VicenzaPiù - Notizie, Inchieste, Analisi su Vicenza e provincia

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet", says lovelorn Juliet on learning the true identity of Romeo. What's in a name? A great deal, judging by the protests on all sides regarding the recent realisation that the Dal Molin American base is not to be! The libertine ex-premier's Defence Secretary, La Russa apparently renamed the place Dal Din, in honour of a partisan who died during the German retreat at the end of World War Two.

In fact, Din - din meaning an unruly and irritating noise, may well better reflect the base's true influence on cat-eating life. (Whilst on the subject of names, for the uninitiated, another name for Vicentine is Cateater. Send an email if you want to know why.) The made-in-USA din next to the park of peace- a nice juxtaposition. The latter destined to open on a fateful day in the calendar.
Another question of names, in fact. To any self-respecting Venetian, it is St. Mark's Day. The Patron Saint of Venice. To that endangered species, to which former mayor Hullweck, not the only one to be recycled by Mediaset, once belonged, it represents the day the Fascists lost hope. Antifascist as I am, I can't deny a grudging respect for the un-recycled diehards, anachronistic and quirky though they be. And of course, the political establishment celebrate the Liberation. I sometimes wonder, as I see the survivors of Clean Hands maintain the baksheesh tradition of their forbears, whether the Christian Democrat party, to which Mayor Variati belonged, lacked two words in its slogan ‘Libertas'. ‘Pro Delinquere'.
Let's be positive! Spring is here, almost. Music, medicine for the soul, someone once told me. Thanks once again to the Pedrollo Conservatory for keeping the less well off supplied with such medicine. This week's Tuesday programme a rather strange offering of cutting-edge percussion and harp featuring first-time performances of composers present in the audience. Music which seemed to contribute to the contemporary sense of spiritual disintegration, seemingly lacking a comfortable motif, stream of consciousness, perhaps, reflecting life as a mosaic of short-lived feelings and impressions. Patrizia Bonilo, harpist, and Guido Facchin, percussion, posed more questions than they answered. Some lovely Schubert on Saturday afternoon, played by students in the Conservatory's San Domenico church was also well worth listening to.
This Saturday morning, after my poor man's coffee in the Bertoliana cloakroom - where I ostentatiously waved around the paper edition of Vicenzapiu with my article in Italian - I noticed a number of people coming down the alley from Corso Palladio with flowers and plants. I went to Piazza dei Signori, which seemed almost bucolic, with its stands selling flowers and plants of all descriptions. I listened to enthusiastic comments; our citizens display a real love of the countryside, not that there's much left to love. The American Din eating up a large chunk of what the small factory owners have left. A far cry from the large swathes of woodland on the undulating hills across the Alps. France, another country tired of its politicians, where it seems the fringe candidates may gain as much as 30% in the first round of the presidential election on Sunday.
I had read in GDV that the bars with outside seating in Piazetta Palladio had complained to the mayor that the appendix to the florists' stalls, with kitsch jewellery, organic make-up and so on was costing them money as they were unable to set up their tables in the warm weather. I had a look, and couldn't help agreeing with them. However, I think there is a win-win possibility. I walked on to the old PAM, where there was the garish sight of Vicenza's greatest enemy, the motorcar, two of them, in fact, Peugeots, offering people the chance to further pollute the town with a test drive. Couldn't the kitsch brigade - and there's a definite market for such products - be moved to that area, with the Peugeots being banished? Or at least sent far into the hinterland where internal combustion is less of a menace.
On the way I stopped for a chat with two youngsters in front of a poster saying, in English, Small Scale Farming. Despite differences, we agreed that the mediocrity of Europe's politicians has accompanied the imposition of a synthesised mediocrity in the food we eat and the wine we drink. More and more Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay produced from must mixed up to create the same taste. And I find myself, a foreigner, having to explain to the youngsters the delights of ‘scopeton' with polenta. Most people confuse it with ‘renga', another local speciality.
So, this afternoon, it was nice to go on the guided tour organised by ‘La Rua' to the old Araceli Church, via Contrà Porta Santa Lucia. Who knows of the House of Silk or the pillars moved there from Piazza dei Signori to make way for the new ones Palladio installed? These people are the unsung heroes, anxious to share their love of their town with others. What a far cry from the man who last week couldn't inaugurate a mediocre statue in a local park, without having his own name inscribed under the name of the sculptor. What's in a name?

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