Status Viatoris

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

In My Little Italian Village, right next door to the still unsold epitome of turn-of-the-last-century gorgeousness, one can find what is locally known as the “casa famiglia”.

The concept of a casa famiglia, is essentially a foster home for children who have been orphaned, abandoned or removed from their biological families. It would normally consist of an already established family unit of a married couple, perhaps with children of their own, who receive a government allowance to assist them in taking in and caring for two or three children in need until they can either be returned to their real families, or placed in adoption.

Our casa famiglia is, sadly, nothing of the sort.

It is instead a source of income for an apparently unscrupulous owner who piles in as many children as he can – probably twenty plus – and leaves them in the care of young adults barely old enough to adequately care for themselves, let alone be responsible for the emotional well-being of some often extremely troubled youngsters.

Practically no effort is made to place these children into loving homes – why would there be, when they are such a great source of easy cash? – and so the vast majority of them just fester there: devoid of even the hope of one day experiencing a normal childhood, and with no choice but to wait around for an adulthood that their experiences will leave them ill-equipped to deal with.

An incident in the village earlier this week brought these children’s unhappy situation into sharp relief, when two of the boys from the “home” decided to set fire to the papier-mâché carnival figure.

Other than the obvious dangers associated with this act of vandalism: the carnival float was pulled up alongside a block of flats in a carpark that was full of cars, also perturbing is that despite living in the village for some years now, and knowing full well that the carnival statue is traditionally part of a procession and ceremonial burning on the evening of Mardi Gras, these lads saw nothing wrong with ruining the fun for an entire village.

Just youngsters enjoying some ill-judged amusement?

Possibly, but who will be on hand with strictness born of love to make them appreciate that their behaviour is utterly unacceptable?

Nobody.

Who will explain to the fourteen year old; arms already full of home-made tattoos and face a-glitter with piercings, but who still greets me politely when we meet in the street and makes a fuss of Pooch – that throwing a lit firecracker at my Mother when she was out walking Pooch, is utterly unacceptable?

Nobody.

So what hope do these lost, confused and angry young people possibly have of being able to overcome their rocky start in life?

Let down grievously in childhood, too many of them will simply go on to be vilified as adults for their utter lack of understanding for social responsibility and their inability to feel empathy for others.

But how can they be expected to learn what they have so rarely observed, and almost certainly never been taught?

This is Status Viatoris, who despite all the set-backs is able to announce that the village procession took place regardless – completed with brass band, silly string, confetti et al; simply sans bonfire finale, in Italy.

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

…when you don’t have a boss to tap his watch and glare at you sternly.

Being my own boss, I am rather more inclined to throw myself an indulgent smile and comfortingly murmur, “Take your time. There’s no rush; life is to be enjoyed don’t you know.”

And although I usually manage to rise promptly from my slumbers at seven o’clock – any earlier feels like a crime against all that is right and natural – it tends to be also the exact moment at which my interest in timekeeping fades.

A bit of yoga, the consumption of breakfast whilst perusing the news, getting washed and dressed; all these minor activities somehow unfailingly preclude me from leaving the house until after 9h.

Bugger me if I know where the time goes. (Turn of phrase. Please don’t.)

There follows an approximately three-kilometre walk around the village, which takes in the region of 35 to 40 minutes.

Or at least that is how long it would take if it wasn’t for the profusion of friendly faces with whom to exchange news and views along the way.

(At the moment we are all about the weather, here in My Little Italian Village. Those who claim an obsession with discussing meteorology to be a purely British trait, are grossly misinformed).

Pooch and I pop into a bar on our way home for a quick cappuccino and a catch-up on local gossip.

But then someone we know might pole up, and it would be only natural to offer them a caffè. If the nattering goes on long enough, they will eventually return the favour.

And before long it is dangerously past 11h, I am at least three cappuccini down, and I still haven’t written a single word.

Thus we continue the journey home, where I feed Pooch, before settling down in front of the computer; quite brimming over with purpose and good intention.

At 13h, a  rumbling crescendo starts to indicate that it may well be time for a soupçon of lunch.

At 15h, a crescendo of grumbling starts to indicate that the previously supine heap on the sofa reckons it may well be time for another walk.

So off we set.

We might be two-thirds of the way round, when a small puppy pops out of a property to bounce up and down in front of Pooch’s unimpressed nose. So intent is it on capturing Pooch’s resolutely averted attention, that it continues to bounce merrily alongside us as we carry on our way.

So we have no choice but to return to the property and inform the owner of his puppy’s fruitlessly misplaced affections, at which, this rugged man of the land promptly invites me in for a drink; no refusals brooked.

A  convoluted putting-to-rights of the world ensues – people need to get back to basics, people are too materialistic, people no longer feel a connection to the natural world, hunters are evil shysters whose crap smells atrocious… can’t quite remember how we got onto that particular subject.

Anyway, before long it is dangerously close to 18h, I am half a large bottle of home-made wine down, and still nowhere close to reaching my writing deadline.

So we hot foot it zigzaggly home, where I feed Pooch (again), before settling down in front of the computer; quite brimming over with purpose, good intention and fermented grape juice; and proceed to tap away with cross-eyed, panicky concentration until pumpkin hour or deadline are reached.

I may one day get the hang of managing my time more efficiently, but in the meantime I shall take note of my boss’s wise maxim:

Life is to be enjoyed, don’t you know

This is Status Viatoris, who would certainly perish if she was ever obliged to return to the level of timekeeping required  by the average employee , in Italy.