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).