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.

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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).

Friday in Fiesole

We spent last Friday evening in a Renaissance garden in the hills of Fiesole, just outside Florence.

Our friend Federico and his wife invited us for dinner and to see their new home, a small palazzo built in the 1500's. As we made our way down a narrow street and entered the small courtyard, forgive the cliche, but it really was like stepping back in time.

Federico met us at the iron gate leading up a broad stone staircase to a garden that took my breath away. It was a huge space, with high walls on two sides and a partial view of Florence in the distance to the left. One of the walls had the remnants of a fading fresco. The graveled pathways were lined with great pots of lemon trees, roses, and statuary. In winter, the lemon trees are moved into a vast limonaia, a long, low building built especially for that purpose on the right of the garden. John immediately began calculating how many apartments he could make out of it.

We met Federico years ago indirectly through Monica Lewinsky. Yes, that Monica. We often had lunch at the same place in Castelfranco, and had noticed him (it is hard not to, given his big personality) dining in the corner. Before the Monica and Bill episode, we had only nodded at each other. But one afternoon, we made his acquaintance when he asked in fluent but awkward English:

"Boy, what is wrong with Clinton? I can understand why he would make love to Kathleen Willey! Wow! She is classy woman! Refined! But boy! Why Monica Lewinsky?"

A firm friendship was born.

Federico is a manufacturer who makes decorative items for the house. The bane of his existence are the Chinese, who steal his ideas at trade shows and then make them for a fraction of the price.

"Boy," he will say, "If they drop a nuclear bomb on China, we will have a party!"

Federico and his wife adopted a Romanian baby years ago. That fortunate child is now a lovely young Italian woman of twenty one. When Federico proposed to his wife over thirty years ago, she told him that she should not accept because she knew she was unable to have a child.

"I want to marry you, not your womb," he told her. How can you not love such a man?

Let me get back to last Friday's dinner...they invited four other couples, all close friends of theirs. One spoke English. I braced myself for an evening of intensive Italian. We had met the couples before, so it was a friendly reunion. They were all prominent people in their fields, but warm and down to earth. Like many Italians, they were tactile, touching each other and us to make a point, or just to show affection.

While the barbecue was heating up, Federico served icy lemonade (made from his lemons) with vodka. Since I was driving, I stuck to plain lemonade, which needed no sugar.

Federico laughed as he told us that he had an order to make twelve thousand wooden crosses for a shop in Assisi. The owner wanted them mounted with flourescent Christs (from China) and with "Greetings from Assisi" written on the backs of each one.

We dined in the garden around a square table, under a cloth pergola aglow with candles. The menu was simple: pappa di pomodoro (a tomato bread soup), steak and pork grilled over a wood fire, tomatoes, mozzarella, potato salad, white beans, ricotta and vegetable strata (layers), grilled peppers, fruit for dessert.

The conversation was thankfully not difficult. John was next to the English speaker, so he was comfortable. I was even able to translate things for him. It was a good night for my language recall. Italians spend a lot of time discussing food, so it is easy for me to stay on the conversational path.

I was seated next to a dress designer, Rina, a soft-spoken and lovely woman who was pleasant to talk to. The woman to my left, Sandra, a gregarious blonde, said I should see Rina's atelier.

"John, take away the credit card of Christina before she goes!" Federico interrupted.

The other women at the table decided we should all meet for lunch on Friday and afterwards go to the atelier together. I was pleased to be invited, but worried about spending a whole afternoon, which would include trying on clothes, speaking Italian. On the other hand, "E` troppo piccolo" (It's too small) is likely to be the only thing I will have to say then.

We discussed the mad traffic in Florence, and the thousands of young people on motorini (little motorcycles). Italian kids don't get their driver's licenses for cars until they are eighteen, but at fourteen, they are allowed to drive a motorino. Manipulating a car among those swarming locusts is an experience I can't adequately describe. They are everywhere, swerving in and out of traffic, treating road rules only as suggestions. In Florence alone, at least twenty of those kids are killed on the road every year.

The eminent Florentine lawyer at the table (the English speaker) said, "Our son had an accident on his motorino. He drove straight into a tree and he survived without a scratch! And listen to this! He had his accident on the exact day, at the exact time, that the Pope died! I am not a religious man, but isn't that strange?"

"E` un miracolo, davvero," (It's a miracle, truly) someone murmured.

"Yes, but the tree is dead!" declared Federico.

This group, along with two other couples, vacation together every year. This year they are going to Corsica. "We find a villa with a six bedrooms and a minimum of four bathrooms," I was told, "And we have a beautiful time together. There is never one moment of tension among us."

I am jealous of that. We have a lot of friends, but could we put together five other couples who would all agree on where to go, how much to pay, and get along with each other when we got there? Maybe so. Maybe not. I would love it, though.

There is another adventure in store on Friday when I will meet these women in Florence for lunch and more. I asked Rina a crucial question: "Accetate American Express?"

She assured me that she does.

Stay tuned.

The Devil Inside

I went to Mass this morning. It was the first time in twenty five years that I have attended a Sunday service.

We got up at five am because John had an early flight out of Florence. When I drove back to the village, I decided to go church. To be truthful, I thought about it before I left the house, which is why I put on a skirt, earrings, and nice sandals for the airport run.

I fell in love with the simplicity of the church of San Tommasso in our village when we first visited it in 1985. Originally built in the 15th century, it consists of stone, polished terracotta floors, wood, and stucco. There is a painting of the Madonna and Child from 1597, and a few other paintings from the 17th and 18th centuries. It is as far removed from the vulgarity and ostentatious wealth on display in St. Peter's in Rome as it can be.

The service I thought started at 9 am began at 9:30, so I sat there with only a few others for longer than I expected. I thought of leaving. What was I doing there anyway?

I was surprised to see an English couple who live here half the year come in with a guitar. "We sing in the choir," the wife told me, "We're nervous about it, but we're trying." I know they struggle with the language as I do, so I was impressed.

There was a portly guy dressed in khakis who turned out to be one of the priests. He was in the small alcove to my left sitting in a chair against the side wall, staring at the floor. Eventually a few people approached him and I realized they were making their confessions out in the open, without the secret cabinets that I remember as a child. I could even hear a few of them, and if I just had a better grasp of the language, I would know if Lorenzo was coveting his neighbor's wife or if Dorata had poisoned her suocera (mother-in-law).

The church filled to capacity with people of all ages, but the young were in the minority (I'm told most of them go to the 11 am service because "they are up late at the disco"). The choir entered. There were only eight members, three men with guitars and five women. Another priest began the service. He was handsome and the devil in me wondered if he was gay or a child molester. I fought back the rude thoughts.

After all these years, my outward behavior in the pew was as the nuns taught me as a child: don't cross your legs, knees together, sit up straight, do not turn your head away from the altar. I tried crossing my legs at one point but could not do it. I noticed that the women around me were observing the same rules. I actually tried in vain to find someone with crossed legs.

The choir began and they sounded beautiful. Most of the congregation joined in. None of the melodies were familiar to me, but they were pleasing. The Italian language made them prettier still.

The acoustics made the choir sound lovely, but the priest's voice echoed all over the high beamed ceilings and I could hardly catch a word. No matter. Sermons have always bored me.

I recognized the nuns that we see walking in a group after sunset on the Setteponti Road, most of them from India or Bangladesh. The devil reared his head again and I thought, they can't get them from anywhere but impoverished countries now...probably found them in an orphanage. I shrugged that thought off.

A young-ish woman in the choir got up to read the Epistle. Her appearance made me think she was a lesbian (not that there's anything wrong with that). She had been sitting with a woman and a little boy, so I jumped to the conclusion that they were a couple. I admit it was the "butch" haircuts they both wore that led me to that assumption. Side note: I was wrong. The short haircut is apparently popular among straight women in town, too. It is cooler and easier to maintain in the summertime.

Nearly everyone went to Communion. I thought about it, but the voices of those wimpled ladies from my childhood warned me: after all these years, don't you dare!

The devil surfaced again and this time he brought to mind Karl Marx's over-quoted statement that "religion is the opiate of the masses." Well yes, it is, and thank goodness for it.

On the other hand, the people around me this morning were not "the masses." This town is fairly prosperous, people have what they need, quality of life is good. So they were in church for something else. I don't know why I was there. To feel a part of the community? As an observer of Tuscan church habits? Well, yes and yes and...

I have such complicated feelings about religion. I was indoctrinated early and rejected most of what I was taught. What I kept I treasure and am thankful for.

But religious fervor has been the cause of so much suffering in history and continues today. How can that be a good thing? Still, I am uncomfortable when people say they are atheists. I don't care that they are, but it always seems like a smug assertion. How can any of us know for sure? Can we really think there is nothing bigger than us?

My family and friends will tell you I won't talk about religion. If asked, I say I don't talk about it and my beliefs are personal.

So why did I just write this post?

Marriage, Italian Style

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"Mom, we've decided we want to get married in Italy when we come there in two weeks. Can you arrange it?

I received that phone call a little over a year ago at our place in the Tuscan hills.

Nina and Mike had been engaged since March and had explored different options for their wedding. They considered a big event in Washington, but both had attended so many weddings that the idea did not appeal to them. Maybe they did not want to address the church-or-not question. For awhile they considered getting married the following spring outside of Florence. The question of when and where changed daily.

Then they made their decision.

I liked the idea but was hesitant about the vagaries of Italian bureaucracy. We proceeded with the understanding that things could fall through at the last minute. It was also understood that a big celebration would be held in Washington for family and friends later in the fall.

Nina and Mike did their bit at the Italian Embassy in Washington, while John and I made arrangements with the American Consulate in Florence, where they had to present themselves and all the paperwork. So far so good.

At the Consulate they were told to go to "any tabacchi" to get the official stamps before taking the paperwork to the Prefuttura, which closed at 11 am. Who knew that most of the tabacchi in Florence are closed on Tuesday mornings in August? But luck was with us. We were told we could get the stamps at the LOTTO shops. Marriage is a gamble, so why not?

With the official papers in hand, we raced back to the town hall in our village to present them for consideration before 1 pm. Everything was in order. It was August 5. The ceremony was set for Friday, August 8.

The Chinese considered 8-8-08 such a harbinger of good luck that they chose to open the Olympics then. Brides in China were lining up to book the date for their weddings. They hadn't talked to Renato, the padrone of the town's main caffe/tabacchi.

"No! You must change the date! In Italy it is bad luck to get married on Tuesdays or Fridays!"

So we changed to August 7, a lucky Thursday.

Our friends Simon and Georgia were designated as the witnesses. There would be only twelve of us at the ceremony, including Simon's family, our goddaughter and her boyfriend, and our friend Jill. All just happened to be in town at the time.

The wedding would be held in the beamed, centuries old ceremony room of the town hall. We were allowed to decorate it on the morning of the wedding, provided we finished by 1 pm, when everything in town closes until 4:30 pm.

The only florist in town was closed for ferie (vacation) for two weeks, so John, Georgia and I set out on an expedition to find fresh flowers. We struck out. Either the shops were closed or they had nothing that looked alive. We were baking under the Tuscan sun, and had a 1 pm deadline.

We drove by a field of sunflowers and looked at each other. Should we? John took a detour to a hardware shop to buy a pair of clippers. We pulled into the field and John crept (no small thing for a 6'6" man) among the flowers, snipping left and right. Georgia kept watch and I drove the getaway car.We made the deadline and the room looked beautiful for the 6 pm wedding.

Sindaca (mayor) Rita Papi performed the ceremony while Mike's parents and our daughter Alyssa listened in on open cell phones. Nina was radiantly beautiful in a simple white cotton eyelet dress with white roses in her hair.

After the rings were exchanged, Nina and Mike went out onto the balcony overlooking the piazza. A small group of women had gathered to see the bride. The owner of a small dress store played romantic music that swept across the square. She also distributed tiny pastas to the crowd, who showered the newlyweds with it when they appeared outside.

We made our way through the village, stopping first to see Renato, who opened bottles of prosecco to toast the couple who had the good sense not to get married on a Friday.

We stopped at Bengio and Carla's grocery for more kisses and good wishes before making our way to the Bar Turismo, where Manuela and Marena, the sisters who run it, had prepared a special surprise party for the couple.

We ended up at Il Corvo Ristorante, where the owner Antonio had outdone himself preparing a beautiful table for us. As a gift to the couple, he had arranged for music by Nino. Nino occasionally pointed to the bride and proclaimed, "Nina!" then pointed to himself and exclaimed, "Nino!"

It was a merry night with too much food, lots of laughter, dancing and love.
The grand finale was the presentation of the wedding cake, a millefoglie in Italy. As it was brought in, decorated with small fountains of fireworks, Nino played music that all of us thought was the theme to "Rocky."

It was un matrimonio perfetto (a perfect wedding) in a tiny Italian village in the Tuscan hills.

It was one year ago tomorrow. Tanti auguri.