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Ho mangiato (I have eaten) is pronounced goh manyar.

In Recoaro Terme the dialect takes some getting used to. Well, I guess it does because I haven’t a clue what they are talking about when they get going. It differs from standard Italian lexically, grammatically and phonetically but doesn’t lack any of the vigour that is characteristic of Mediterranean conversation. Shouting and arm waiving are all normal gestures when discussing things like the weather.

Every conversation and movement revolves around family, acquaintances, food and wine. While I can’t be sure of this, I’ve convinced myself of its veracity through the following astounding logic: when you’re not visiting relatives or friends, or they’re not visiting you, you are eating and drinking. And when you’re not eating and drinking, you’re sleeping and therefore incapable of talking/moving and hence unable to introduce anything other than the topics formerly mentioned into your life. It’s a simple formula that has sustained the Italians for generations or so I’ve gathered from the amount of old people wandering the streets.

But nothing is older than the ancient Dolomites that look down upon your insignificant preoccupations and sigh; their collective cold breath and eternal stare remind you that, while life does not seem to change no matter how many times you return to this place, eventually it will and they’ll be there to witness it. They’ve seen it all: wars, wild weather, extinct beasts; they persisted and observed with mild amusement as human civilization flourished from hunters and gatherers to vegetarians and double-parkers.

At one family feast, the name of an uncle who had traveled to Australia in the 50s to comes up in conversation. Controversy explodes about who is the most knowledgeable concerning his affairs:

“No. Zio had no brother. Are you listening to what I’m saying? In 1967 he went to Australia. Three weeks it took him on a boat.”

“But no! You don’t remember Valentin? With the blond hair? You don’t remember him because he had blond hair and Zio had dark hair.”

“It was 1950 something.”

“Wasn’t Valentin married to Maria Cornale?”

“Santa Maria, no! Valentin went to Australia with his brother, who was Zio. Those two brothers never married. Never married.”

“Maria Cornale went to Australia?”

“What do you mean Australia?”

“What do you mean ‘What do you mean Australia?’ He’s only got about thirty cousins there.”

“I’ve never been in a boat.”

“Yes you have.”

“Not in Australia.”

“I’m going upstairs to ask Mamma.”

A short time later, Zia Adelina enters the room and the debate recommences

Italians embrace and accept life and death much more than we in Australia do. In every town there is at least one, sometimes several notice boards – Avvisi Funebri - announcing recent deaths and upcoming funerals. The dead are remembered and thought of (and talked about) just as much as the living. People frequent cemeteries as often as they do churches and most are as beautifully adorned. Some days it’s impossible to find a parking space.

Italo took me to the cemetery of Recoaro on the anniversary of his brother’s Giorgio’s death. It is a small cemetery, perhaps 100 metres by 100 metres encased within high walls that protects rows of rectangular, impeccably clean tombs that, if it wasn’t for the variety of stone used, would be the same. Each has a photo of the person who lay inside with an inscription in silver leaf stating the date of death, along with the relationship to those who had obviously placed them there. On this day, on every tomb there was a modest bunch of flowers and there were at least fifty people wandering the aisles, kissing the photos of their friends and families.

Italo led me through various rows showing me the tomb of various relatives and random friends, most of who had died peacefully. There were rarely any horrific car accidents or overdoses or suicides. I surmised that life in Recoaro was also reflected in death.

The cemetary seemed to have been designed by some mortuary town planner - he or she had made sure that, even though they had left this world, both the wealthy and poor still claimed their place in society. Along the sides of the cemetery were walls of strata tombs, where the dead lay stacked on top of each other like an inner city suburb. The prime real estate was near the rear of the courtyard. Entire families rest d in luxurious peace with space between them and their neighbours, more room for visitors to pay their respects and naturally more exquisite flowers. These avenues of the dead cost far more than regular earth tombs or those of their departed colleagues resting in the walls.

“Does everyone want to be buried?” I asked. “There’s not much space around, why don’t they cremate people?”

“Oh they do,” Italo said. “Most of the time they bury them in the ground to start with. After a few years, they’ll move you to one of the tombs over there in the walls. When your lease runs out in those you’ve got the choice of staying on, or you can be cremated. I’ve already booked a space for my mother over there near where my father is. You have to reserve spaces many years in advance. I’m lucky that I’ll have a place to put my mother, where she wants to be. But after maybe five or six years, we’ll move her out so someone else can be there. It’s cheaper that way.”

The lifecycle of the dead.