203 W 125th Street era l’indirizzo della mitica Petita. A Casa Petita siamo passati praticamente tutti. Tutti noi stagisti, ragazzi in vacanza, amici, amici di amici. Casa Petita accoglieva sempre tutti. Non ricordo come fosse iniziato il giro, da chi era partito. Fatto sta che avevamo conosciuto questa materna signora domenicana che affittava stanze a basso prezzo e pian piano era diventata il nostro punto di riferimento.

Petita abitava con il figlio adolescente Hector. Per poter massimizzare lo spazio del suo appartamento e guadagnare qualcosina in più, tutta la loro vita si svolgeva nel salotto – dormire, mangiare, intrattenere le amiche che venivano a trovarla. Le tre camere da letto erano tutte da affittare per sbarcare il lunario in una città costosa come New York.

Appena arrivata negli States avevo trovato una stanza nel Queens, in un appartamento in condivisione con una ragazza turca. Era la miglior sistemazione che potessi permettermi, pagavo $350/mese. Lo ricordo ancora. L’appartamento era molto lontano da Manhattan e la zona non molto sicura, cosi’ ne parlai con un po’ di amici ed il nome Petita era circolato immediatamente.

A Casa Petita si portava rispetto: non si faceva casino dopo una certa ora, il bagno si usava velocemente (un unico piccolissimo bagno per 5 persone), e si faceva la lavatrice una volta a settimana per tutti gli “inquilini”. Avere la lavatrice dentro casa era illegale – gli scarichi non erano adeguati, motivo per cui molti palazzi a New York non hanno la lavatrice nell’appartamento. Cosi’ Petita si era ingegnata ed aveva comprato una lavatrice e l’aveva mimetizzata con una coperta enorme, un diversivo fai da te. Nel caso in cui fosse passato senza pre avviso il temutissimo Super (n.d.r. il Superintendent, il nostro Amministratore di condominio/tuttofare nel palazzo), la lavatrice avrebbe dovuto essere “invisibile”.

Ogni mercoledì mattina Petita lavava e stendeva i panni per tutti. Solo lei aveva accesso alla lavatrice, nessuno di noi poteva toccarla. Neanche con il pensiero. Si tornava a casa dal lavoro con un gran profumo di pulito e con una selva (letteralmente!) di panni appesi negli appendini lungo il corridoio infinito che dalla porta d’entrata portava al salotto di Petita.

Ho questo ricordo indelebile: era una tarda mattinata di fine luglio ed io aspettavo un amico, in ritardo, e mi stavo agitando perché sapevo che tutti i giorni alle 11 del mattino -puntuale come la muerte- il Super usciva dal palazzo per andare a prendere il suo bagel con caffè americano. Non volevo che mi vedesse. Da Petita eravamo tutti poco legali. Di fatti, dicevamo a chi incontravamo nel palazzo di essere i tutti suoi nipoti. Lei aveva un ramo della famiglia in Italia… cosi continuavo a guardare alla mia destra, in direzione della Broadway. Ma arriva questo mio amico? Dove sara’ finito?

E soprattutto, chi e’ questo amico?

***

  203 W 125th Street was the address of Ms. Petita. At Casa Petita literally everyone would stay at least once. All of the interns, friends of the inters on vacation, friends and friends of friends. Casa Petita would always welcome everyone. I don’t remember how it all started, and how we got connected with Ms. Petita to start with. Anyway, we got to meet this motherly Dominican woman who was renting out her apartment’s rooms at a very low price. A dream for us, penniless students just graduated or about to.

Petita was living with her teenage son Hector. In order to maximize the space in her apartment and make a bit more money, she and her son would live in what was once the living room. This is where their life was happening: sleeping, eating, entertaining friends. The three bedrooms were all for rent in order for Petita to survive in an expensive city like New York.

My first place here in US was in Queens, I was sharing an apartment with a Turkish girl. The apartment was very far from Manhattan and the area wasn’t very safe, so I spoke with my friends and that’s how I first heard the name Petita. It was the best solution I could afford, I was paying $350/month. I still remember this very well.

At Casa Petita everyone would always be very respectful: no noise after a certain hour at night, the bathroom was to be shared fast (one tiny bathroom for 5 people) and the washing machine was to be used once a week for everyone. In some buildings in New York it’s illegal to have a washing machine, the pipes wouldn’t support it. This is why in NYC many apartments do not have a washing machine, BTW. Unthinkable for us Italians. Petita was certainly a very ingenious woman so she had bought one ignoring the rules and she would cover it with a huge blanket in an attempt to camouflage it with the rest of the room. In case of an inspection by the dreaded Super (i.e. the Superintendent, known in Italy as the “Amministratore di condominio/tuttofare nel palazzo”), the washing machine would have be “invisible”.

Every Wednesday morning Petita would wash and hang out the laundry for everyone living at her apartment. She was the only one to have access to the washing machine, none of us could even think of touching it. So we would all come back to a house filled with a scent of clean clothes that would be hanging along the long corridor that connects the entrance to Petita’s living room. I used to call it the “clothes’ jungle”. I literally had to make my way to the bathroom and kitchen by gently moving the clothes. It was a lot of fun!

I remember very well one hot morning in July. I was waiting for a friend of mine, who was late, and I was getting very anxious as I knew that every day around 11AM – right on time as only death can be – the Super would leave the building to get his bagel and coffee. I didn’t want him to see me. Staying at Petita’s wasn’t really “legal.” We would tell anyone in the building that we were her nephews and nieces. You know, part of her family was living in Italy… so I kept looking to my right, to Broadway as this is where my friend would be walking from. Is he coming? Where is him?

And most importantly, who is him?