Geneva, March 2020, Phil Smith
Many years ago, I worked at a trade union centre in a town called Karis in southern Finland, in the Swedish-speaking part of the country. The centre was in lovely grounds and we each had a very comfortable room. Not unreasonably, the place was run on a Nordic timetable, so lunch was at 11.30 and dinner at around 4:30, which gave us all ample time for the main evening activity, boating on the lake. We all arrived for dinner on the first day to discover it included a glass of milk. The look on the faces of the delegates from the Mediterranean countries was a sight to behold, and the Italians were nothing short of crestfallen. Dinner at 4:30 involving glass of milk – let’s not forget that in some parts of Italy they refuse to serve cappuccino after noon because of the digestive havoc wrought by milk. The week began dry, but our resourceful Finnish hosts soon produced crates of beer and some vodka to liven up our boating sessions, there was also a sauna for a good schwitz, after which you could plunge into the lake. Despite such entertainment, on first acquaintance the meal arrangements were rather traumatic.
The next day the Italians came to talk to us, well really to my colleague who spoke Italian, Caroline Johnston from Edinburgh. They had decided that they were going to cook pasta for everyone at the meeting and had got the chef’s agreement to use the kitchen, so that was the first hurdle cleared. Could Caroline come with them into the local town to buy pasta. We were about to have a break so there would be time to nip into the thriving metropolis of Karis and be back for the afternoon session. When Caroline told me the deal I thought, this I can’t miss, I’ll tag along.
Going shopping is an everyday chore that we all accomplish with aplomb in addition to our many other activities. You might think it somewhat lacking in comic potential. Not that lunchtime in Karis. There must have been six of use, the four Italians, their official interpreter (Caroline) and me along for the ride. We entered the local supermarket and immediately got their attention. We then set about scouring the shelves for pasta. At first the cooks could only find some wholemeal twists made in Duisburg or Bradford, which was rejected out of hand because it was not like the pasta at home. Ask them if they have any of the normal stuff, they urged Caroline. She, by this time, was starting to see the funny side, in fact could see only the funny side, so I came to her aid. Come on, you’re a professional, get a grip, I said helpfully, which just sent us both off into what I will now admit was a fit of the giggles. The cashier was entering into the spirit of our mission and gamely joining in our happy laughter and generally light-hearted approach to retail. She came to our rescue by finding some real spaghetti made by a well-known company from northern Italy. The shop had tomatoes, possibly onions and also some jars of pesto. The crowning glory, we found some parmigiano. We even bought some Chianti to accompany the pasta. It had been a successful expedition. I have since wondered how the cashier explained to head office the sudden spike in pasta sales. We all got back in time for the afternoon session.
That evening the wonderful Italians did just as they had promised. Caroline and I stood in the kitchen for translation purposes and, let’s be honest, for the craic. They cooked pasta for some fifty of us, everyone turned up, the wine hit the spot and we all loved it. Looking back, I wonder if their pasta meal did more for international solidarity than ten worthy declarations. Instead of simply complaining they arranged things with the kitchen, did the shopping, cooked the food and in their way brought the group together. Who but Italians would do such a thing?