La bombola di gas

There were two memorable days at the beginning of our stay in Cerro.  We spent the first night in a very cold house with no heat and no hot water.  It was May. Spring was slow coming, up in the hills. That morning Vincent left early to go to the plant down below in the valley…with the car.  My job was to find something for breakfast and walk down and up into town to find a place to purchase “una bombola di gas” - a gas tank.  I dressed the children in two sweaters and a windbreaker.  On top of the car we had brought my trusty stroller that could accommodate three children on flat ground.  But in these hills, it was a real workout to push the stroller up the sharp incline.  Marie-Juliette, 5, and Charles, 3, quickly learned they would have to walk.  But they soon became little mountain goats. 

That morning we started down the hill.  At the bottom, we crossed the main road that zigzagged its way up from the valley below.  There wasn’t much traffic that early in the season.  Across the street was a cafe.  I parked the stroller and we went in.  The interior was dark and smoky.  There was a musty odor of wine and coffee.  At a couple of tables, old guys were having espressos laced with grappa.  They stared at us. I stood uncertainly at the door; Chris in my arms and the other two clinging to my skirt. Then a cheerful, roly poly lady came out from behind a curtain and  bustled over. She ushered us to a table in the corner.  In my broken Italian I ordered hot chocolate for the children and cafe-latte for me.  We soon had our hot drinks and a basket of bread.  Conversation renewed in the cafe.  The men turned to smile at us.  Italians love beautiful women but they especially love children.

After breakfast we started up the hill into the village.  It was still early and the few shops weren’t open yet. I asked a couple of people where one could buy a “bombola.”  They shrugged or gave me unintelligible answers.  At that point I could understand a lot of Italian, but back then in small villages many people spoke a local dialect.  We wandered up the narrow streets.  The village was not prosperous.  Many buildings seemed in disrepair.  There was a large piazza in front of the church but no one was about.  I was feeling a little panicky.  The day before Mr. C. had assured me that the bombola man would be easy to find. 

At the top of the village we came upon a children’s playground.  The equipment was old and rusted.  Red poppies grew in the crevices between the broken cement blocks. There was one functional swing so the kids took turns.  Then they hopped around from one flat chunk of cement to another.  Marie-Juliette picked a poppy bouquet for me as I pushed her brother on the swing.

I remember I was dressed in a new white blouse and pleated cotton skirt with a matching jacket.  

Before I left Chicago I thought I needed this tailored ensemble for my new exciting life in Italy.  Looking around at the broken down playground equipment and the bleak village, I felt over-dressed and terribly foolish.

Then I looked up and noticed the dilapidated building across the lane.  There was a large sign on the wall “Bombole di gas.” Urrà! (Yippee!)