the search for the tome home. we had an address. We knocked and Amalia (age about 75) answered the door. It was the right place. We spoke for five minutes, neither of us understanding the other. She showed us a photo of her younger self and her brother and offered us a coffee “voluntieri” (my pleasure), We couldn’t figure out how we could sit over coffee with no common language so we were about to say goodbye when we were rescued by her son-in-law and his wife (Frederica Tome) who live next door (Amalia’s brother – Frederica’s father - lives upstairs - so Italian.  We exchanged email addresses, They are interested in family and we will follow up with some photos and family tree info. Cold calling works – sometimes. It was a great start to the day.

Linda Spinaze amalia Tome Brother mick

Casa Tome (Home of the Tomes)

Brothers ignoramizov

Look I am really ashamed to admit "I know bugger all about this part of the world (the eastern European countries in particular)." I won't even try to list more than one or two for fear that some of you will feel compelled to correct my ignorant omissions (are you there Nev?)

I am wondering why Australia accepted tens of thousands of migrants from Poland, Romania, Hungary, Yugoslavia etc etc immediately after WWII but their history and culture has not had the impact/recognition that the Italians and Greeks have. Is it because the Greek and Italian    

 cuisines were such a hit with our palettes? Is it that they integrated so well (often changing their names to fit in) that they disappeared? Or did we simply prefer to notice those of our Western allies rather than the Soviet allied forces? Oops! Italy is the contradiction in that argument!

I don't have an answer. It just seems odd. They built the bloody Snowy Mountains Hydro electric scheme for god's sake AND what about the name of the highest mountain in the country (Kosiosku/Kosiosko). END OF RANT.

I am delighted to report that I have been introduced to some art and literary giants I never knew existed. Here are two:

No. 1. Ivan Mestrovic - sculptor. Born in Slavonia (1883). Studies in Vienna. Meets Rodin as a 19 year old. Lives in Zagreb between 1919 and 1941. Is under house arrest during 1942. Lives in the USA for the last 17 years of his life. Dies at age 79. On the left are a few of his works. He was a prolific artist, designer, architect. He's the Rodin of the East (in my opinion). Why have I never heard of him? Others among you may have.

No. 2  Italo Svevo - writer. Born 1861. Lives Trieste. Meets James Joyce who comes to live in Trieste in  about 1905. Svevo is 20 years older but they become great friends. Joyce lives and writes here over a 15 year period (including writing the first part of Ulysses - Svevo is part of the inspiration for the  Leopold Bloom character). Joyce regards Svevo as a 'neglected writer' and encourages him. It all comes together for him at age 62 with the publication of his comic masterpiece "Zeno's Conscience" regarded by some as the comic masterpiece of the 20th Century (I can't say - I haven't read it or all the other claimants on that title) but it's not a bad review to have. He dies in a car accident five years later.

Can anyone enlighten me - who is Australia's eastern European hero (art, literature, commerce)? does Sydney Myer count as eastern European?

Public holiday and technology hell.

This blog has had me going nuts - round and round in circles to never get back to the starting point. The starting point being: - being able to use my (MY) blog.

Anyway, why bore you with it. After all what more modern way is there than spending an overseas holiday  trying to work out technology problems. After six days Mick has his iPhone working, I have my blog going (for the second time); plus facebook, dropbox, a new Sim for Mick's iPad (must use an uppercase P? why?) mini and my Woolworths Global Roaming Sim card is operating. Sadly there's little time left for sightseeing. Here's a few photos of what we might have seen or might be seeing when not peering into the bowels of our devices.

Twin Beds in Zagreb

Mick and I have always had separate beds. I just want to be clear about that. I just like the sounds of the words in the title of this blog.

Speaking of beds, I still have the two identical single beds which we slept in for sixteen years in that tiny bedroom. They are identical pieces with silky oak bedheads. The sagging wire base has been replaced by plywood sheeting but they still sport the Clark Rubber mattresses of  the 1950s - there's a pretty good product endorsement. They are lovely pieces of craftsmanship of the time. I couldn't bear to dump them ten years ago when we cleared out the Morningside house. Since then they've been slept in by my son, my daughter - one each (isn't that sweet), a couple of nieces and nephews and the occasional over-nighter.

In Zagreb, as I seem to be at pains to point out, we again have separate beds but both doubles now. This allows for sweet dreams and reminds us of our wives sleeping alone (we presume?) at home desperately waiting for us to call - NOT. Our apartment is about as big as the average double bedroom with beams for us to bump our heads on - we're in the attic. Little by little we are feeling our way into the city.

.The locals can't quite understand why you'd visit let alone stay for 3 days. On the other hand they are quite intent on telling you all about their history and their sometimes famous but unknown historical figures Nikola Tesla (electricity), Goran Ivanisevic (tennis - Wimbleton Champion 2001 - beat Pat Rafter),  Ivan Mestrovic (sculptor up there with Rodin).

The poor girl who took us on a walking tour on Friday really had a serious case of "my Zagreb" syndrome. She couldn't leave out anything. As a result Mick and I (who were the only ones on the walk) yearned for escape at times but couldn't. She took the first hour to go 300 metres. She described the inside of the cathedral before we went in and then proceeded to describe it again inside - every statue. The second hour was much better thank god.

The Zabreb cuisine is a little like Portugal - lots of potatoes and grilled meat or fish. Potatoes with everything. The architecture is beautiful -  mini Paris comes to mind. The squares are large and thronging with locals out for a coffee and a stroll. There are tourists, but they're thin on the ground compared to Italy and places like Berlin.

And did I say compact. At the end of the day we took a tram ride which took us on a loop which almost encompassed the whole3 city of 800,000 people. It only took 40 minutes. While the centre is picturesque and historic the suburbs are very much soviet highrise. Block after block of towers surrounded by desolate deserted green spaces. It brought the romance of Zabreb into the world of reality.

I understood why the centre of the old city is still vibrant. It is the only place with a sense of place and vitality.

A moment of truth for the traveling Cappellin brothers.