Happy New Year !

A few years ago we had had an exhausting Christmas season entertaining our family in London. After they all returned to America, we felt like doing nothing more than sitting numbly in front of the television set. But in our more energetic moments prior to the holiday, we had made plans to spend Capodanno (New Year's Eve) in Italy with close friends.

Usually a trip to Italy perks me up, but that year I didn't look forward to the airport hassle or anything else that required effort and thought. I remember sleep-walking through the taxi to Victoria Station, the Gatwick Express train to the airport, and the two hour flight that took us to Florence. Then we made our way through passport control, retrieved our luggage, picked up the car, and drove to our house in the Tuscan hills.

It was cold, cloudy and getting dark, so the landscape that I love so much seemed bleak. Our car wound its way through the bends and curves of the hills until at last we could see the lit tower welcoming us to our little village. I could feel my mood lifting. To enter the town, we drove through the tower's opening and came upon an enchanted scene. All holiday weariness melted away.

During il periodo natalizio (the Christmas period) our village, like many others in Italy, transforms itself into a Presepe Vivente (living Nativity) set. Life-sized huts made of wood and straw line the streets. When in full swing, villagers take the parts of a il fornaio (baker), il maniscalco (blacksmith), i falegnami (carpenters), i contadini (farmers), and of course Maria e Guiseppe (Mary and Joseph), i tre Re Magi (the three kings) and Gesú Bambino (Baby Jesus), who is usually the youngest baby in the village.

We arrived after Christmas so we missed all the action, but the huts, still festooned with pines and fruits, evoked the mood of a centuries old custom. We learned later that our village only does the living Nativity every other year. We vowed to be there for the next one.

That attempt will be the subject of another blog when I am in the mood to write about the best laid plans gone awry.

Newly infused with the energy and excitement of being back in Italy, we made the rounds of the village, stopping for a caffé here, picking up groceries there. We are always warmly greeted by our friends in town, which makes us feel truly at home.

Our house guests arrived later that evening and we spent a cozy night eating pasta, tending a roaring fire, talking. In the wintertime I like to place hot water bottles, wrapped in soft covers, at the foot of all our beds. When we get under the blankets the beds are already warm, and our feet stay toasty until morning.

In the mornings we went to one or another of the small towns in the area for our breakfast. It is always a simple affair in Italy: un cornetto (a crescent) filled with crema (custard), marmellata (jam) or vuoto (empty, plain).

There is a special aura about entering an Italian caffé bar on a winter's morning. The warmth is welcome. Then comes the intoxicating smell of fresh coffee, the whirring of steamed milk for the cappucini, the excited buzz of people greeting each other, the cups tinkling against saucers, the energy of a new day beginning.

We always like to sit and slowly enjoy our cappuccini and cornetti, but the Italians don't waste any time. They stand at the bar and quickly eat their cornetti, then drain their coffee cups in a few swallows.

Can we talk about the sheer, almost sensual, pleasure of that first cup of cappuccino on a winter's morning in Tuscany? Why does it always taste better in Italy? Is it the milk? The water? We have had long discussions about this with our friends. We have tried and compared the cappuccini in different caffé bars around the area. We have plotted our day based on where we will get our first cappuccino.

Before I go into further rapture about the joys of Italian coffee, let's go back to that New Year's Eve holiday...

We spent New Year's Eve morning at the big outdoor market in San Giovanni. We learned that it is a tradition in Italy to wear something red to welcome the new year. That explained the mountains of red underwear on display. My friend and I picked out two lacey items to ensure that we would have good luck the following year.

Then the four of us selected things for a New Year's Eve feast. We planned to graze through the evening, starting with caviar, moving on to lasagna, then pork roast, ending finally with a selection of gelati.

We ate around the fire, talking, listening to music, and watching television. It was a cold, damp night and the night clouds had settled below our terrace in the hills so we could see nothing of the valley. Our place was sitting on top of a cloud.

We watched the countdown to New Year's Day on TV. Italian television is full of busty women presenters, scantily clad and heavily made up. Amid the forced merriment on the screen, we heard a popping noise. We went out onto the terrace to investigate.

I wish I could recreate the scene for all of you. Imagine a cold, dark night. You are standing on a terrace above the clouds. You can't see anything else. Then, first here, then there, a dazzling burst of fireworks shoots through them. Soon there are hundreds of fireworks from miles around the valley penetrating the night clouds below you. The colors and effects are spectacular. Golden star bursts to our right, red flames to our left, blue and silver sprays right below us. It is silent except for distant church bells ringing in the New Year.

The four of us stood spellbound for at least fifteen minutes, until the last firework dissolved into the clouds and the bells stopped pealing.

If you have ever wondered how director Federico Fellini was inspired to film some of his other-worldly scenes, those minutes on our terrace would have given you one answer.

It was one of the most magical evenings I can remember. I want to share it with all of you. Auguri per un Buon Anno (Best wishes for a Happy New Year).

The Bill Arrives...

We've all been there. Out to lunch or dinner with friends, the bill arrives. Everyone has ordered something different. Some are drinking and others are not. Two order coffee and the others don't. Some want dessert and the rest decline.

My inclination, though I am a non-drinker, is to always split the bill equally. I figure if we are friends who dine together frequently, things will even out in the future.

But there are those who watch the bill more closely. They offer the sum of what they ordered and no more. Is this good form or not? How should this be handled?

My father, a Mediterranean man to his core, will fight to pick up a check. I've watched him with his cousins, friends and my husband:

"Don't you dare! You're insulting me! Give me that check! You can buy me a cup of coffee sometime!" I like that about him.

I have a husband who often picks up a check, no questions asked. Sometimes he leaves the table quietly to pay a bill so arguments don't occur. I find that a classy move.

Growing up and living with that background, I am always taken aback when someone nitpicks a bill. But am I wrong to react that way?

I feel it is correct for others to observe the one who has ordered less and say when the bill arrives, "You had much less, so your share should only be..." or, "The rest of us will split the bill, but would you mind leaving the tip?"

The result is the same, so why does one seem crass to me and the other not?

Of course we have to assume that the big spenders at the table will notice the one who has been more restrained. If they don't, that's crass, too.

Confidence or Desperation?

A friend responded to my last blog (Wearing It Well, November 9) by asking if it was really desperation and not confidence that makes women of a certain age decide to wear make-up and clothing that some might find inappropriate for their years. I had used as an example of confidence Sophia Loren, age 75, looking good in tight leopard skin pants.

I've been pondering my friend's question and concluded that there is no correct answer. It's all in the attitude of the wearer and the eye of the beholder.

Desperation is not the word that comes to mind when I think of Sophia. I like the spark of fun that makes her put on those pants in defiance of what women her age usually wear. Someone else might interpret her wardrobe choice as an act of clinging desperately to something she used to have. I think she still has it.

What is it that makes a woman of 83, like the Mamma in our local caffe bar, paint her toenails red? Is it desperation or just the pleasure of looking down at cherry-colored toes peeping out of her shoes?

In Wearing It Well, I mentioned a lady I see every Sunday at the pizzeria. Always dolled up in an exaggerated style (dyed black hair, bright pink lipstick, high-heeled mules), she makes me smile because she seems pleased (and confident) with how she looks. There is a comic element to her fashion sense, but I don't see it as desperation. I see it as good fun.

The friend who posed the question, incidentally, is comfortable with a beauty that she chooses not to exaggerate like Sophia or the pizzeria lady. She has beautiful prematurely white hair, sparkling blue eyes, and la gioia di vita (joy of life) that leads her to go trekking in Bhutan, swim fifty laps a day, pick olives with the best of the contadini (farmers), get up and dance at the drop of a hat, and create a day with her little grandson that led him to say that it was the best day of his life. Hers is another kind of confident beauty.

This friend says that she likes the line from the 'Desiderata' philosophy: "Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth."

My philosophy is: If you like what you see in the mirror, pull those shoulders back and wear whatever you want for as long as you want. And do it gracefully.

Wearing It Well

She is there, as she and her husband are every Sunday night, enjoying the best pizza in the world, right here in our village. We always acknowledge each other warmly, though we have never met. I know her name is Paola and where she lives only by accident. But it is reassuring to see her every Sunday night at her usual table.

She is a woman of a certain age. What interests me about her is the effort she puts into her appearance. Oh, her hair is dyed a solid block of black, her eyes are too heavily lined and mascaraed, and her lipstick is a vivid pink, but she is confident she looks good, so you go along with it.

I've seen her hanging the wash on a line, working in her garden, sweeping her balcony, taking walks with her husband and shopping at the local market, always put together in her unique way. She has a warm smile and one imagines that she is or would be a doting nonna (grandmother). I once noticed her reading a copy of Chi (Who) magazine, with Sophia Loren on the cover. It crossed my mind that she was inspired by how the actress looks.

Now 75, Sophia has to be the most glamorous nonna in the world. She says she has had no plastic surgery, but...well, it's okay if she wants to dire bugie (tell a lie) about that. She uses wigs, most in an auburn color, and applies make-up in a way that highlights her prominent bone structure. She likes to pose for pictures showing her left profile, so that must be her good side. She still has a magnificent carriage that once led someone to write that she comes into the room "like the prowl of a ship."

Two years ago, we attended an "Under the Tuscan Sun" festival in Cortona. Sophia was there to introduce her son, Carlo Ponti, Jr., who was conducting an orchestra in music from his late father's films. She arrived wearing tight leopard skin pants. It takes courage to do that at any age. She looked good. It helps if you are Sophia Loren.

Since we all have birthdays, it's not a bad idea to learn a few tricks from someone who wears the years well.

Sophia once said that she owed her figure to pasta, which she ate every day. We can do that.

She doesn't think it suits a woman to be too thin, because it makes her look older. Compare Sophia with the emaciated New York woman of the same age and you have to agree with her.

She says a woman should never sit down with a sigh because it makes her seem bone-weary. Let's practice that.

She walks an hour every day. Easy enough. When she does, she tries to find something beautiful and be mindful of it. Note to all of us: This could be anything, including a beautifully decorated cupcake.

She tries to maintain an erect posture. Shoulders back, head up, stomach in. We can do it.

What she doesn't talk about but exudes is confidence. It is easier if you are an Italian goddess and reknowned actress, to be sure. But like the lady I see every Sunday in the pizzeria, we all have it in us.

Sola (Alone)

The woman driving her car on my bumper down the narrow, winding Tuscan hillside was otherwise occupied. She wasn't in a hurry to pass me, though her nearness seemed to indicate it. She was definitely not observing the distanza di sicurezza (secure distance) that signs on the autostrade urge us to do.

No, she was engaged in an animated conversation on her mobile phone. I could tell it was a happy conversation because she was laughing, holding her phone to her ear with her right hand and occasionally gesticulating with her left, leaving the car to drive itself. She was so close she might as well have been in my backseat. My rear view mirror put her there for sure. We could have become pals.

Driving in tandem like that, twisting and turning past the golden harvested fields, we somehow arrived safely in the town of San Giovanni. As I turned off for the weekly Saturday market, she drove on, still talking. I felt like I had lost a friend.

We usually go to the market in the summer months, so it is always a treat to go in the fall. The bancorelle (market stalls) are manned by the same people, set up in their usual spots, but everything feels different. The fruits and vegetables on display are autumnal: bright orange clementines with green leaves still attached, boughs of ripe grapes, plump green pears, porcini mushrooms still covered in dirt. Heavy sweaters and wool scarves, guanti (gloves) and boots take the place of the floaty cotton shirts, sunglasses and sandals on sale in the summer.

Everyone seemed to be wearing black down coats or jackets. The air was a biting damp cold, but that made the caffe bars more cozy, the cappuccini more warming, the cornetti di crema (cream croissants) more satisfying. It would be better to share this with someone, but this time I am here for five days by myself.

It feels nice to be comfortable in this part of the world, even sola (alone). When I arrived at our house a few days ago, I encountered a few problems: the phone, heat and hot water were not working, the chimney flue was stuck, and the cable was out on the TV. Within two hours, I solved everything on my own. Le vittorie piccole (small victories). Those of you who have been following this blog know how I struggle with la lingua (the language), so imagine me on the phone with the cable company. Try not to laugh. The cable is working now.

I recommend time alone to everyone. I do not prefer it, but it is self-affirming to be able to do it. "Aren't you afraid to be there by yourself?" people often ask me. No, I am not. I used to be. The first time I came here alone, I slept with an electric drill, jolting upright at every sound, ready to drill holes in any intruder.

There are startling noises in the quiet countryside of an old restored farmhouse. They are amplified at night. The loud snort of a cinghiale (wild boar) outside the window or a pine marten moving the tiles on the roof, which sounds like furniture moving above your head, can be jarring. A TV on standby can suddenly come alive with voices at three in the morning. All of these things can give one pause.

But I knew I had turned a corner yesterday morning when I had one of those lifelike dreams in which I was certain I could hear my car being started and driven away. I opened my eyes, thought "insomma" (anyway), turned over and went back to sleep.

Wish You Well? Part Two

My last blog, Wish You Well? (November 1), struck a chord with many of you. I received lots of responses, most saying, "I know exactly what you mean!" One friend was pleased that I "put it out there."

I was told about someone who had been seriously ill and received loving care and attention from a large circle of friends. Now, years later and happy and healthy, she asks, "Where did they all go?"

A sister who innocently sent details of where she could be reached on her travels was shocked to learn that some of her siblings thought she was showing off a jet-set life.

A group of young single women, always very close, became stand-offish with the one who got engaged.

A woman of a certain age who got a little surgical assistance and looked wonderful heard that her friends were saying, "Well, she should! She had a major facelift!"

Then there are the people who bask in compliments about themselves but never think to return the favor when a friend does something well.

What is all this about?

The consensus among you is envy. I agree, but since I've put myself in a philosophical chair on this subject (and it's not a place where I am comfortable) let me throw this out to you: Could it be that if we are dissatisfied with ourselves and our accomplishments we find it hard to feel happiness for anyone else?

It doesn't matter if we are thought to have achieved a lot. It is all internal, how we think we are doing measured against how we thought we would do. Maybe the success or good news of a friend makes us feel as if we are failing if comparable things haven't happened to us. A friend reminded me of what the prolific and accomplished writer Gore Vidal once said, "Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something inside me dies."

Wish You Well?

What does it mean when your good friends don't wish you well?

Don't misunderstand me. If you were seriously ill, they would be right there to support you, drive you to the doctor, pick up your medicine, make chicken soup. If your life fell apart, they would be there with advice, a shoulder to cry on, a vodka tonic, tickets to a play.

But if you do something well, if circumstances take a bright turn for you, if good things happen in your life, those same friends might suddenly go silent, disappear.

Why does that happen? Is it envy? Anger? Resentment? Why is it easier to be a friend to someone in need than someone who seems to need nothing?

It's something to think about. If you have an answer, let me know.

Mamma's Boys

I am not an Italian mother but I understand them. Maybe it is my own Mediterranean roots. There is a saying that mothers from the region are all the same, the only difference being in the sauce.

John and the girls would certainly say that I share all the attributes, good and bad, of a Mediterranean mamma. I'm tempted to write that I don't think much of it is bad.

Okay, I can't resist the temptation.

But what's wrong with talking to your grown children every day? Who wants to share their children with their in-laws on the holidays (though I am happy to do so if they all come to my house)? Isn't Vick's on the chest a good idea when they have a cold? Don't they sometimes need unsolicited advice? And doesn't a hot plate of spaghetti pomodoro (chicken soup, grape leaves, moussaka) always make them feel better?

I am lucky that John and the girls view these aspects of my personality with good humor (most of the time). My son-in-law is a quick study, too.

Despite these admissions about myself, there is one thing I don't get about Italian mothers: their willingness to indulge their grown sons in infantile behavior. These young men are so prevalent in Italy that they have a name, mammoni (mamma's boys).

In our little village, we have observed a particular group of young men since their teens. Over the years, many of them kept busy observing our daughters. They are a handsome bunch, metro-sexually turned out in the latest Italian fashions. Some American men think they look gay (not that there is anything wrong with that), but, hey, it's Italy! They all work or study and have one thing in common: living at home with Mamma.

Sure, it is a good way to save money, but most of them make respectable salaries now. The idea of renting an apartment of one's own or with friends is not even considered. And when Mamma is happy to do your laundry, iron your clothes, make fresh orange juice for your breakfast, keep your room pristine, and cook delicious meals for you, why would it be?

My girls told me that one of these young men used to get a call from his mother every afternoon, asking what he wanted for dinner. This would lead to a protracted discussion before they settled on the menu: "Ma, Mamma, no! Non voglio penne arrabiata ancora! Voglio fettucine al limone stasera!" (But Mamma, no! I don't want spicy penne again! I want fettucine with lemon tonight!)

60 Minutes did a segment on mammoni several years ago. Even wealthy young men with their own stylish bachelor pads went home to Mamma's for dinner. Papa didn't mind, either. "Why should he be at home alone when we are here?"

This means there is no rush at all for mammoni to get married. They might date the same woman for years, spending a lot of that time in the cramped backseat of a Fiat Punto, and then going home alone to their big beds at Mamma's.

Accidental pregnancy will often get them to the altar, though. The girls and I love to count the pregnant brides in the windows of local photographers. Occasionally the baby will be a part of the wedding party.

Almost all of the couples I know in the village got married only after the woman became incinta (pregnant). "If it hadn't been for our son, we would still not be married," one woman told me, twenty years after his birth.

That's one way to get out of the backseat.

The baby who prompts a mammono to the altar is likely to be an only child, though. Italians famously love bambini (babies), but theirs is one of the lowest birth rates in Europe, with an average of 1.3 children. Why?

There are several factors at work: more women in the work force, economic hardship, a desire for more material things, and grown children living at home well into their thirties.

Or it may be that the woman who marries a mammono decides that she already has one child too many.

The Nobel and My Friends

Last Friday I received several e-mails and texts from Italian friends, full of exclamation points, saying "complimenti!!!" (congratulations). Why? Because the President of the United States unexpectedly won the Nobel Peace Prize. As an American, they thought I would be pleased and proud. I am.

Many of my American friends, almost all of them Democrats, don't share my point of view. I discount views of Republican friends on principle. Anyone who willingly cast a vote for the possibility of Sarah Palin becoming president deserves to be discounted. But I digress.

"It's too soon!"

"What did he do to deserve it?"

"What about the surge in Afghanistan?"

"Gandhi didn't get a Nobel!"

"The Norwegians are know-nothings!"

"It's only because he is not Bush."

"Yeah, well, Yasser Arafat won it, too." (Note to those who say that: Don't leave out that he won it with Israeli Yitzhak Rabin)

Can I just put it out there that the President did not campaign to win the Nobel Peace Prize? By all accounts, the White House was taken by surprise. But if you win it prematurely do you turn it down? Get real.

Obama accepted it graciously: "...I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments, but rather as an affirmation of American leadership on behalf of aspirations held by people in all nations."

But even those words cause criticism: "All he can do is talk. What has he accomplished in nine months?"

Can I just say that even rural people in a small Italian village, many of whom are uncomfortable with blacks (okay, racist) acknowledge that his election was "buona per tutto il mundo" (good for all the world)?

Can I add that changing the way the world views the United States overnight is not nothing?

I expected that the right wing of the States would heap scorn on the Nobel Committee (they're Scandinavian socialists!) and President Obama. I did not expect it from those on the left or in the middle. Or my friends. It is disappointing.

Obama said, "To be honest, I do not feel that I deserve to be in the company of so many of the transformative figures who have been honored by this prize."

Whether you agree with those words or not, Americans have reason to be proud of their president for the first time in almost nine years. The Nobel Peace Prize is an honor. Anyone who criticizes it would be deliriously happy to be its recipient.

Why not just revel in the fact that the President of the United States, the guy we elected, won it, and be proud?

Going Back

Do any of you have good friends who are living a life that you once did? They are in the same house, with the same furniture, surrounded by the same people. They use the same dishes and silverware, and the food they eat is what you ate, prepared by the same hands. They go to work in the same place and do what you did, the only differences being new problems and style of handling them.

John and I have just returned from Vienna, where we spent time with good friends who now live the diplomatic life we left almost nine years ago. Surreal is a word that comes to mind. It is not often that you can step back in your life like that.

When I walked through the door of our old house, it was hard to suppress a lump in my throat. It was the last house that we lived in as a family of four before our girls left for university. They would often arrive home from high school with a group of friends, who would leave their shoes and backpacks in the entrance hall.

When we had large parties, many of those same kids would be employed to pass hors d'doeuvres or check coats. They always added an element of young fun to the staidest of diplomatic receptions.

As my friend showed me around her new home and my old one, I felt nostalgic despite myself. Songs like "The Way We Were" and "Memories" make me puke. I always think that looking back is a waste of time. But there I was, getting misty-eyed when I went into the girls' bedrooms, remembering homework projects ("It's due tomorrow!?") proms, old boyfriends, soccer games, plays, college applications. Despite myself, I could hear Barbra Streisand tuning up her water-colored memories.

It's a cliche to say that going back like that makes you acutely aware of how quickly time passes. It is not something to dwell on. After all, I have remained the same age as I was then, maybe younger.

But for those few hours, it was rather sweet to remember, as much as it gags me to say it, the way we were.

"Explain It To Me!"

"What is wrong with your country?"

I was just tucking into a plate of spaghetti alle vongole at a local trattoria when my friend Federico posed the question to me.

"Lots of things, but not as many as a year ago," I answered. "What are you talking about?"

Federico, a big man with an even bigger personality, does not beat around the bush. In his heavily accented English, interspersed with Italian, he answered:

"You are rich country! You have everything! How is it possible that people go to the hospital and they have to leave because they have no money? How can the doctors send away someone who is having an infarto (heart attack) because he is poor!? Explain it to me! How is it possible?"

How can I, or any American, answer that simple question?

Let's see, I could try explaining that:

1. Insurance companies and hospitals are businesses. They need to make a profit. It's the American way.

2. Doctors might not make as much money under a national health care system and they don't like that.

3. The insurance and medical lobbies exert powerful influence over our legislators, who can't or won't stand up to them because they are afraid it will hurt their chances for re-election.

4. Many people with health insurance don't want to think about those without it. It's not their problem.

5. Lots of people, like an American I met on vacation here in Tuscany, don't want to pay "more of my money in taxes so we can provide health care to the homeless."

6. Prominent people declare that "health care is not an intrinsic right."

7. Six senators who represent less than 3% of the population of the United States can bring health care negotiations in Congress to a standstill.

8. Many Americans and legislators have a fear of anything that "reeks" of socialism, even if it works.

9. We are not embarrassed to be the only industrialized country in the world that does not offer health care to its citizens, despite having the best trained health care providers and medical infrastructure in the world.

10. The Republican Party wants President Obama to fail. They will do anything, including stacking town hall meetings with angry, inarticulate citizens and making up scare stories about "death panels" to bring this about.

Federico looked perplexed. "But this is not about politics! People could die because they have no money to pay the doctor! They can't buy medicine that will help them live! That is not right!"

I could not find the words, in Italian or English, to explain that away.

Health Care, Italian Style

At first glance, the cross-eyed doctor with thick glasses and tight jeans did not inspire confidence. I could never tell for sure what he was looking at. Add to that my struggles with the Italian language, his total lack of English, and you can understand why I was uneasy at first.

When you spend months at a time in a small Tuscan village with guests of all ages, it is inevitable that you are going to need to see a doctor now and then. I am now a master at accompanying people to the clinic in our village. Located behind the World War I Memorial to the young men of the town who lost their lives in it, the clinic is open every day from 5-7 pm.

The doctor we see works mornings at the new state-of-the-art hospital in nearby Montevarchi. In my experience, with one exception, he shows up at the clinic promptly at 5 pm. The waiting room will already be filled.

The procedure works like this: you enter the clinic and take a seat. New arrivals make a note of those in the room, asking who was the last to be seated so they will know their place in the line. There is no receptionist, no sign-in sheet, nothing. You wait your turn. It works remarkably well.

Italy's health care system provides low or no-cost health care to all citizens of the European Union. That includes tests, surgery, hospitalization, out-patient care, visits to family doctors and specialists (with a referral from the family doctor), dental care, and a part, if not all, of prescription medicine. Emergency care is available to anyone, EU citizen or not. It is possible to buy additional private insurance in order to avoid waiting periods for surgery, or for more creature comforts.

Italian doctors are dedicated and well-trained, and the best private hospitals in the country would rank among the best anywhere in the world.

Let's go back to our little clinic. There was a summer when two visiting children developed mal d'orrechi (earaches). The local dottore was gentle with them, and reassuring (though one of them asked loudly, "Why are his eyes so weird?"). Each had a slight febbra (fever), and they needed antibiotics. He wrote out the prescriptions, which we filled at the local farmicia (pharmacy), and told us to come back in a few days for a check-up. The charge? Nothing for the EU citizens. He asked the Americans for trenta o quaranta euro (thirty or forty euros), their choice. There was no charge for the check-up.

Among our family and guests, the dottore has tended to a skin sfogo (rash), hardened earwax, urinary tract and sinus infections, strange insect bites and migraine headaches. My medical vocabulary has grown to the point where I can discuss these ailments with ease. I am also prepared for any guests who may develop calcolo di renale (kidney stones).

We have had a few occasions when we needed the Pronto Soccorso (emergency room) at the immaculate new hospital in Montevarchi.

On the night before my sister's family was to return to the States, we went out for dinner in the magnificent square of Figline Valdarno. Bob, my brother-in-law, was playing with his little son under the stone arches when he slipped and fell. Hard. He hit his cheekbone and wrist, and it was obvious that the wrist was broken.

As we drove to the Pronto Soccorso, I was searching for the Italian word "to break." Rompere. But I knew it was an irregular verb. Finally my brain released the stored information, lo ha rotto (he broke it).

Upon arrival at the hospital, it was apparent that Bob was in pain and he was seen right away. His name was taken but no one asked for an insurance card. A technician took x-rays and called for the orthopedic doctor, who was at home, but arrived promptly wearing shorts and a tee shirt. Thankfully he spoke English ("I studied English medical books," he told us). He confirmed that the polso (wrist) was broken, reset it and applied an old-fashioned plaster cast that went above the elbow. Bob was told to keep his arm at a right angle and to wiggle his fingers to keep the blood moving. "If the fingers turn blue, you must come back," the doctor said.

Before we left, Bob asked for the bill. Everyone looked confused. Il conto (the bill)? No one knew how much the treatment cost. Could he come back tomorrow? No, he was leaving the country. They were befuddled. He insisted that he had to pay something. After all, he had x-rays, reset bones, a plaster cast, and something for pain. They all shrugged. This was not a problem they had encountered before.

After much confusion, the orthopedic doctor smiled, waved his hands at us and said, "Don't worry. Just consider it a gift from the people of Italy."

You have to love this country.

A follow-up: Bob spent many uncomfortable hours with his arm at a right angle, wiggling his fingers, flying back to Texas. Upon arrival, he went to an orthopedic doctor for a second opinion. The cumbersome cast was replaced with something smaller and lighter, but first the wrist was x-rayed. The consensus was that the reset bones were "spot on, perfect, could not have been done better."

Question: If Italy, a country with a reputation for a certain amount of drama and chaos, can manage to organize and maintain a solid health care system for all of its citizens, along with other European Union countries, why is it so difficult for the United States to do it?

I got an answer of sorts in our local caffe bar. I met an American man renting a house in the area with his young family. We began to chat over our cappuccinos and I mentioned how discouraged I was about the health care battle in Congress. I guess I assumed that anyone who was attracted to the Tuscan hills for a vacation must share my political views.

He smirked and said in a know-it-all way, "We need to fix our economy first. I don't want to have to pay more of my money in taxes to provide health care for the homeless."

Got it.

Ted

There is nothing to say about the death of Ted Kennedy that hasn't already been said. But I have a few memories of my own that I'd like to share.

In the late 1980's and early '90's I worked in the Democratic Leadership offices of the US Senate. You observe a lot about the behavior of legislators when you see them every day.

One of my responsibilities was to organize orientation for newly elected senators. It was fascinating to observe them at the beginning and then a few months later. With a staff of over six thousand serving just one hundred senators, it is not surprising that some of them take on the aspects of royalty. When there are Senators Only dining rooms, Senators Only subway cars, Senators Only elevators, and when people bend over backwards to do what you want and crowds literally part for you, it can bring about a change in self perception.

We all knew the senators who treated staff like they were invisible or belittled them in public. We knew the ones who would not get on staff elevators even if they arrived before the ones marked Senators Only. We all knew from certain events in his life that Kennedy sometimes had a sense of entitlement and used it. On Capitol Hill, though, Kennedy, born to a life of privilege and surrounded all his life by important people, was not like that.

When I saw him around the Senate, he was always larger than life. I mean that, to borrow one of Joe Biden's favorite phrases, "literally, not figuratively." He strode through the halls purposefully, almost always surrounded by staff. More than once, when the elevator did not arrive quickly enough for him, he would say to his staff, "Let's take the steps." The number of floors did not deter him, though sometimes his companions looked daunted by the challenge.

Meanwhile, he was always pleasant, smiling and acknowledging people he passed along the way.

The senators have their offices in one of the three Senate Office Buildings, but almost all of them have a hideaway somewhere in the Capitol Building. The more senior you are, the better the hideaway. Kennedy had a choice one on the second floor, near the Senate Library, with a commanding view of the Mall. I passed by it every day on the way to my attic office. The door was usually closed. Sometimes there would be a trolley outside the door with the remnants of club sandwiches. It's funny what you remember.

One afternoon the door was open and I couldn't resist peeking in. The room was painted a dark Irish green then. Everywhere you looked, on the tables, on the desktop, on the walls, were photographs of his parents, his three brothers, all of whom had died violent deaths, his sisters, his grandparents. There was an overwhelming sense of the past in that room, of the family's history, and it was impossible not to think that so much of it was tragic. The only word I could think of at the time to describe it was poignant. I can't think of a better one now.

It was well known that Ted gave up liquor during Lent. His huge frame would gradually be reduced to large. One evening while working late I was outside the Senate Chamber carrying three bottles of white wine. I can't remember why. The door of the Chamber flew open and there was Senator Kennedy, striding towards me down the hall. I tucked into a small alcove until he passed. Except he didn't. He peered around the alcove with a twinkle in his eye, shook his finger at me and said, "I still have three weeks to go!"

Another of my responsibilities was to organize retreats for Democratic senators. The idea was to get them out of Washington with their families, and arrange for bigshots from various fields to hold panels and discussions with them. It was at one such event that then Senator Al Gore arranged for eminent environmentalists to come and discuss global warming. I remember that the panel was not well attended.

Kennedy always showed up at the retreats. Before he married for a second time in 1992, he and his friend Senator Chris Dodd used to stay up until the wee hours partying and singing show tunes with the staff. Kennedy sang with gusto. He and Dodd were like fraternity brothers.

On one of those retreats, I was working in the control room when I looked up to find Senator Kennedy looming over me.

"Can you help me out?" he asked in a conspiratorial voice.

He wanted to "get credit" for attending the morning session but he didn't want to stay through all of it.

The plan was that after 45 minutes I would take him a note saying that he had to leave for something important. I delivered the note as directed and he studied it solemnly, before excusing himself from the meeting. On his way out, he poked his head into the control room and with that big smile of his, gave me a thumbs up and a thanks.

All of us who appreciated his efforts in the Senate are giving him a silent thumbs up and thanks now. My daughter said it best on Facebook: "Nina would like to thank the Lion of the Senate for all his hard work on behalf of health care, education, and civil rights. It's the end of an era."

Yes, it is.

An Offer They Refused

I'll begin by telling you that The Godfather I and II are among my favorite films. My family and I have seen them so many times we quiz each other: Who said, "I'm the hunted one"? "Let me dip my beak"? "You can't come to Las Vegas and talk to a man like Moe Green like THAT!"?

You get the idea.

John and I were also big fans of TV's The Sopranos. I realized I had been watching it too much when I found myself muttering about an electrician, "What the f--k did that motherf----- do?"

There is a flip side to that record.

Yesterday I watched Paolo Borsellino, a film based on true events in Sicily in the 1980's and early 90's. Borsellino and his closest friend, Giovanni Falcone, were anti-Mafia judges who were making progress in their fight against the criminals. Their successes put their lives, and those who protected them, at risk.

photobucket

Both men were killed by the Mafia in audacious bombing attacks just two months apart in 1992. Falcone's wife died with him, along with three police officers hired to protect him. Borsellino died outside his mother's apartment with five police officers, one of them a young woman.

Their murders caused such outrage in the country that it renewed determination to fight the Mafia. The film uses actual footage of the events to great effect. The emotional funeral speech of Rosaria Schifani, wife of one of the policemen killed with Falcone, in which she pleaded with the Mafia to have the courage to "cambiare" (change) had me in tears though I could not understand every word.

Less than a year later, in 1993, Mafia boss Salvatore Riina was arrested for ordering the murders. He and the man who actually detonated the bombs are serving life sentences.

Stay with me as I move to 1998 or 1999, when part of John's portfolio in Vienna included the United Nations Drug Control Agency.

The head of the Agency was an Italian and former friend of the slain judges. He maintained that the Mafia had been crushed in Sicily, and to prove it, the Agency held a major conference in Palermo. There was to be a trip to Corleone, the village historically at the center of Mafia activity, for presentation of a plaque saying that it was now Mafia-free.

We arrived at Palermo's Falcone-Borsellino Airport to find the city in total lock down. Carabiniere (military police force) had been brought in from all over Italy to protect us. Security was complex and layered. There were cameras and barbed wire everywhere. As our vans made their way through the city, it was eerily deserted. Streets were barricaded and every corner had a contingent of armed soldiers.

The touted trip to Corleone, which was to have included anyone who wanted to go, ended up as a a quick helicopter ride for a few conference bigwigs who buzzed in, had a picture taken with a plaque declaring it to be a Mafia-free zone, and then whirled out again.

Maybe the Mafia was neutralized, but no one was taking any chances. That conference was six or seven years after the assassinations of Borsellino and Falcone and convictions of their murderers.

So where am I going with this?

I am always going to appreciate The Godfather films and The Sopranos TV series for the spellbinding cinematic power (the former) and the writing (the latter). Okay, I have to add the young Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro, too.

In those screen portrayals of the underworld, the bad guys eventually get what they deserve (I think Tony Soprano was killed in the final inconclusive episode).

Film biographies like Paolo Borsellino remind us that too often the good guys don't. Fighting against something rotten gets them killed. Borsellino and Falcone knew the dangers they faced, but as Falcone said, "If you are afraid you die a thousand times. If you are not afraid, you die only once."

It seems to be a given in Italy that there will be occasional outrage at the excesses of the Mafia, some kingpins will be imprisoned, and then life will return to the way it always was.

The Mafia by all its names seems to be alive in 2009, particularly in its home bases of Sicily and Calabria.

Did Borsellino and Falcone die for nothing?

top photo: starpulse.com

Ferragosto

On Ferragosto, August 15, all of Italy comes to a standstill.

The day celebrates the Feast of the Assumption, but what began as a church holiday has extended into a national day of vacating the premises. It is one day of the year when you can drive the death-defying autostrade virtually alone. Everyone is already where they planned to be. If you haven't booked your hotel, particularly at the spiaggia (beach), or restaurant long in advance, you are out of luck.

John and I learned about the importance of August 15 many years ago on a trip to Sardinia. We were cavalierly driving around the island with no advance reservations. The idea was to stop when and where we felt like it. In those days it wasn't easy to find a rental car that offered air-conditioning, so we tooled around in the August heat in a small Fiat Panda, with the windows wide open to blow around the hot air. We were windblown, sweaty, and increasingly grouchy. A few hours of that and we were desperate to find a hotel.

The problem was, we couldn't find one with a room available at any price. It was Ferragosto and everything was booked. We drove up and down the coast, and through the heart of Sardinia (where we read bandits still lived in the hills) trying to find a place a stay. We took the ferry to the island of Maddalena, only to come back again. It was our version of no room at the inn.

After twelve hours or more of getting to know every road in Sardinia, we found a small guesthouse with one room available because of a no-show guest. Neither of us can remember where it was, but we still remember the cool showers, the spotless floor, the snow white bedspread, the ceiling fan and the night breeze.

On Ferragosto this year, John was in London and I stayed in our village. In the morning I went to our local bar caffe to show the women who run it Nina's wedding pictures. They had given the newlyweds a surprise apertivi party after the ceremony last year and were anxious to see the photos.

When they found out I was sola (alone), they insisted that I join them for Ferragosto lunch. They closed the bar from 1:30 - 6:00 pm, "piu o meno" (more or less), and we went upstairs for the feast. After my day in Florence speaking only Italian (see Atelier Adventure blog), I braced myself for another crash language course with the family.

Above the bar there is a small albergo (hotel), and the family home. The family consists of the mother and father, both in their 80's, two sisters in their 50's, their husbands, and three sons (ages 30, 20 and 10). We all gathered around a long table outside of the kitchen.

There is a dining room, but I'm not sure it is ever used. The Mamma showed it to me as if revealing a shrine. There is a huge breakfront across the back wall filled with her treasures, as well as two leather recliners that sit against one wall. The dining table and chairs are in the center of the room under a heavy chandelier, and the wall is hung with blown-up pictures of the parents on their wedding day sixty years ago and with their three grandsons. There is a special place for a photograph of their deceased son taken with Pope John Paul II on an Alitalia flight in which he was an attendant.

The meal was described as "vero toscano" (true Tuscan) and it was delicious. Mamma had prepared shell pasta served with a simple tomato sauce, grilled coniglio (rabbit), pork, string beans, peas, a tomato and cucumber salad, fruit and gelato (ice cream) for dessert. All of the vegetables came from their garden. I had never eaten rabbit before, but it was an honor to be invited so I could not refuse the main dish. It was tender and juicy white meat, much like chicken, and I liked it.

They asked if the Fourth of July was the most important holiday in America. I told them Christmas was first, tied with or followed by Thanksgiving. "Si, si, con il tacchino grande!" (yes, yes, with the big turkey), they shouted in unison. They had seen it on TV.

We discussed food, holiday traditions, how to cook this or that. Once again there was talk about mozzarella di bufala when one of the men left the table for a few minutes and came back with a huge styrofoam container of it. A friend, on his way back from Naples, had dropped it off.

I went away from that lunch feeling gratified. I had been invited to join a local family for Ferragosto lunch, a sure sign of acceptance, and I had made the grade in Italian that day. I gave myself an A-.

I also went away with a few balls of mozzarella di bufala from Napoli.

Atelier Adventure

I woke up on Friday morning trying to remember every Italian grammatical rule I had ever learned. It's something you do when you know you are going to spend the day parlando italiano (speaking Italian). Of course it is a useless exercise.

It was the day to meet three Italian friends at the atelier of another, designer Rina Milano, on the lungarno in Florence. When you know there will be no fallback position to English, it can create a certain anxiety which can lead to a brain freeze. I know this from vast experience in linguistic humiliation.

We met at a park not far from a traffic circle featuring a man under an umbrella that is really a fountain that pours water around him. Though I know Florence well, my friends thought we should meet there so they could drive me into the city center.

"Christina! E` meglio che ci incontriamo fuori il centro! (It is better that we meet outside the center!)," one of them informed me in her usual calm way.

I learned a valuable trick: you can enter zones marked "limited traffic" if you use a parking garage once inside. If not, you will be photographed and ticketed for $100 euros or more. Entrance into the garage cancels out the photo.

Florence in the summer can be hell. The city is taken over by sun-burned tourists in ugly sandals, there is no breeze, and everything of beauty or interest is lost in the crowds.

The trick is to steer clear of those hordes, which my Florentine friends knew how to do. You don't go near the Ponte Vecchio or the Pitti Palace crowds, but not far away you enter a quieter world where the Florentines shop and eat. They led me around the narrow stone streets, pointing out shops and restaurants that they liked. I made a mental note to go back to a beautiful glove shop.

Even in the blistering heat of a Tuscan summer, Italian women of means and a certain age take care when dressing to go in public. A simple navy linen shift might be accessorized with olive green shoes and bag, for example, or a French blue cotton dress is teamed with bright yellow espadrilles and matching leather bag. Discreet jewelry, make-up, not a gray hair in sight. I once read that French women, known for their style, are intimidated only by Italian women. Let's just say you would not find any of them doing their grocery shopping in warm-up suits or without lipstick.

We arrived at the atelier, an old palazzo situated right on the Arno river. The thick stones and soaring ceilings kept the place cool. It was minimally but elegantly decorated with antique tables, deep sofas, old mirrored screens. There were a few racks of beautiful clothes, all arranged by color. Rina is working on the winter collection now. All of her friends wear these clothes, which I am sure she discounts heavily for them.

She led us to her workroom, where she employs seven cutters and seamstresses, all on vacation in August. On a large white work table in the center of the room, surrounded by sewing machines, fabric, and half-finished garments, she had arranged square black dishes, clear glasses, and a huge bouquet of white flowers for our lunch.

It was hot, so the meal was cold. She served three huge balls of mozzarella di bufalo that oozed milk when cut, along with small chunks of salami.

"Mia suocera a Napoli ha fatto tutte a due (my mother-in-law in Naples made both of them)" Rina told us.

Then there were garden tomatoes, served slightly hard and not fully red, which is the way Italians prefer them, though I don't get that. Grilled artichokes, capers and fresh bread rounded out the meal along with a chilled rosé. Afterwards she put sweet, juicy plums on the table, and then served scoops of pale pink grapefruit gelati (ice cream) presented in pink cups for dessert. A perfect summer lunch.

All of these women eat with gusto and the only thing you really have to say at the table is, "Mmm...buoni, eh? (mmm...good, huh?)." A discussion of food followed, as it always does, and I participated in that. Was mozzarella di bufala really better than mozzarella di fior di latte? Dipende (it depends). This led to a discussion of when and where they had eaten the best mozzarella. I was on safe ground.

As the wine flowed, their conversation took on the rapid pace that can easily leave me scampering (well, limping) to catch up. I learned more about two of them: one had been an actress in Florentine theater for years, another was a restoration artist who had been active in the aftermath of the Florence flood of 1966 that destroyed so many of the city's treasures. "Ero molto, molto giovane, (I was very, very young)" she assured me. Both still dabbled in those professions, but marriage and motherhood had led them "sulla strada diversa" (on a different road).

When the jokes began, I got lost. Punch lines that left them screaming in laughter sailed over my head. In that situation, don't you wonder if you should just laugh anyway? I think the blank look on my face and the sick, uncertain smile on my lips probably gave me away.

Insomma (anyway).

I grade myself on how well I do in the language on a given day. I came home thinking I deserved no better than a C+ for my adventure at the atelier. Il mio cervello era fritto (my brain was fried).

Oh, but I did manage to communicate enough to order a dress, silk, v-neck, with 3/4 sleeves, flattering to my Mediterranean shape (pear).