Just call me for the AGM in the morning baby ...

Lobby of the Lord Nelson

I pack up to leave the Waverley Inn at 830am and head for the Lord Nelson Hotel for the AICW's breakfast and AGM. I'd like to tell you the results of the meeting but then I'd have to kill you ... But seriously, the concerns of the Association are not much different than any other writers' associations: where shall we have our next bi-annual conference? A domestic or international location? How do we increase our younger membership? An accounting of the financial results for the last two years. Who will serve on the next executive? Are there other groups that we can work with in our own communities?

Trying to figure out how to get to the airport after the meeting. I would rather not pay that extra $53 for the cab. At the last minute Jim Zucchero offers me an airport shuffle chit and off I go. I line up at the Halifax Public Gardens for the 12.55 shuttle and the bus is promptly there. When a young woman across from me purchases a two way ticket the bus driver is mildly surprised, saying, "Finally, somebody's coming back!" Gotta love that Halifax humour ... I wish I had more of a chance to explore the city while here. Must save it for another trip.

Flight to Montreal delayed 30 minutes ... hope this is not a sign of what's to come with Air Canada. I heard some rumblings before I left about pilots and baggage handlers being a bit obstreperous. Solidarity forevvverrr ... at least tonight fellas, at least tonight. Hate connecting flights. Seem to be the only one in the AICW group who has one (lucky me). What do I want for my airmiles any way? But I arrive well in time for the connecting flight at 6.30p in Montreal. So anxious to be home.

Same chicken wrap, almonds and chocolate for dinner. I know this is a small plane but ... really ... five passengers have to move to the back in order for the plane to take off? Boy, I long for the days when flying was glamorous, luxurious ... what must that have been like? Well, let's count our small blessings: I have a seat with no adjoining passenger beside me. My cough is finally tapering off. I am almost finished my book (Graham Greene's Brighton Rock).  Hey, things are looking pretty good. And ... it was a really nice trip.

At the Beginning of My Mother's Journey

The artist Alberto Chiarandini

Another rocky night of sleep. Cannot get settled at night. I am unused to sleeping alone and a little uneasy in new locations. I am slow to rouse and quite sore. A freezing cold morning - not a good morning to walk to Pier 21 in this light spring coat! However, I must get some form of exercise as we sit all day in these sessions ...

Olga Pugliese presented a visual collage of the Italo-Canadian artist Alberto Chiarandini - someone I had not known of. An interesting man. That's a really rewarding aspect of these conferences, fellow members are always bringing to light forgotten artists and historical episodes in our history.

The second presentation is a fascinating profile of a group of Italian immigrants who settled in Dominion, Cape Breton, arriving in the 1920s and 1930s to work in the coal mines. Prof. Giulia De Gasperi theorizes that consuming food from one's past repairs a sense of fractured cultural identity. The Cape Bretoners have adapted Italian cuisine to the local diet for some interesting combinations - mostly involving potatoes! Giulia brought along a Cape Breton author named Sheldon Currie. He wrote The Glace Bay Miners' Museum, the book that the film Margaret's Museum was based on and he also studied Italian with Giulia.

Marisa de Franchesi presented a film on the Fogolar Furlan club in Windsor - its origins and its continuing success in the Italian community. I can't help but contrast this with the flagging fortunes of the Trinacria Club in Hamilton (a club co-founded by my father in 1956) that you can read about here. A moment in its history was captured in the documentary Saturnia by the filmmakers Ferdinando Dell'Omo and Lilia Topouzova that will be shown next month on OMNI-TV. The key to the success of the Windsor club, I realized with a sudden flash, was the concerted effort to include women and children in the activities of the club. The Trinacria Club failed to do so and has become literally, I feel, a dying institution.

The theme turns to a darker period during a panel discussion lead by Jim Zucchero (a new friend!) about the internment of Italians during WWII here in Canada. It is a little known chapter in our history but why does it matter seventy years later? The laws that made it possible to intern Italians during the war still exist on the books today. Some specific examples: the herding of aboriginal people into reservations in Canada and the U.S.; suspected Taliban members still detained today in Guantanamo; and, lastly and most recently, the rounding up of activists/protesters during the G20 protests.

At lunch I wander outside of the meeting room in which we meet where there is a long glass-walled vista of the waters of Halifax. You can imagine the ships coming in and what the new immigrants saw as they approached the harbour. It is strange to be here at the beginning of my mother's journey ... I can't imagine that girl, at seventeen, a little older than my daughter, making that trip with her two siblings to make her way in a strange country. That generation had guts, fortitude. I wish I had a tenth of what they had. It made my mother hard at times as a person, I think, but it was also her salvation. It helped her keep things together (family, business, sanity) when things fell apart after my father died.

The next session is a doc profiling three women from three different generations, all admirable and talented I must say; however, as soon as I hear one of the subjects start with the usual political jargon after the film: "dominant narrative", "patriarchy", "gender", "androgyny", blah blah blah ... I am turned off. She seems alienated (the filmmaker also seems to share her perspective and anger) and they offer a point of view not often heard in the community, fair enough; however, the language is so predictable and so programmed in leftist feminist ideology that it loses all its emotion for me and hence my sympathy somewhat.

We have a two hour break ... lord, I am tired and sore from the picnic table incident yesterday. I go back to rest at the hotel until 5. I need a pharmacy, some Nyquil and some Advil please! I pass through the Farmers Market at Pier 21 - tempting but I know there will be a reception this evening and treats through the sessions.

One more session and then a book launch organized by the AICW in collaboration with Guernica Editions. This last session is much lighter in tone and includes Joseph Pivato and Joseph Ranallo - the topic is musica leggera and its relation to immigrant nostalgia.

The boat he came on ...

During a coughing fit I leave and do a brief tour of Pier 21 again and realize that my father also must have passed through here when he disembarked from the Saturnia ship in 1956. I am reminded when I see that there is a picture of the Saturnia among the 100 or so ships that passed through the port. This would have been a perfect venue to preview the film - how foolish of me not to think of it and suggest it to the filmmakers.

I return to the meeting room in time to hear a sing along lead by Joseph Ranallo. Both Josephs had arrived in Canada and passed through Pier 21. Ranallo had an interesting point that although there were sharp divisions on the ships and the passengers could be quite strict in maintaining their distance from the "lower classes" on board, when they landed all Italians became equal, falling to the lowest rung of the social strata as immigrants.

At the book launch for Beyond Barbed Wire, there are some affecting readings about a little known topic: the internment of Italians during WWII - some 6,000 men and women were detained basically for the crime of being born in Italy regardless of their politics. Lovely wine and cheese reception afterwards. Some friends were going out after the launch but not for this bad girl. It's been a long yet enjoyable day and I am anxious to go "home" to my hotel room and get a good rest before the AGM in the morning. Buon notte caru! Missing my loved ones right now ...

An Upper Canadian in Lower Canada

Breakfast is served in the basement of the hotel. Very disappointing (and a mistake I think). Usually it is my favourite meal but I peck away at a lonely pancake and then escape to my room to read over my notes for the conference. The atmosphere in the basement is depressing in contrast to the prettiness of the rest of the hotel.

Day 2 of the conference begins at the University Club at Dalhousie University in the Great Hall. The cab ride was an entertainment in itself. I probably could have walked it in 30 minutes but did not sleep well - coughing (and annoying myself) all night along. I ended up watching Coronation Street until 1am and the news thereafter. It was comforting to see my favourite soap while here and I am missing R and J with whom I usually watch the show.

The cab ride to Dalhousie was well worth the six dollars I paid. When the cabbie, named Murray, heard me coughing he asked where I was from. "Aah Toronto, that's why you're coughing ... you're not used to the fresh air are you?"

He asked if I was here for a conference. Yes, a writers' conference, I answer. "Not fiction I hope?" he murmured, "I don't read fiction myself ..." Alas, I said, yes, it's fiction as well as non-fiction.

He said that he knew Toronto and lived there in the 60s, that he knew Yorkville well. "Ahh," I thought "You were a bad boy." "I was a hippie," he replied. Later: "Imagine me with my red hair and freckles in Toronto, they thought I had jumped off a cornflakes box." I smile.

"They thought we were all welfare bums because we were from the east ..." Yes, Torontonians are terrible snobs but then again, sir, you called me an Upper Canadian during the ride and I don't think it was said affectionately. I remember this particular epithet when I was working in my first job in the drug industry and had many Atlantic Canadian customers who were hostile to Torontonians. They didn't like us either. Everyone loves to hate Toronto. It's a national past time. I must say that I find it amusing.

As he drops me off, I say, "Dalhousie's campus is beautiful ..." Yeah," he says, not missing a beat, nor looking at me. "It's old."

Yes, that was worth way more than the six bucks I paid.

I read my essay during session 2 with my friend Venera Fazio who reads a suite of lovely poems after me - one is particularly affecting about her mother's hands. The session is listed as a literary reading but it's more a personal essay on identity and what direction we should be going in as Italo-Canadians. I talk about how I dislike the title "Italo-Canadian writer" and how I think it places us in a ghetto, an amiable ghetto, but a ghetto nonetheless. I am hoping that my voice will hold out. No coughing fits, I don't shame myself during the reading.

An attentive reception of the piece ... I think I pushed a few buttons though. Some mixed responses but mostly receptive and an active dialogue ensues. The piece will be published by the conference committee some time this year. Perhaps I will publish a portion here on my blog.

Interesting presentation by the owners of Guernica Editions and a relevant point is made that the reason it exists is because Italo-Canadian writers were having trouble being published by mainstream publishers in the 1980s and how even Nino Ricci struggled to find a publisher for Lives of the Saints.

Lunch is hosted by the French Dept. of the university. Afterwards I wander outside and sit at a lunch table which is situated on a bit of a slope on the grounds of the university. As soon as I am comfortable the picnic table tips towards me and lands on top of me in such a way that my legs are trapped between the slats of woods and I am having trouble extricating myself on the grass. I saw three men in the distance to my right and vacillate between "Oh my god, are they going to save me?" and "Oh my god, did they see me tip over??" Finally, finally ... I escape from the picnic table and I see the three men surround me. I cannot look them in the face. I cannot look up. I see only their boots. I make a motion to move. They say, "Don't worry, we'll take care of the picnic table." "Okay, " I murmur shamefacedly, "I'm going to go hide in that building." I slither away quickly. How do you spell m-o-r-t-i-f-i-c-a-t-i-o-n ...?

I am asked to introduce the next session of six literary writers right after lunch - poetry and prose in English and Italian - including works from Paolo Matteucci, Delia DeSantis, Gianna Patriarca, David Bellusci, Tony Pignataro and Bruna Di Giuseppe-Bertoni. This will be tricky: introduce four writers then move to another room to introduce the next two as we need to leave the Great Hall by 3p. This is a lovely group of people; they are gracious and supportive. But it is worrisome that there are so few people under 30. Where are the writers of the next generation who will represent the Italian community in Canada? It is an issue I raise later.

In the next session, there is a discussion about the value of food in the community. Delia de Santis and Loretta Gatto-White spoke about compiling an anthology on this that will appear in 2012 or 2013 and I really liked what I heard today. It concluded with Giulia de Gasperi discussing Italo

The Sebastopol Monument – Old Burying Ground 
at St. Paul's Anglican Church

We break at four ... cab back to the hotel to relax and I will meet my pals at 7p at the Lord Nelson Hotel, where most of the group has rooms, to congregate for dinner. Before that I make my way west along Barrington St. and discover a few interesting historical spots: there is an Old Burying Ground at Spring Garden Rd. and Barrington established in 1749 which was used until 1844. Now it is padlocked but very beautiful to behold. Across the street is the St. Matthew United Church and further down Government House which was built in 1800. 

Government House on Barrington Street

I go back to my room to await my dinner date then cab it to the Lord Nelson. A group gathers in the lobby. Some want to go to Il Mercato Trattoria, an Italian restaurant at 5650 Spring Garden Road, but the majority of us go to Chives, 1537 Barrington St. at Sackville St., which is just a few blocks from my hotel. I might question their definition of a Greek salad (a piece of fried feta on some sliced tomato and olives with what appears to be French dressing) but decent food and great company!

Halifax Bound ...

I am a nervous flier. This is my first time traveling to Halifax as I am attending a writers' conference organized by the Association of Italian Canadian Writers (AICW) - the theme is, roughly as I interpret it, Italian Canadian culture post immigration, post our arrival at Pier 21 which is located in Halifax. It is appropriate that it is in Halifax where almost all Italian born Canadians passed through by ship in the 40s, 50s and 60s.

I rarely travel without my husband R. I really had never traveled as a teenager and only began when I met R in university. I am frighteningly dependent on him to navigate airport terminals, technology and directions and I am totally aware of how pathetic that sounds for a woman of my age and experience.

And as much as I have been excited about this trip, I will miss my chickens R and J at home.

When R drops me off at Billy Bishop airport (which is minutes from our home) my heart sinks because he can't enter the airport with me. The parking is too chaotic and he wouldn't really be able to spend any time with me before the flight. But it is good for me to do these things on my own. The flights are Toronto to Montreal and then transfer to another plane, Montreal to Halifax, as there were no direct flights to Halifax available. I should be in Halifax by 4.30p.

Toronto-Montreal: Although the flight attendants are very kind and attentive there's no disguising the low budget aspect of this short flight - a small, rather dry chicken wrap encased in cellophane, a small bag of almonds and a bit of chocolate in a paper bag. This is the high life you jet-setters! To calm my nerves I try out my new Ipad (a Christmas present) and pretend that I am not on plane. This is my strategy when I fly: I imagine that I am in a magic box. And when I leave this magic box, I will be in Montreal ... magically. Hey, it works for me if I close the shades and pretend I can't see out the windows. Luckily it is over before you know it ...

Montreal-Halifax: A much more crowded flight, every seat appears filled. No treats on this flight kiddies! Flee to the washroom to engage in a long coughing fit so that I don't annoy and alarm everyone. You might think this excessive but the night before at a reading I mentioned I had a cold and a writing colleague fled my table and went to sit with someone else (and pointedly told me why).

Entrance to the Waverley

I didn't realize the Halifax airport was so far from the city: 33km and $53 far by cab. Pretty much what you would pay in Toronto. The Waverley Inn is lovely ... a gracious, old Victorian lady dressed in bright yellow in the downtown core on Barrington Street. It is like a country inn set in the middle of the city. The room is small but tasteful and pretty. The staff is very friendly. Some might find it busy or stuffy in design but I like it here so far.

It is a very pretty town from what I can see. Mentioning this trip to friends on facebook, I am greeted with great enthusiasm about the cit.

I have a few hours before I go to see a documentary at the Pier 21 Museum on Marginal Rd. Someone on the front desk tells me that it's a five minute walk from here and so it is. I flake out, take a bath and try and navigate the Ipad. I find it intimidating at times but must master this or I will have to relinquish it to the kid who will happily take it

over.

As I get ready, I muse that it is exactly sixty years ago this year that my mother arrived from Sicily, by ship, through Pier 21. After watching the charming documentary on the belief in Mal'Occhio by Montreal filmmaker Agata De Santis we wander through the museum looking at exhibits of how the immigration centre was set up. One woman in our group, Bruna, remembers the day she arrived in the 1960s vividly and the exact door she walked through as she disembarked from the ship. There are vintage photos and a small replica of the exact layout of the original space as well as an actual train car that carried the immigrants out of Halifax to various destinations.

I, for one, am starving as I had only one quick meal at about 1pm on the first plane so I am anxious to get some dinner soon. D, a fellow writer and friend, and I cab it up to The Five Fishermen, a popular local hot spot. It's a little flashier than I thought (think high end bordello meets steak house) but at this point I will just about eat anything. We order a seafood platter - lobster, oysters, mussels, smoked salmon. I don't want to seem unappreciative but I think this fish hasn't seen the sea for a bit and has been sitting on the plate for a while. Our waiter seems a bit huffy, perhaps he is a bit tired as the restaurant is about to close. We seem to be annoying him and he is not shy in letting us know. I'm finding the Halifax humour to be a bit sharp-edged (which I usually enjoy). But it was an enjoyable night nonetheless kvetching and gossiping about mutual literary friends.

Usually smaller cities make me twitchy due to the lack of diversity. The only non-white faces I see are in cabs here - South Asian, East Asian, obviously recent immigrants based on their accents. But I feel oddly comfortable here.

I'm looking forward to the sessions at Dalhousie University tomorrow!

Mal'Occhio