A LOVE STORY forever lost but forever lasts

The only picture of my grandfather I had ever seen, age 20





To understand the enormity of this story, we need to go back to 1906.






2 photos arrived..
























beautiful mom and dad on their wedding day



















MY precious Nonna (grandmother) when she died




This story is about a boy, a very special boy, he was born a few years before the war. He grew up in a tightly knit and close family in a tiny village in Northern Italy. This little boy grew up with his first cousins, his mom away during the day, working to make a living for her and her little boy. The reason for this was that this little boy grew up without his father, and it was for this very reason, that he became so strong and special, adored by everybody around him, and then becoming an anchor and pivot himself, for everybody to lean on, to listen to, to take advice from. That little boy is my father. Those fortunate enough to know this man, can only vouch for what I write, he is a role model, the kind of father that everybody wants, somebody that clearly stands out from the rest, he'll challenge you to any discussion, it's no coincidence that he was the chairman of Toastmasters, just don't get him started on politics or Italian football, because he will go on till 4 in the morning, and you won't get a word in.

The only facts we knew:
My grandfather was born in 1906. Around the age of 20, he worked in a tubettificio, a mill in northern Italy, making cardboard tubes which were used in the cotton industry for the industrial reels. His uncle owned the factory and he would borrow his car to go and visit my nonna. From there, a love story blossomed. Story had it that his uncle was against the relationship and wanted him to marry another woman, he was only 21, (you know how it was in those days). One will never know if this was true. My father was born and has memories of his father coming to see him, although he wasn't even 2 years old. Shortly after this my grandfather disappeared, a mystery which was never to be solved, questions which would always remain unanswered.

Around the age of 15, it was an icy winter, my father in the apartment alone, stumbled across an old box, picture the scene...the old box...the dust...what was inside? Curiously, he lifted the lid. Neatly bundled and stored, along with a photo (the only photo I had ever seen of him), were all the old love letters from my grandfather, expressing his love. In his rage and hurt, his eyes prickling from the threatening tears, he only had time to read a few lines, and he found himself running downstairs to the crackling fireplace, throwing all the contents onto the burning logs. He kept 1 thing, the photo, should their paths ever cross again.

Then came 1940, quite a few years after the disappearance, my grandfather was seen by a family friend, discretely standing in the piazza, the village square, crying. We did not know until last week, that he had travelled back to Italy from another country, to try and see his son. By that time my nonna had moved to Switzerland and had married. That was the last time my father heard his father's name mentioned. My nonna died in 1986 (during my last year of school) in Italy, after an illness.

In the meantime, my father now in his mid twenties, was sent to South Africa on a work contract, this was supposed to be short term, but as we know fate has its strange ways, and there he met my mother,(had 3 girls, myself being the oldest) settling in a new country and going on to become the best in his industry.

My father grew up in hard times, he was well cared for by his family, he never missed any love and his roots will always be in his village, where he returns each year and maintains a very close relationship with his cousins who are like his brothers and sisters. It is only natural that in the back of his mind, he had unanswered questions, although he never felt the need to search for answers.

About 9 years ago, I moved from South Africa to London, where I married an Italian and moved to Italy. This sparked my curiousity as to my past. I tried to search very briefly for some history. I telephoned the comune (municipality) of the little village where the factory once stood, to see if they had any deaths registered under my grandfather's surname, I also emailed a well known television programme famous for finding lost relatives, but all to no avail, there were dead ends everywhere.

THE FACTS AS THEY UNFOLDED EXACTLY 1 WEEK AGO:

Now I have always loved and been baffled by technology, but I never knew the power that it held. Last Friday my youngest sister got the idea to put my grandfather's surname into Facebook (not sure why I had never thought of that as I have found so many old friends through it). But what were the odds? With all the billions of people in the world, and who was to say there was anyone relevant registered under the Italian surname. Quite a few names resulted from the search, and what she did was compile one email which she sent to each and every one of those surnames. A few answers but with no connection, until 2pm Friday afternoon. She received an answer from a man in his forties from Argentina, claiming that the man we were looking for (our grandfather) who was born on that specific date was in fact his uncle. At first I was very sceptical about this story, and didn't want to raise my hopes, only to find that there was some sort of misunderstanding. Fortunately, he could speak good english, and many internet chats exploded into action. As soon as he mentioned my grandfather came from a family of 10 brothers and sisters, my father was convinced we had hit bull's eye, or toro I should say. 2 of the 10 siblings were still alive and 1 of them was the 81 year old father of the man we were talking to, who was my grandfather's youngest brother. And slowly but surely the pieces all fell into place, as we exchanged information and put things together, and we also learnt more about a grandfather we had never met. He told us my grandfather was actually born in Argentina at which point we nearly fainted, as we had known from my nonna that there had been an Argentinian connection but we always assumed that he was born in Italy. He had left hard times in Argentina in the late 1920's to go and work in his uncle's tubettificio in Italy.In the 1930s (he did give us exact date) my grandfather had returned to live in Argentina, he was married to an Italian woman. Furthermore, they had 3 children, 1 of which is still alive, so my dad went from being an only child, to having a living brother in Argentina, who in turn has 2 boys who are my age, and therefore are my first cousins. You can imagine all the curiousity from both sides, not one person from the Argentinian family knew of my dad's existence, so there were questions flying back and forth as well as hugs and kisses, a whirlwind of emotions. When I emailed the only photo we had of my grandfather, his father (my grandfather's brother), burst out crying.. everything was confirmed and I now could write my story. They told us that my grandfather had died in 1979 at the age of 73. They were so excited and emotional at having found this new family, and immediately said their house is open for us to come and visit. Yesterday he sent photos of my grandfather plus members of our Argentinian family, cousins, nieces, nephews, the whole works, phew...it's a mind boggle.

A few lines from the chat:
A:.....my father is seeing the photo that you sent me .......
9:33pm B:

yes........
9:33pm A:

HE CONFIRM THAT THE MAN IN THE PHOTO IS U.... , HIS BROTHER
9:34pm B:

omg
9:34pm A:

MY FATHER IS CRYING
9:34pm B:

omg so am i
9:34pm A:

i dont believe it!!!!

Iam very happy
9:36pm B:

viva facebook - this is unbelievable


And so 76 years later as one chapter closes, another one opens, many questions have been answered, some will always remain unanswered, buried in the secrets of the earth with the people that hold them. For now I know, we have family in Argentina and that is enough to try and digest. Who knew that Facebook (which my husband moans about as he thinks I spend too much time there) would bring us some answers which we could never find before.
I called my father today and we spoke for an hour and a half, reflecting back, he says he holds no regrets, he is glad to be able to hear more facts and dates concerning his history as he always felt there was a part missing, he is reflective in that there once was a man...who never met his grandchildren and great grandchildren. Life can be strange. We all know that. He is already talking about meeting new family.

I have never listened to the song, Don't cry for me Argentina, so many times in one night, as each time I go back to the text to preview and proof read, the music plays in more than one way. I suppose it would be appropriate to end off with BESOS to you all.

How far is one prepared to go for love?

Three useful little words that meant nothing to me until a few days ago! When an old friend mentioned these 3 little words, I was blank, nothing sprung to mind, what could it be? After a bit of education and explanation, I can tell you I was rolling on the floor with laughter, the tears coming out of my eyes.

.....And this is how it all started.
There is an old friend of mine, purely platonic, we go way back to school days when I was a drum majorette. He lives in another country (obviously I am not going to mention names) and so we keep in touch via technology. A few months ago, his wife came to him and said, Honey, you know how I always go to wax my legs and bikini line, well I was thinking...

Next week I have an appointment but this time I want you to come with me. There's a new thing on the market, fantastic everyone's getting it, even Mr. Ginger had it done, it's time for a back, sack and crack wax, ooo I can't wait. After a lot of begging and pleaing and I promise this and I promise that, he finally surrended and gave in because he loves his wife so dearly. Which makes me stop and think. I ask myself, just how far is one prepared to go for love? I think if I told my husband he had to go for a wax, he would tell me which bus stop to get off at, never mind the fact that he wouldn't actually know what kind of wax this really was.

Then again, why do woman have to go through all that trouble (and pain) of waxing their bikini line? Ok bikini line acceptable, but then there are all those other fancy hairdos and hairdonts, you know those ones I mean, which are named after countries...hmmmff. Why do these women do it, is it because they want to look or feel better for themselves or are they just trying to please their partner? I mean there is a line to draw, when does it start to go beyond the point of ridiculous?

SO this fashionable back, sack and crack wax is apparently a real clean up for men. As my friend said, chicks dig it. I beg to differ. Ok I know a lot of men wax their backs, acceptable, or a load of sportsmen to speed themselves up, but as for the rest of the wedding tackle, why do they do it? I am not exactly going to go around interviewing and asking men if they wax their sack, but I am seriously curious as why it appeals so much to some men and some women.

Thinking about the procedure itself, how could someone even think of letting hot wax go near there, and then what sort of positions do you have to lie in to let the therapist apply it, do you need to help, do you need to stretch the skin? Do they shout out four letter words? I think it's all nuts! And then there's the ripping the wax off part, I shudder to think. Can the sack rip? It's certainly not something for the faint of heart. So curiousity got the better of me and I had to ask my friend, but whyyy why on earth would you do that? And this is when he answered me and I started laughing uncontrollably.

HIM: " I gave it a go once, almost shot my eyeballs across the room and blew my spleen out through my doet it was so sore"
ME: Through snorts and shrieking with laughter, sorry what is doet?
HIM: Oh that's an 80's slang term for anus
ME: OMG! But why did you do it?
HIM: Didn't believe it was as sore as people said. Turns out it is!!!"

Oh well, I spose each to their own, but it certainly makes you wonder, what people only do and what's more, what they go through to please their partner, must be true love or am I going nuts?

PROST!!

And so the Oktoberfest comes to a close.... another year gone, 7 million litres of beer and lots and lots of sausages.

Today was a clear sunny day in the city, clean skies with a twang in the air, a perfect setting for the final day of the 2008 Oktoberfest. After having visited quite a few times this week, I now feel I am qualified to write this article. I didn't know if this kind of thing was for me, but being in the city and knowing how famous it is, I decided to go and have a peek.

The underground stops at Theresienwiese, beware, as you get off the train you hit the crowds, all shuffling slowly towards the escalators (or back in the opposite direction as they've had enough or too much). You look back and just see a sea of faces - you feel like you have no identity, like you're just a number. You arrive at the top and it hits you, the buzz, the noise, the smells. There are only 2 words to describe it.... Organised Chaos!

Now I'm not much of a drinker myself, so I enjoyed observing more than anything, I did splash out though by drinking a 1 litre radler, which is the equivalent of a beer shandy. But just to give you an idea of the consumption, 30% of the yearly production of beer in Munich is consumed during these 2 weeks. A one litre beer costs 8.30 euro but it has a higher alcohol content of 6 %. The beer is supplied by the Spaten, Lowenbrau, Augustiner, Hofbrau, Paulaner and Hacker-Pschorr breweries.

This largest public festival in the world officially opens when at 12pm the Mayor of Munich taps the keg and shouts O'zapft is (It's tapped). Bearing in mind that everything is constructed a few weeks before, it is truly an eye opener. There are 14 tents which hold about 100 000 people and fill up to maximum capacity everyday, so if you're planning to get into a tent on a weekend, you need to get in by midday as some close their doors as early as 2pm. Once inside the tent, you can listen to the oompapa band, eat and drink (remember you can only order 1 litre at a time). The band will even sing a song to make you hold your glass and prost!! If you want to mix with all the people who come from all over the world, then head straight for the Hofbrau tent, meanwhile, the Kafer tent is where all the celebs hang out. Today the FC Bayern team visited the festival. If you don't fancy the party atmosphere in the tents where it can get quite wild, you can walk around with the other several 1000's of people enjoying the 740 attractions and watch the wildest and biggest rides you have ever seen! Enjoy the smells of the stalls selling the caramelised nuts and crepes. Or you can munch on half a chicken (6 000 000 other people do in the 2 weeks), pigs' knuckles, duck, fish or a half metre long hot dog with the bavarian sausage. Every now and again, you'll hear sirens and an ambulance come through the crowds or see someone being rolled away on a yellow stretcher on wheels. There are many casualties everyday. Be careful as you walk, not to step in the vomit, although this is often covered with sawdust. (ewwwww!!) A couple of days ago, I did get to see the cab in front of me, suddenly pull over, the passenger got out, threw up, got back in and the cab went about on his daily business!

The place is packed with Italians, they come into the city by the 10's of 1000's with hired campers, usually parking them in illegal places (due to havoc on the roads) only to find them (NOT!) towed away by the police.

All in all, you're bound to have an interesting day and get caught up in the fun. Even if it's just watching people staggering about or even passed out or singing or taking snaps of everyone in their traditional bavarian dress (the women in their skirts and aprons (dirndl) with lacy low cut tops showing a nice amount of breast and the men in their leather hosen, quite sexy I may add). Don't even think of smuggling out a litre beer mug (which is often the case as souvenirs), as security at the gates might fine you up to 50 euro. Better to buy one at the stall and keep the receipt!!! Be careful when you hop on the tube back, the platform is overcrowded and you might even be assisted by police pushing you in before the doors close!

Two years ago, I broke my ankle at the fest (one might immediately think I was tipsy) but I swear to you, I didn't even sip a beer. I saw the look on the doctor's face when I explained I broke it at the octoberfest! In fact, I didn't even get inside, hubby was in a tent on a company function and I was going to walk around and do my own thing. Five minutes later I had to get a bicycle taxi back to where I had parked and that was the octoberfest for me.

CHEERS!
PROST!!

SIPPING UP THE CITY

I'm sitting in Starbucks sipping a caramel frappucino. All around me they're speaking German, no big surprise as I'm in Munich. What a selection of breads, cakes and rolls in the bakery across the street, divinely delicious. I have 2 hours before my appointment so I take a walk down the Sendlingerstrasse, a trendy shopping street which oozes energy. The Teashop, shelves and shelves lined with hundreds of tins with any kind and flavour of loose tea you can imagine. I opt for a lemon and papaya rooibos and buy a fancy tin to go with it. Then there's truffles, biscuits and pastel coloured candied sugar sticks.

Walking away from Sendlingertor, I arrive at Marienplatz. It's 10.50am and hundreds of people are gathering in the square of the townhall to watch the famous Glockenspiel which comes alive at 11am and 5pm everyday. This is a wedding celebration explains a tourguide, to a group of eager Chinese tourists, all fiddling with their state of the art digital cameras ready to click away - I don't even think they're listening to her parrot like explanation. The Glockenspiel is one of the city's major attractions (I have yet to work that one out) and celebrates the marriage of Wilhelm V with Renata of Lorraine. The bells and the figures come to life, everybody looks up and oohs and aahs.

10 minutes later I walk on to the Viktualienmarkt. This is the traditional farmer's market and dates back to 1807. It's a colourful square crammed with characteristic stalls exploding with fresh produce, cheeses, meats, pickles, homemade goodies, sausages and more sausages -
a gourmet's paradise. Huddled in various canopies and stalls, one can find the locals who have gathered to be cheerful and have a beer. Prost they say and clink their mugs (probably would be more accurate to say jugs).

Over the street is the Schrannenhalle which means grain market in german and it was here where the original building was constructed in 1853 by Karl Muffat. Made from glass and steel, it was noted as the first of its kind in the world. In fact, the Eiffel Tower, using similar construction techniques was built 30 years later. Inside it still has a market feel, a mix of culture and speciality crafts. Different booths feature the works of local artisans, glassblowers, bookbinders, silversmiths, basketmakers and it is also used as a venue for events and concerts. One can eat at the Bavarian Hall on the east side or simply order from any of the inside restaurants which serve all different kinds of cuisine and cultures. I obviously pull up a chair at the Sushi Bar and tuck into some california rolls for lunch. Ichi, ni, san ... Arigatou!

This article should not be viewed if you are under 18 years of age: Seems as if the blogs are getting progressively worse but this one is about as bad as it gets, so no worries.

As many of you know, I have been doing fertility treatment over the last 2 years. It's been a tough and trying journey, mentally and physically, with 3 pregnancies which all resulted in 3 early miscarriages. It is during this time that I started to write a book ( the title remains secret), probably to take my mind off things and to keep me cheerful and sane. The blogs that I have written are extracts from this, I don't want to include too much because when I have finished putting everything together, I would like to approach a publisher.

With all fertility, comes a sperm test. And a funny little box. So let's talk turkey. My darling husband has to have his swimmers there by 8am and he can't get it there later than 25 minutes after the start of the race. The alarm is set for 6.45am, far too early for me, so I pretend not to hear. Hubby gets up and he's acting as happy as Larry until he remembers the task of the day. So he gets all formal, as if it's going to sway the result (speaking of which came out the lab as above average, thought I'd just mention that). Deep down he is panicking, what if his swimmers aren't good enough to swim the length of an Olympic sized pool?

This is far too early for me, and I mumble that he needs to do it buffet style i.e. help himself. A few minutes pass and he is worse than an overcooked noodle, an absolute CRIME for an Italian. Must be al-dente, must be al-dente, I hear my Italian grandmother's words. I can see him getting into a panic over the time because he needs to drop off his little box and get to an early morning meeting.

And so I decide to offer him an annual treat, as a good, devoted wife should (you know I am taking the mickey, dont you?) He snaps back at me, asking me if I am off my head, shouting at me that I haven't brushed my teeth yet and that I would contaminate it with bacteria!! Snappish! He is far too serious, I roll over and go back to sleep.

Off he runs to catch the tram with his precious little box, hurry hurry I screech after him, don't be late!

I shudder at the thought of my family reading this, wondering if they'd be able to swallow it!!

Back in Italy for the weekend, and I find myself at the local bar in my village, sitting and chatting to my Italian girlfriend over lunch. She tells me, or rather asks me, do you know that bleaching your anus is all the rage? I've just put a forkful of penne arrabbiata into my mouth, I am telling you I nearly choke. She goes onto explain, it's called anal bleaching, you can even buy creams but they really recommend that you go and have it done professionally. Why that, a chance of over bleaching, what would happen then? So I just am trying to picture it, so you arrive at the salon and you announce, I have an appointment here to um, er, well, bleach my bum, er anus and then I'm thinking to myself if one has to lie with their legs in the air or is it necessary to bend over? She's totally into explaining this to me. Apparently it makes you all the more sexier.... and younger too. Giving it a thought..... what a bargain, where can I sign up? And then these are the statistics. As you get older, so does your anus, it gets darker, I have to cover my mouth with my hand as I don't want to spray my penne all over the cloth. This is all so enLIGHTening! ..... Just what I need to regain my self-confidence, a pristine, lillywhite arsehole!! Next time people ask for my age , I'll just bend over and ask them to judge for themselves.

My mind is racing, does one self apply it or do you ask a friend? My friend from Paris says she'll only come and visit me if I bleach my anus. Who knows, maybe we can we can buy some tubes in bulk and get a discount. I say, listen mate, I need some bulk tubes for my arse alone.

Later on in the week, I proceed to explain this trend to my parents, who of course have never heard anything like this before. The people are mad, my dad says. He has recently taken up painting and so he sees and tries to explain everything like a painting technique. He's going on how it's like painting a waterbuck's bum (for those who don't know - a waterbuck has a big white ring on its rump) - my mom doesn't know what he is on about. Now thinking about my aunt on the other hand.... wouldn't this be something just up her alley?

I'm sitting outside the Schrannenhalle with my husband, his brother and my dad. They're all drinking a 1 litre beer and talking football and politics. Note to self: Never go with them again without my ipod. They drone on in Italian. My ears prick up, the table behind us, 2 women and a guy are speaking in english, one has an american accent and she's going on and on. I try to turn sideways, listening in but at the same time I don't want to make myself look obvious. I feel for the guy, he looks about as bored stiff as I did a couple of minutes ago, he doesn't know what to do with himself but he sits and puts on a smile, forcing a grunt every so often. On she drawls, In my French class the girls bla bla, it's so fantastic bla bla, I strain to hear everything that I am forced to lean over even further. My side of the table the conversation has turned to Berlusconi and then the Grand Prix.

The American asks the other woman, I mean how do you find the winters here compared to your country? Well, here it isn't as cold she answers bla bla and they continue. Then a bit of more conversation which I can't quite pick up. Then all of a sudden, the other woman starts to speak louder, obviously getting excited about the topic. I try to close my right ear to ferrari this and ferrari that, and this is what I hear. You know when I was in France, one day I suddenly realised, the french women have thick ankles. Now I'm curious, and I don't give a hoot now if they think I look like the leaning tower of Pisa. And then I started to ask everybody why the women have thick ankles, she continues, you know what I found out, it's from the water there, the tap water that they drink! Ohhh really, the other says her eyes nice and wide. I nearly fall off the wooden bench, trying hard to keep a straight face, I got to hear more of this. Yes, it's something in the water so when I go to France I refuse to drink from the tap, I mean, you really got to be careful. I always go for bottled water. The American all serious now makes a point, but what happens if you're cooking with the water? Then you're going to consume it anyway, aren't you? The other pauses to think about this, a few seconds later, yes I didn't think of that, and then, well that's okay because then you're boiling it and that makes it safe.

Bit of discussion goes by and then, yes, I used to have a crust says the other woman whose english isn't mothertongue. Just on the side here, I mean my hair's clean, it's not here now. I think I am hearing things but I want to hear more. Like I'll wash my hair today and it will be fine, but then the next day, it comes, this crust, right here, look. I think oh god, do I have to hear all this now, how gross, is this the kind of thing to talk about at the table, what must the guy think, does he have to be subjected to this kind of woman's talk? Please let her stop now, it's revolting now. But for some reason, she doesn't stop, she goes on and on, really getting into it. In fact, she's getting so into it that she's almost shouting and I find myself leaning the other way now. Yes it right here and when I touch it I can feel it and something falls off. Shudder. Then her friend eventually admits, yes me too, she's all excited now, it sometimes happens to me too! Oh I'm so glad to sit here and talk to you, I didn't realise how much I miss you, it's so nice to be able to talk about these things, and they have a bonding moment. I don't know what to think, besides the fact that I am highly amused. She continues, at this stage she is almost shrieking that almost everyone trying to enjoy an evening's beer can hear, I think I have a mushroom. What? Is this woman for real? And she, for some absurd reason needs to clarify it again to herself (and to everbody else around), a few times, I THINK I HAVE A MUSHROOM, YES, IT'S A MUSHROOM, pause, YES DEFINITELY IT'S A MUSHROOM. My god, I need to listen to the politics on my side of the table rather. Thankfully, two minutes later the men decide it's time to get the bill and leave, to which I react to really enthusiastically, and off we are trotting down the street and saying our goodbyes!