Italian Zen

Walking slowly through the North End can become a journey through the layers of time within an Italian Village. Usually I’m hurrying to a destination with a sense of purpose, but today I had no particular place to go. I decided to walk slowly, raise my level of consciousness and become more aware of my surroundings. Sometimes it takes a solicitous eye to see the truth. In Zen philosophy, intellectual learning is nothing but studying the menu, while actual practice is the eating of the meal.

So perceiving every move to be my next, I began to indulge.

Walking up Salutation Avenue on a hot June day, the sweet aroma of oregano permeated my senses. Have you ever noticed the mixed aroma of garlic, pastry and coffee a block or so before you reach the main restaurant district on Hanover Street?

This has more to do with air circulation than the abundance of restaurants. The buildings block and prevent a steady flow of fresh air from the harbor to the inner streets. Consequently the aromas linger and swirl around your head, consisting mostly of garlic, pastry and coffee.

At the top of Salutation I an impulse to turn left and slowly shuffled south on Hanover Street; when I approached a man in his mid sixties. The bright wrinkles around his eyes reflected many years of good living. He was holding a long leash with a very large dog at the other end. The man was short, about 5’ 4”, the dog was 5’ 6”.

“What a beautiful dog you have here, I proclaimed, please tell me the breed.”

“Oh, this is not my dog; this is my son’s dog. I walk him when I come to visit in the North End. His name is Maxwell, he’s a good dog, gentle, quiet but he’s huge.

My name is Chris Rossetti; I live a couple of blocks from here.

“Piacere, my name is Gino.”

“Gino, did you live here when you were younger?

“Yeah, I was born here, I went to school here and I was a postman here for over 30 years!”  His chest swelled with prided as he spoke and his body would pivot from left to right.

“The North End was a much different place when you were a boy, I imagine.”

“Oh, yes; too many changes, too many, but what can you do?”

“Do you remember any stories about the North End from when you were a boy?”

“Did you know there was a floating hospital that docked off the North End beach in the early 1900’s?”

“I didn’t even know there was a North End Beach.”  Thinking a beach in the North End today would attract thousands of sun worshipers.

“Well, there was a beautiful beach here and we all swam in it. The boys had their pier and the girls had their own too. Now, this floating hospital offered medical relief and free immunization for the immigrant children.”

“That is amazing, what happened to it?”  

“Oh, it caught on fire and burned down; at least that’s the old story I heard when I was a boy.” No one was injured, but I don’t think they built another.”

“Gino it was nice to meet you and Maxwell, and try to stay in the shade.”

“Ciao.” Gino’s eyes were smiling.

My research tells me:

USS Boston Floating Hospital

On July 25, 1894, the Boston Floating Hospital sailed. Each day, mothers and their children received therapy, medical care, and health care education. For 33 years, the hospital and research facilities were located aboard a ship.

In 1927, the hospital ship was destroyed by fire. Fortunately no patients were aboard. In 1931 it became the Tufts New England Medical Center.

I turned right and walked down North Bennett Street until I cam to the Nazzaro Center. I read this was once the local bath house for many  residents who did not have showers in their home. I walked through the playground until I saw three men in their mid sixties sitting in lounge chairs taking in the sun and having a quiet discussion. I recognized one of them and reintroduced myself.

“Hello Sam, I met you last week, my name is Chris.”

“Yes, I remember you. You’re a reporter right?”

“No, I said shaking my head and smiling. I conduct a Cultural Heritage Tour in the North End, and you started to tell me about an Italian POW camp that was here in the North End in1943.”

“Well they lived in tents right across North Bennet Street, where they have parking lot now and some stayed in the building that became a High School. On Sunday the soldiers were allowed to eat in the homes of the local residents.”

“Did you know many women fell in love with the soldiers and after the war; they were married and raised families here? The men found jobs or set up a shop of their own. Everyone here made things happen.”

“Thais a wonderful story, thanks Sam, I’ll talk to you later, enjoy the sun.”

As I was walking away he said, “Remember you become what you think about.”

I was surprised and reassured by such a profound statement as I walked down what was once known as “School Alley.”

When I reached Prince Street I stopped and gazed up and down the street. I tried to imagine the change and transition of the people who lived here; and the transient nature of the culture and architecture.

I wondered where else would I hear stories of an Italian POW camp, a floating hospital and “Old World” philosophy all within the hour.  This could only happen in the North End.

Sometimes we don’t always see things as they are; we see things as we are. This gave me the chance to see the North End for what it is, not what I think it is.