Ineke Spoorenberg
It's raining in Italy. At least in the north. But don't think that the Italians stay indoors because of that. In Aosta, the main street was as busy as usual. Under the canopies, the terraces were packed and in the street everyone strolled under their own fashionable umbrella. Sometimes that gave funny scenes. Like two old ladies busily walking up and down the street in conversation, each with their own umbrella over their heads. But when I had to go on the road again on Thursday, it was a bit less fun.
Still optimistic, I just put a poncho over my clothes and went on my way. But what I initially thought was a shower turned out to be a persistent rain front that hung over my head all day. At a quarter past eleven I sought refuge in a bar in Saint-Marcel (the places in the Aosta Valley all have French names). The owner looked up in surprise when I sat down at a table like a wet cat. I disappeared into the toilet and came out a few moments later, dried and with some dry clothes.
I thought it would be good if I had something warm. His wife was preparing the pasta, he said, and we struck up a conversation. He wanted to know all about the how and why of my journey and as everyone knows, I am not holding back. Moments later, a customer stood in front of me and asked if he could help me with anything. 'No thanks,' I said in surprise and then he actually pulled out his wallet and gave me a tenner for the Parkinson's Fund. He had just heard the whole story from the owner and wanted to contribute too.
Inhuman Performance
Suddenly the place overflowed with workers in overalls or other work clothes. They first had a drink at the bar and then everyone went to a back room. I was also directed there. And I, who had come in initially for a cup of coffee, rolled out of the room half an hour later after consuming a plate of spaghetti, a cotelette, peas, omelette and chips and another piece of cake. I had also drunk two glasses of wine with it, I was now warm.
When I wanted to leave at half past one, I was not allowed to pay anything and the owner and his wife gave me a tenner for the Parkinson Fund. Completely moved, I continued. It gave me extra strength to run the 30 kilometers that was on my schedule for the day.
At the end of the afternoon I arrived on my gums in Chatillon. Just as I was dragging myself into the main street, a pub door swung open and a man yelled, "I saw you walking in St. Marcel today, in the rain, where are you from?" Three men stood in the doorway, they asked me to come in, I had to sit down, I was given a beer, they thought I had performed an almost inhumane feat.
Parkinson's disease
When I told them again about the purpose of my journey, one of them exclaimed, "Oh, but I have a friend who has Parkinson's, Elio, you should definitely meet him." And he started calling frantically. 'What time are you in Arad tomorrow? He has a pizzeria there.' I didn't know with God, I didn't even have a bed for the night, let alone make an appointment for the next day. Suddenly all three of them had to go home, but I got the address from Elio. 'Promise me you'll visit him? He also does everything for Parkinson's.' I would see.
Still wet, I entered the first pizzeria that rented rooms. The young boss took me upstairs and showed me a room furnished with great care, for little money. I asked what time the pizzeria was open and if anyone was still in the building after that. 'Ma'am, look here (and he pointed to a door on the landing) my mother lives. If there's anything wrong, just call my mother. Nothing can happen to you here because you are just in family' and he patted me on the shoulder amicably.
Elio Bertolin
Two days later I passed Elio Bertolin's pizzeria, 57 years old and suffering from Parkinson's for twelve years. I doubted, I didn't know the whole man, he didn't know me either, what was I supposed to do with it? But I did think – I'm running for the fight against Parkinson's and here lives someone who a) has it and b) also seems to be active in fighting it. I had a cup of coffee there and asked the waitress about Elio Bertolin. It was her father. After I told her why I was interested in him, she immediately called home. He would come in half an hour.
Forty-five minutes later I was sitting opposite Elio Bertolin. Shaking and shivering, he tried to hold a conversation. Oh, how this reminded me again of Cor's agony, that not being able to sit still, that restlessness, barely being able to have a conversation because that restlessness had him completely in its grip. Lying on the couch, on the floor, everywhere just to get rid of it. For a moment I was very happy that Cor was freed from this in any case.
Elio said he had written a play about how to deal with such a chronic illness. The performance had been a great success and the proceeds also went to the Parkinson Fund, which has an office in Milan. He is now, he said, setting up his own department of the Italian Parkinson's Fund in Aosta. I wrote everything down and was given a brochure of the play, who knows, maybe it will be something for the Parkinson's newspaper, I thought.
I thought about Elio for a long time. Because of him I was once again confronted with the disease and I was extra motivated to continue to Rome.
To be continued…
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