"The Fridge"

If Torino was akin to a close friend, Milan is the red-headed step sister. As a city, she suffers from multiple personality disorder. Every block changes so quickly it is hard to ever get a true "feeling" of Milan. And yet, like a patchwork quilt, it somehow fits all together. And even though you may look at the same designs again and again, a new pattern will always pop out at you and you will say with surprise, "Oh, that was right before my eyes this whole time."

I can only give you one small taste of the eccentricities of Milan, encapsulated in an archive I somewhat fondly and somewhat resentfully call "The Fridge." (Doug gets partial copyright credit).

 I stepped off of the bus, and while I looked around for the street placards, a fluttering sheet caught my eye. "Against evictions. Occupied since 1979" was spray-painted above the telltale anarchist symbol from the sheet hanging on the balcony. I knew I was getting close. The next street over I found what I was looking for; a low, white and grey building greeted me, adorned with a hodgepodge of Communist related posters and grafitti. A small wooden door swung open and I stepped inside.

A group of young adults were laughing in an adjoining kitchen. I would later learn that they were current squatters, and, in fact, this very building is technically "occupied." The police have forcibly evicted both the social center and the library/archive three times, yet they always manage to make their way back in.

The first thing that caught my attention when I walked into the archive was the array of books. Any and all space had been converted to hold them, the books seeming to stretch the very walls like a collection of stretched waistbands following Thanksgiving dinner. Eventually I was taken up a narrow staircase to a room filled with yet more books, even more disorganized and lying in stacks on scattered tables or shoved into makeshift containers lining the walls. At first a few people tried to help me locate my materials, and then they eventually just shrugged and said, "Why don't you take a crack at it?"

And so they drag in a table to place next to a small stove, as I comb through the chaos in search of those gems. My fingers hurt as I take turns warming them under my legs as I turn the pages of whichever book I'm reading The stove occasionally offers a sputter, as if knowing that its placement is more symbolic than practical. Wrapped in scarves and two jackets I attempt to work through the constant haze of cigarette smoke and the 80s rock blaring in the office.

I am surprised by the many faces that pass by my "desk." There seems to be no congruent age group or background. My new friend eagerly introduces me to them all, and a few of the older "comrades" offer advice (but mainly criticize) my project and methods. Gradually I sense the dynamics of this community. No one is wanting for a place to sleep, something to eat, or a chat over a beer in the makeshift bar. I've literally seen someone give another the coat off of his back. Through them, the sense of community created by squatting no longer remains an abstract academic thought as I see it in action. And although "The Fridge" may lack heat, its inhabitants quickly warm anyone's heart.

"We Women are Stronger"

*Spoiler alert: what you read below will likely be featured in some way in my eventual thesis. But seeing as you'll have to wait about two years for that, if not longer for book-form, I thought I'd give you a taste.*

Saturday morning I biked thirty minutes to the tram, and then rode another 8 stops to the end of the line, all while talking my way out of a ticket because apparently bikes aren't allowed on the tram. It's one of the few ways to get to the Falchera, a public housing area so far outside of Torino that it essentially forms its own community. Italians refer to it as the "ghetto," so I guess terms such as that and the "projects" translate anytime the government cheaply builds housing, and then abandons any further development.

After briefly greeting friends I had already made out in the periphery, I was warmly welcomed into the kitchen of a woman I will only call M, seeing as she could easily be referred to as the Mother of the Falchera. M smiled widely, kissing me on the cheeks and displaying rows of teeth missing on both top and bottom. She insisted I drink something, was aghast that I politely declined coffee, so we settled on Orzo (a toasted barley drink usually given to children). She tried to force cookies upon me, offered to cook up a quick plate of pasta, and was already in the process of reheating a piece of frittata before I gently but firmly stopped her. This is typical Italian hospitality - more specifically, Sicilian hospitality.

M moved to Torino from Sicily in 1960, the youngest of thirteen total children. She married one year later, and she and her husband were blessed with two beautiful twin girls before he was suddenly struck with a serious illness that would confine him to a wheelchair the rest of his short life. They had little money, and lived in the run-down city center on pennies. During the early 1970s, developers capitalized on the "economic miracle" and booming business of the FIAT factory to start redeveloping the downtown area. They either forced tenants to leave or bought them out in order to change cheap living quarters into luxury apartments or offices. By 1974, M was the only one left in her building. She refused to be bought out on principle, and due to her husband's illness, the landowner had no legal grounds to evict them.

Chuckling to herself, she turned to me and described how she would yell down at the people who passed under their apartment, berating any police officer or representative of the law who dared approach the stairwell. She lived on via Garibaldi, now a high-class shopping street that was and is still heavily trafficked. She hung sheets from their three balconies, painting them with slogans to draw attention to the plight of many working-class families forced out of their homes. "CASA OCCUPATA CONTRO I SFRATTI!" or "THIS HOUSE IS OCCUPIED, AGAINST FORCED EVICTION!"

By then over 600 families - many of whom had found themselves in her very situation - had traveled to the satellite village of the Falchera to force their way into towers of apartments that were not yet finished, lacking basic necessities such as water, heating, and light. Eventually M decided to join them, moving into an apartment better suited to her husband's wheelchair.

Her home became the focal point for community life. Meetings were held in the garage just below her, and M was constantly feeding anyone who stepped beyond her threshold. In addition to her two twins, she set up a free daycare for mothers who had to work. She even became mother to three additional children who had significant mental or physical problems.

M was far from content to fight from the walls of her home, though. She and other women occupied local government offices, at times scuffling with the police as they fought for the right to a home that the average worker could afford. With a strength in her tone that matched the endless cartography of lines on her face, she told me how women volunteered to be the voice of protest because "we women are stronger." She continued, exclaiming, "You have no idea how many beatings we took, mamma mia!" Other women would rig baskets to pass food to the balconies while they refused to leave city hall - they would stay for days waiting for their demands to be addressed.

She concluded, "I fought for years for this house, and I haven't moved since." She gently jostled the hair of the young man sitting next to her - yet another promising youth who had been discarded for his challenges that she was raising as her own, at 80 years of age. As we said our final goodbyes, she grasped my arm and looking me in the eye said, "My father always told me 'You've got to walk with your head straight.' Don't look back. Always move forward, always."

From a woman who has always lived by those words, I think we have a lot to learn. So let's stand a little taller, walk a bit more confidently into the future, and fight for what we believe in, all while having the same compassion and generosity of M.

[M's current apartment, with the Lotta Continua banner still hanging from her balcony]

"The City of Angels"

Each city in Italy has a title attached to it. Torino's is "The City of Angels." I sometimes can't stop myself from thinking about Anaheim, instead. Torino is something special, though. For those of you have traveled often, you know that each place has a beating heart that feeds and is likewise fueled by its people. Torino has a great heart. There is a strength that flows in these people - they have a history of resistance to enemies both without and within. Perhaps the reason I get this vibe is the fact that everyone actually looks me in the eye when I walk past.

I love the old people who walk the streets. Somehow, stooped over and aching with pains in their bones, they still find the fortitude to take their daily walks, catch up with their friends (and enemies) in the bars and cafes, and yell at each other from their windows. Half of the time when we cross paths I wish I could sit down with them to hear what they've seen and done. I suppose that's the beauty of my type of research...at times I get to do just that.

I was afraid that the archives would become droll - that eventually I would tire of looking at page after page after page. There are definitely days when my eyes start to dry out and I feel somewhat imprisoned, don't get me wrong. But then you connect that name to the event in the paper, or trace out the somewhat veiled threats of legal action between landowners and renters and the thrill of discovery makes all of that fade away. Then there are the occasional doodles of someone who got very bored at a union meeting, some of which show promising talent.

Being away from friends and family does open up a lot of time for reflection. With all of the terrible news that surrounds us every day, it is refreshing to me to step back as I observe people from yellowing documents or cobblestone streets. The thing that strikes me is that humanity is much bigger than its events or leaders. We love more than we think, and there is more goodness in one another's eyes than we may believe. I've been met with too much kindness, heard too many stories of determination, and have seen the hand of God in too many lives to believe otherwise.

So greetings from "The City of Angels," which may be more correct than I first thought.