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.