Monday 9 November 2009

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.




Saturday 7 November 2009

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.



Thursday 5 November 2009

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."



Sunday 1 November 2009

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.