Christopher

Christopher Hitchens died today, and he would be pleased with the obituaries appearing in the most prominent and important newspapers and magazines on both sides of the Atlantic. He always liked attention. If there is an after-life, which he didn't believe in, he must be enjoying this moment. I hope he is.

He was a good friend until he betrayed our great mutual pal, Sidney Blumenthal, during the Clinton-Lewinsky hearings in 1998. His actions might have led to Sidney being tried for perjury and jailed. What kind of person does that to a best friend?

We knew we would miss his wit, charm and blinding (often intimidating) brilliance, but his act of betrayal was so egregious that many of us could never forgive or trust him again. To his dying day he could never explain why he acted as he did. I have heard that right afterwards he told his wife, "I just made the biggest mistake of my life," but that is something we will never know. He certainly never did anything later to indicate any regrets about his actions.

We met Christopher and his first wife Eleni Meleagrou just after they moved to Washington in the early 1980's. They lived in a tiny house in a shady part of Capitol Hill in those days, but they always gave interesting dinner parties for which Eleni cooked up wonderful food. At one of those parties we met Sidney and Jackie Blumenthal, who became, and still are, close friends.

After Eleni gave birth to their first child, Alexander, we gave them our changing table and other nursery items and Sid and Jackie gave them toys that had belonged to their boys.

Christopher was a loving but rather perplexed father. I remember him sitting in our living room and declaring he had no idea what he could offer his son: "He'll ask if I want to play football (soccer) and I'll have to say no. He'll ask if I want to watch sports on TV and I'll have to say not interested. He'll want me to teach him to drive and I'll have to say I don't know how."

I have a clear memory of him in our kitchen trying to soothe a crying baby Alexander by tempting him with strained bananas: "Try these yummy bananas, darling, yum-yum," said the man who could recite most of Hamlet from memory.

He left Eleni while she was expecting their second child and just as his star, and income, were beginning to rise in the United States. He had fallen in love with Carol Blue, who always wore black. Some of us formed a support group for Eleni until she found her equilibrium again, and in time we came to accept and like Carol, who clearly worshiped Christopher. They were married by the same rabbi who married Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller. Carol wore a black suit.

Christopher was a conscientious father to his children with Eleni, taking them on weekends and trying to cook for them. Jackie Blumenthal taught him how to make bacon in the microwave, which he declared to be life-changing because he wouldn't have to cope with a frying pan.

When our daughter Nina was attending Skidmore College, Christopher was invited to speak there. The faculty arranged an exclusive dinner for him beforehand. Christopher asked that Nina, whom he had known since she was a little girl, be invited to that dinner and spent the entire time talking to her about her studies while the faculty sat slack-jawed around them. He declined his meal, saying he never ate before a speaking engagement. Of course that did not apply to drinks, of which he had quite a few.

We have many fond memories of Christopher: brunches that started at 11 am and went on until 9:30 pm; his plummy voice narrating John's 50th birthday video; being excited, but pretending not to be, when he was invited to the British Embassy to meet Princess Diana and Prince Charles; dancing the hora at the Bar Mitzvah of Sid Blumenthal's son; posing in his daughter's pink-flowered bonnet at our Easter lunch; his crushes on Margaret Thatcher and Jean Kirkpatrick (whom he called "the cat"); his game of replacing the word "heart" with the word "dick" in songs and book titles, as in "The Dick of the Matter," "Unchain my Dick," "Dickbreak Hotel, "Don't Go Breaking my Dick."

When someone who was once a great friend dies, you don't forget the things that caused the break in your relationship, but you begin to recall the good times you had together, too. We could have had so many more if it weren't for that one unforgivable act of betrayal. And for what?

Walk on By

After my last post, Stuff (November 4, 2011), one would think I would never go near stores again, right? I don't take part in the Black Friday frenzy, but here in London it doesn't exist so it was safe to peruse a shop or two. After all, Christmas is coming.

The stores are decorated, crowded, and laden with tempting Christmas displays, but I was resolute. Those amusing stocking stuffers? I passed on them. They amuse for about five minutes and then the recipient has to figure out what to do with them. They end up in the back of a drawer with last year's stocking stuffers.

What about those cheery Christmas mugs decorated with happy Santas or frolicking reindeer? I've fallen under their spell before, picturing the family sitting around the tree drinking hot chocolate out of them while a picturesque snow falls outside the window.

How often do you think that has happened? Even if it does, you still have those Christmas mugs taking space in your kitchen cupboard for the other eleven months of the year.

Having said that, I know people who have sets of Christmas dishes, glasses and silverware that they bring out just for the season. I have been tempted by this. Perhaps I will succumb in the future, but not this year.

Now what about all those sparkly clothes we see in shop windows? "For all those holiday parties!" a sign tells us. I read it and I'm drawn in, though we only go to maybe three holiday parties and most people are wearing tasteful black with perhaps a splash of seasonal red. I picture some festive event where the winter white sparkling number before me would be just the thing. You never know. But I resist the temptation.

What about those adorable Christmas socks? Can you wear Santa around your ankles after December? I was once seduced by green felt elf slippers with white fur inside and three red balls on the instep. How festive! I bought a pair for each of our two then-teenage daughters. They rolled their eyes in horror, but wanting to indulge their mother in her Christmas vision, gamely wore them on Christmas Eve and morning. After that the slippers were banished to a drawer where they remained until our recent house clean-out.

The sparkly, cheery enticements of the festive season are hard to ignore, but I resisted almost all retail temptation today. My theme song was Dionne Warwick's "Walk on By."

It is easy to keep a tune in your head because most London shops are mercifully free of Christmas music. The Little Drummer Boy's incessant ba-rup-a-bum-bum can cause nerves to fray as you ponder whether buying Spanx for someone would be taken as an insult. "Silent Night" doesn't work when people are pushing you out of the way to get to the sale rack. And let's remember "O Come All Ye Faithful" wasn't written to lure people into shops.

Stuff

We have too much stuff.

We're moving next week, so we've been in the throes of packing up after living here for ten years. Our apartment is not cluttered and I am organized, but we've still managed to accumulate a whole dining room full of stuff to give away.

Let's start with clothes. We've all heard the rule if you haven't worn it in a year and a half, get rid of it. What makes us, then, hold on to the bulky sweaters bought in anticipation of going to a football game, except we haven't gone to one since high school?

Why on earth did we buy six ill-fitting galabayas (they were cheap!) in Egypt? Do we really think we're going to wear those six-inch green leather boots again? What made us think a bright turquoise leather jacket, bought in the straw market in Florence, was a good idea? When there is a fabulous sale at Macy's, why do we fall for the three for the price of two bargains when we didn't even need one to begin with?

When you travel it is tempting to buy items that remind you of the places you've been. Be careful. Will that four-foot carved giraffe really find a place in your home? Those marble chopsticks look beautiful, but do you need twelve sets? Do those African masks really work with your country French tables? Are you actually going to wear a sari? A brightly colored muumuu? English teapots are beautiful, but isn't one enough? How many bars of lavender or olive oil soaps, intended as gifts, are still in your gift drawer, along with silk scarves and ethnic necklaces?

It's time to get rid of all those VHS tapes, too. In the age of iTunes, should we hang on to all our CD's? And photographs! Do yourself a favor and throw away all your photos of unidentified people and scenery. You can't remember who or where it was and no one else will ever care.

Paperback books should be recycled. How is it possible to accumulate over one hundred pens but not one can be found when you need it? Paper clips? Boxes of staples? And cords! A whole boxful of them with no idea where they go or what they do. Where did all the letter openers come from?

How many sets of sheets are actually used, assuming they are changed once a week and you have a washer-dryer? That NYC street fair might have been selling 400-count king-sized sheet sets for twenty dollars, but really, aren't they just taking up space in the linen closet?

I do house clean-outs fairly often so I am astounded by the amount of stuff we have. In the USA, charities abound that come to your home to collect donated items. It is different in the UK, or at least in London. I could not find one charity to do so. There are also strict rules: no furniture is accepted unless it has a fire tag on it. I unknowingly cut the fire tags off a long time ago. No electrical items can be accepted because they might be faulty and the recipient could get a shock (I'm not kidding). I was able to take books and tapes to a local Oxfam.

The rest? We had to call a home clearance business that charged us to haul away (and they will later sell) all the things we thought we couldn't live without.

The Highway Duel

Do you remember Steven Spielberg's first film, The Duel? A terrified motorist (played by Dennis Weaver) is stalked by a menacing truck, driver unseen. Drive on the autostrade in Italy and you can bring that film to life in your own car.

There is something about a huge hulking mass of metal right on the tail of your little Fiat Panda that surely takes weeks off your life. Signs overhead urge drivers to mantenere una distanza di sicurezza (maintain a safe distance), but as far as I can see, I'm the only one trying to do it. The other drivers feel the need to fill in those empty spaces, sometimes with camions (trucks).

The A1 is the main highway between Italy's largest cities, Milan and Rome, and portions of it are made up of only a slow lane and a passing one. There is no room for anything in between. There is a stretch between Bologna and Florence where this is compounded by the twists and turns and tunnels of driving through mountains. The signs may urge you to rallentare! (slow down!) but everyone seems to ignore them.

On this steep highway you may find yourself behind a long line of barely moving trucks. You move to pass them only to discover the vehicle that seemed far away in your rear view mirror is suddenly on your bumper, with the driver blowing his horn and flashing his lights for you to move over. You would gladly do so if only the lane to your right was not full of barely moving vehicles riding each other's bumpers and leaving no room for you.

What to do?

After nearly two decades of living in Europe, I am used to the Monte Carlo 500 driving habits of Europeans on the autostrades (super highways) of various countries. I find the French the most angrily aggressive. Germans are impatient. Austrians will follow you until you stop so they can inform you that you have done something wrong. The Italians don't care what you do wrong as long as you get out of their way.

Coping with Italian drivers is taken to a new level when they are truckdrivers. They are bullies on the road. You can almost always count on them to move into your lane abruptly, without a signal. Some seem to enjoy scaring you as they close in on your bumper in a tunnel at night, flashing their lights and honking horns that echo loudly in the confined space. It must have been such an experience that inspired Steven Spielberg to make The Duel. Don't be fooled into thinking the truck with a large picture of Padre Pio on the back of it has a saintly driver. He is hell on wheels.

Not long ago an Italian road safety group set up cameras on some of Italy's main highways to focus on the driving habits of truckdrivers. Almost all were filmed talking on cellphones ("but that's normal for everyone," an Italian friend told me). The clip that got people talking was the driver caught eating spaghetti as he drove his truck one-handedly down the autostrade. My friend pointed out in all seriousness that penne would have been easier to handle.

My own experience with the multi-tasking of Italian truck drivers took place a few years ago on a stretch between Milan and Bologna. Perhaps lured into a sense of security by the long straight road, the driver decided to relax a little. As we passed, I looked up to see him with one bare foot on the dashboard and his left hand on the wheel. He had an electric shaver in his right hand, smoothing over his cheeks and checking his progress in the rear view mirror.

I don't know about his beard, but I thought we just had a pretty close shave.

Thoughts Arising from An Ice Cream Cone

There was a minor panic at the local cafeteria/gelateria this week. Why? The gelato cooler was on the blink. On an ordinary day in the scorching August heat of a Tuscan summer, this represents a significant loss of daily revenue. This week, though, no gelato means the loss of big business. Why? The annual festa is in town.

The festa is what we know as a carnival. It moves from town to town in the summertime, exciting children as well as adults who still have a child lurking within them. In our small paese (village), it also means all the negozi (stores) stock special items and stay open past midnight so the festa goers can pick up a broom, a set of dishes, a vacuum or a ham on their way to or from the rides and games set up in the local soccer field.

The town piazza buzzes with activity. Two pizzerias and one ristorante/wine bar are full of customers, while music plays on a stage in a corner of the square and people of all ages stroll around. There is no bedtime for Italian children in the summertime, so the streets are full of strollers and toddlers, as well as little kids weaving in and out on bikes and scooters.

Side note: an Italian friend of mine visiting Ireland was appalled that children were put to bed at a set time. "They were crying because they wanted to stay up with everyone else, but their parents made them go to bed! How cruel!"

But back to the saga of the gelato cooler. In late August almost all businesses in the area are in ferie (on vacation), including the one that could repair the cooler. Our friends at the gelateria shrugged their shoulders in the way Italians do to convey "We're at their mercy." You could sense them calculating how many gelato euros would be lost during the five-day festa.

Italy has a reputation for being chaotic with an allora (whatever) attitude to schedules or urgent repair needs. Perhaps that is so in other parts of the country, particularly south of Rome, but we haven't found it to be the case in our experience.

Examples: a few days ago we had big leak in our furnace room. A part had gone bad. We were told it could not be fixed until the next day, which was soon enough for us. However, a few hours later the plumber reappeared with the part and fixed it in no time.

Sixteen years ago we renovated our centuries-old stone farmhouse here while we were living in Vienna. This meant the work was done while we were not around. We made monthly visits to check on the progress. It took almost a year to complete, and I can honestly say in that time we only found two minor and easily amended things that had not been done correctly.

I compare that with the renovation we did to our apartment in London ten years ago. We visited the site every single day and every single day we found a problem. Big problems, too, like the wrong door taken out (they hadn't read the blueprints), the tile laid incorrectly, the wood floors put down badly, doors hung so you had to go around them to get out, etc.

But before I digress into Italy vs. England comparisons, I know you are in suspense about the gelato cooler. With the festa in full swing, and the caffeteria/gelateria in a prime location, what happened?

A sympathetic technician at the refrigeration company came through for them and repaired the cooler in time for the opening of the festa. The relief was palpable.

Last night crowds gathered around the cooler to choose among the delicious guste (flavors), made daily from fresh ingredients. You can travel all over the world but you will never find ice cream better than what we have right here in this small Italian paese. Don't be jealous. I'll have a cone for each of you.

You Have Found America!

"Hai trovato America!" is an expression Italians use when someone strikes it lucky.

As an example: A friend found a stray dog wandering near her house in the Tuscan countryside. It was matted, full of ticks and fleas. My friend took her to the vet and said to do everything necessary to bring the dog back to health. The vet exclaimed, "Il canino ha trovata America!" (The little dog has found America).

Since the turn of the 20th century, Italians have viewed America as a golden place where one could go and start a new life. It was possible for an illiterate peasant from Calabria to emigrate, start a business, send for his family, support those left behind, and raise his children to be American doctors and lawyers. This optimistic picture is one that lies deep in the Italian view of the United States.

An Italian friend tells me, "America has always been everything to us. Our ancestors went there for a better life, you liberated us during World War II, we love the music, the way of life, the friendliness, the movies, the big spaces. It is every Italian's dream to visit America."

Except, that friend continues, "E' sembra che America ha perso la via" (It seems America has lost the way).

I've been in a small Tuscan village during the dramatic deficit showdown, arguments over the legality of Obama's health care, and the rise of (gulp) Michelle Bachmann. Throw in the three continuing wars, too. It isn't obvious the people of this small paese would be paying attention, but nearly every day someone asks me why things are so bad in the States. I should emphasize they asked the same question during the Bush years.

The difference is they considered Bush truly dangerous and they generally like Obama. After his election, their usually positive view of America, lost during the Bush years, was restored overnight. They grasp "i suoi nemici lo vogliono a faillire" (his enemies want him to fail) but do not understand why he was "non piu forte" (not stronger) during the battle of the budget when he had the authority to use a big club. I tell them even his diehard supporters are at a loss to explain some of his actions.

They are worried because "che accede in America colpisce il mondo" (what happens in America affects the world). Obama needs "meno cerebrale e piu' muscoli" (less brain and more brawn), they say. They know he has strength because he defeated the Clinton machine to become our first black president, and he, not Bush, can take credit for tracking down Osama bin Laden, but then "cosa gli e' successo" (what happened to him)?

At dinner with Italian friends recently, one told me that for her, the hardest thing to understand is the lack of American health care and the opposition to providing it. She works in a hospital and can not comprehend how even dying people can be turned away from many hospitals in the States if they have no insurance. She knows Obama has passed a health care bill and finds it inconceivable that there is a movement to reverse it. "I would not like to live in a country like that. E' senza cuore (It is heartless). We have many problems here in Italy but at least we take care of our sick people. What kind of country won't do that?"

The only riposta (response) I have found is "non so" (I don't know).

Baby Love

If reincarnation exists, I'd like to come back as a baby in our Italian village. The adoration that would come my way! The faces that would light up at the sight of me. My feet would be tickled, my cheeks lovingly tweaked. Hundreds of kisses would be showered on me. Sweets and presents would be thrust into my tiny hands. I'd be elaborately decked out in baby finery.

There would be abundant sympathy and a frantic desire to comfort me when I was unhappy. I would be called "Amore" (love) by everyone. If I made a mess at a risortante, I would be told "non importa" (loosely, no one cares). If I happened to come back as a blonde, blue-eyed baby, I could own the town.

It is a cliche that Italians love babies, but it is easy to see how the cliche got started if you accompany a baby around this paese (small country village). A visit to the forno (oven) for bread can take up a half hour while the commessa (sales woman) drops everything at the sight of the baby, hands him biscotti (cookies) and takes him from his stroller for a cuddle. The other customers forget about their pane (bread) and join in the baby love.

A stroll down a side street can bring an unknown woman out of her negozio (shop) with a balloon for "il bimbo" (slang for baby boy). Preening Italian males in their designer shirts, pants, shoes, sunglasses, and probably underwear, let down their stylish guard to coo at a baby.

With such affection for babies, it is surprising to learn that Italy has one of the lowest birth rates in Europe, with an average of 1.3 children. This is despite the ban on birth control mandated by the Catholic Church.

People of all ages may fill the churches on Sunday mornings, but they have obviously decided the Pope and other unmarried, childless clergy in the Vatican are not going to tell them how many children to have. My take on that is if you don't play the game, you don't make the rules. But I digress.

Young people in Italy delay marriage for a few reasons, but one of the most obvious is the tendency of the Italian male to live at home. This is accepted and often encouraged by his parents (see "Mamma's Boys," October 22, 2009). These men are so numerous they have a name: "mammoni." When they finally decide to walk down the aisle, it is often with a pregnant bride or with their baby as part of the wedding party.

More and more Italian women work outside the home, making large families difficult to manage. There is not a strong and reliable day care system, either. At least in this town, grandparents tend to the children while the mother and father are at work.

Everyone seems to benefit from that solution, but some families don't have the benefit of such an arrangement (though I am hard pressed at this moment to think of even one family here who does not have it). Things are different, certainly, when parents and grandparents do not live near each other, or if the grandparents are still working themselves.

Our daughter and husband, en route to Italy with their (our) baby, told us about an encounter at airport security in the USA. Naturally, they were carrying some baby food in their hand luggage for an eight hour journey. The TSA agent, full of self importance and stupidity, insisted the baby food jars be opened in order to swab them. This meant the baby food, unless used within an hour, which it would not be, had to be thrown away.

When they left Italy, our daughter worried about security at the airport here. We assured her that Italian security, while thorough and quite strict, would use common sense when they saw them with the baby and all the paraphernalia needed to make a transatlantic journey with one. Sure enough, the three sailed through security, but not without at least one or two of the security agents smiling and waving "Ciao" to the baby.

Rush to Judgment

Dominque Strauss-Kahn was released from house arrest and had his bail lifted after serious questions were raised about the credibility of the Sofitel maid who accused him of rape. The questions were raised by the prosecution team, not the defense.

The woman in question retracted her earlier statement that she hid in the hall until DSK left the premises and then reported the event to her supervisor. Now she says she cleaned two rooms, including his, before reporting the attack.

The prosecution team says they uncovered her involvement with criminals. She lied about the circumstances that led her to seek asylum in the United States. She is a con-artist, with several bank accounts with over $100k in them, and she has been paying big phone bills on five cell phones, though she says she only owns one.

This is quite a different story than the one we heard about after the alleged attack.  The woman then was painted as a devout Muslim with a stellar work record who had escaped her country after being gang-raped by soldiers. She had been so traumatized by DSK's attack that it was thought she could only be telling the truth.

We were told he fled the hotel in such a hurry that he left his cell phone behind. How could such an important man do that unless he was rattled?   

I certainly rushed to judgment. At first I thought it might have been a political set-up, but all the news reports seemed to indicate guilt. When the goddaughter of his second wife revealed that he had attacked her in much the same way,  and former call girls said he had been "very aggressive," I was convinced of it (see The Defense, May 27 and Bad Boys, June 11). 

Now I am inclined to think they had consensual sex, as he said, and she tried to extort him. "Can't liars also be raped?" someone asked.  Yes, but do they vacuum rooms right afterwards? It all points to her guilt now, doesn't it?

This time, though, I am not rushing to judgment.

NOTE:  Hotel maids do get attacked. Less than a month after the DSK affair, Egyptian businessman Mahmoud Abdel-Salam Omar was accused of sexual abuse of a maid at The Pierre hotel in New York City.  He entered a guilty plea. 

The Weiner Effect

In my last post (Bad Boys, June 11) I mentioned that Mildred, Arnold Schwarzenegger's housekeeper, had kept a discreet silence up until that time,  but we could be sure she would be enticed into telling her story for a generous sum. 

She apparently got an offer she couldn't refuse. She and her Arnold look-a-like son are featured in Britain's Hello magazine and also the National Enquirer in the States (and you know your eyes skim over it in the grocery check-out line, don't lie).

She is different from the other bad girls out there, who are even now considering monetary offers, in that she apparently did not want the story to become public knowledge. By some accounts it was Arnold's wife Maria who leaked the story to the press in an understandable fit of fury. Mildred and her son then found themselves the center of a maelstrom. They have remained in seclusion until now. Since we can assume her housekeeping career is over, she may have decided it was wise to take the money and talk.

When confronted by Maria in a non-aggressive way, Mildred broke down and confessed. They both cried. Mildred told Maria "not to blame Arnie because it takes two." She offered to resign immediately, but in an incredible display of self-control and suppression of homicidal instincts, Maria asked her to stay through the Christmas holidays. Well, women do know how stressful the holidays can be without help.

Today porn star Ginger Lee came forward, in what she implies is her patriotic duty, to tell us that Congressman Anthony Weiner asked her to lie about all the sexy tweets he sent to her. As I write this, she is probably considering monetary offers that have come her way since she appeared before the cameras, while Weiner gets ready to face them in order to resign from Congress.

Speaking of Weiner, have any of you wondered if the men we see constantly checking and punching their cellphones, presumably "doing business," are actually sending salacious tweets? It had never occurred to me before but now, well, it does cross my mind.

I'm calling it the Weiner effect.

Bad Boys

What is with these guys? Can you even keep track of all the self-destructive behavior we're reading about every day? What causes men in powerful positions to behave like rutting jerks? Do they really think the object of their lust is not going to talk?

Obviously not. Dominque Strauss-Kahn may have thought the maid he accosted would think she was lucky to be raped by the future president of France, or worse, that no one would believe her because she was a black maid.

The other Lotharios must think the women are content just to be on the receiving end of their bad behavior. The gals, while feigning breathless passion, are probably thinking about who they can sell their story to. Maybe it will help launch their careers, they think, into show business, modeling or Playboy. At the very least, they will get their fifteen minutes of fame.

They have reason to think it, too. Several of the many mistresses of Tiger Woods were profiled and photographed in a lavish spread for Vanity Fair. They revealed things about their relationships with him you would really rather never know, but with each detail they could hear the ca-chink! of the cash register.

Ashley Dupre, aka Kristen, the call girl who cavorted with Eliot Spitzer, former governor of New York, now writes an advice column for the New York Post. She donned a pair of glasses to show she is a serious person.

Arnold Schwarzenegger's housekeeper has kept a discreet silence so far, but what do you want to bet she has received a few lucrative offers to tell her story? Can't you see it as a made-for-TV movie?

The young women on the receiving end of Congressman Anthony Weiner's lascivious tweets seem to be enjoying their few minutes in the spotlight. Will you be surprised if a few of them end up featured as Weiner's Girls in some magazine? Here's a thought: Why not photograph them roasting wieners on a grill?

The bad boys effectively flush their powerful careers down the toilet. You'd think history would have taught them that they might get caught with, well, their pants down.

Bad girls seem to benefit, at least temporarily, from bad boys' behavior.

The Defense

Dominque Strauss-Kahn is going to try to defend himself against rape charges by claiming he had consensual sex with a chambermaid at the Sofitel hotel in New York City.

His lawyers hope to convince the jury that the sight of his porcine naked body emerging from the bathroom of his suite inflamed the loins of the 32 year old woman so much that she threw down her dust cloth and agreed (or offered) to have relations with him. When he refused to pay her afterwards, he says, she cried rape.

Hmm.

Let's imagine he is telling the truth (I know it's hard, but try to go with it) and the woman offered or allowed herself to be used by the man known in France as "the seducer." Suppose she did indeed ask for money afterwards. Why wouldn't a man known to frequent escort services just go ahead and pay her?

He wants the jury to believe this woman who didn't even know his name knew he was the head of the International Monetary Fund and possibly the next president of France, and therefore attempted to blackmail him.

Maybe his version of events would convince some people if he had not also tried to attack journalist Tristane Banon, the goddaughter of his second wife, several years ago (she described him as behaving "like a rutting chimpanzee"). Or if a few hired escorts had not described him as "very aggressive." Or if two receptionists at the Sofitel had not claimed he invited them to his room for a drink. Or if he had not left the hotel in such a hurry that he forgot his cell phone. You know how we all depend on those.

The French were incensed that he was pictured in handcuffs after his arrest. It was not dignified for a man of his stature, they cried. Personally, I found it more dignified than imagining him naked, chasing a traumatized chambermaid around his suite. Don't you agree? But the French do have a different view of these things.

France and Italy have a long- standing rivalry about which country has the better cuisine, lovers, women. An Italian friend compared French Strauss-Kahn to Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi, also involved in a sex scandal (see Bunga-Bunga and Other Village News, April 23, 2011):

"At least Berlusconi does not force himself on women! If he wants to make boom-boom with a woman he seduces her or he pays her!"

Hmm.