I Don't Want to Know

Italian singer Adriano Celentano croons a tune called "I Want to Know" (Vorrei sapere), the lyrics of which state his desire over and over again: I want to know. I want to know.

There are some things I just don't want to know. Or see.

While driving in Washington, DC recently, I saw a man flossing his teeth as he crossed the street. I didn't need to see that.  It got me thinking, though, of all the things it would be better not to see or know.

Our favorite songs can be tainted by too much knowledge of the artist who sings or writes them.  It is hard to feel the love of Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight," "Layla," or "Forever Man," all written for Patti Boyd, when we know how badly he treated her once he won her from her husband, George Harrison.

I'm a big fan of the Rolling Stones, but the knowledge that Mick Jagger lobbied long and hard for a knighthood, is a notorious tightwad, social snob, and (as revealed by Keith Richard), has a "tiny todger," makes me hear his music differently than I did when ignorant of these things.  

It's tiresome to mention Miley Cyrus again, but the fact that she has a good voice will be forever overshadowed by the memory of her vulgar performance and that gray, over-sized tongue.  

The late writer Dominick Dunne once said he was aware Frank Sinatra had one of the best, most beautiful voices of a generation but "I can't stand the sound of it," because he knew the ugly side of Sinatra.

One can admire George C. Scott's brilliant film performances but admiration is lessened by the knowledge that he was a drunk who beat up Ava Gardner when they were together.

Did we really need to hear Michael Douglas say he contracted throat cancer from oral sex?  When you see him now, do you think of his fine acting performances or that over-sharing moment?  

Do we need to hear newly-in-love couples brag about their sex lives as if theirs is somehow unique and will not cool off a bit after they have seen each other floss their teeth a few times?  

Let me digress here to say I think even the most loving couples should keep a little mystery in their relationship, particularly when it comes to grooming habits.  There are some things we don't need to know or see.

I wish artists would see the wisdom in keeping a great deal of mystery about themselves. It  would make it so much easier to appreciate their art. We don't need to know what Matt Damon has to say about how Obama has let us down, do we? It interferes with his Bourne Identity. 

Unless we share their views, it is a risk for artists to share their political opinions. Clint Eastwood, a fine actor and film maker, is forever tainted in my mind by his ridiculous performance at the Republican National Convention, ranting at an empty chair.

In the small Italian village where we live a part of each year, I can imagine, but don't want to know, the politics of the people we encounter in the shops or caffes we frequent.  I'm sure some still admire Berlusconi or even Mussolini (the trains on time and all that), are racist, anti-immigrant, or generally have views that we don't share. 

I just don't want to know.  Non vorrei sapere.



  

Labyrinth

Spring is glorious in Tuscany, with blue iris and red poppies dotting the luscious green landscape,  thyme's pale lavender blossoms in the garden, and wisteria's purple pendulums swaying over the pergola.  I renewed my crush on the country this spring. 

Like most crushes, reality is different from the rosy way we see things at first. My crush came face-to-face with reality when I tried to pay our trash bill. That should have been easy enough, right?  

Instead, I experienced a combination of what could have inspired Fellini films, Dante's Inferno and Joseph Heller's Catch-22.  Come with me on this labyrinth journey:

1.  Before leaving for Italy I had received an email saying we had a trash bill at the local Comune (town hall).  It was agreed that I would take care of it when I arrived in early May.  

2.  I went to the Comune to pick up the bills from a vivacious blond I had not met before. She leapt from her desk, hugged me, and told me she had seen me on Facebook and wanted to be my friend. 

3.  She presented four years (!) of trash bills with explanations that were too complex for my Italian to understand. She assured me she could also speak French.  That didn't help me.  I explained I would bring an English-speaking Italian friend to translate so there would be no misunderstandings.  She reminded me that I had to pay by Thursday or there would be an interest charge. She also reminded me to friend her on Facebook.

4.  My English-speaking friend agreed to meet me at the Comune the next day to wade through the complexities. "Of course you don't understand, Christina. Italians don't understand, either,"  she said reassuringly.  We set an appointment for 9:30 am with the blond at the Comune.

5.  We arrived at the Comune at 9:30 am on the dot. The entrance was guarded by a young man who told us we could not go upstairs until 10 am. We told him we had an appointment  at 9:30 am. He told us he could not let us in until 10 am because that was the rule.  We gave up and went next door for a cappuccino.

6.  At 10 am, we were permitted upstairs at the Comune to meet the blond for our 9:30 appointment. She kissed me hardily on both cheeks and thanked me for friending her on Facebook. She asked if I had seen her comments. I told her I had. We agreed that she would write to me in English and I would write to her in Italian.

7.  The three of us proceeded to discuss IMU taxes, garbage charges, how far the trash cans are from our house, the commercialista to whom we pay various taxes, and other things that are basically incomprehensible to foreigners and, it turns out, Italians alike. I wanted to know why we had not received notice of these bills before. I was told they had been mailed out. To whom and where, I asked, not unreasonably. "No one knows," was the answer.

8.  Okay, just let me pay the bills, I said. After more discussion, in which we touched upon the fresh smell of my cologne, it was determined I could transfer payment from our bank to the Comune's.  My friend and I said farewell to the blond with more heartfelt embraces and reminders to write to her on Facebook. We made our way to the bank to resolve the matter once and for all.

9.  The bespectacled, round-faced bank cashier, who was unsmiling but accommodating, told us that since we are foreign residents, there would be a big transfer fee. It would be better, he said, to take the cash and pay it at the post office, where many Italian bills are paid. We agreed. Sounds easy, right?

10. The cashier discovered that our account was bloccato (blocked) because we had not yet signed the new anti-Mafia banking laws. Okay, let me sign it. No,  I could not sign it in our village because our account had been opened at another branch in a nearby town.  Note: they are branches of the same bank.

11. The cashier told me I should transfer our account to the local branch.  Note:  I asked to do this a year ago and was told it was not necessary because they are branches of the same bank.

12. My friend and I agreed to meet the next morning at the branch in the nearby town at 9:30 am to talk to the bank manager there. 

13. The branch bank manager was young, friendly, and rocking a  Buddy Holly look with a high pompadour and horn-rimmed glasses.  He was knowledgeable and accommodating.  He said we could easily transfer the funds from our account to that of the Comune for a tiny fee.  He said he would inform the cashier in our village that even though we are foreign residents, the transfer was within Italy so the fee was low. He told us the cashier didn't know these things because we are his only foreign clients.

14. When he found out to which bank we were making the transfer, he paused dramatically.  His pompadour stood more erect.  He would not recommend doing it.  Why?  Because it was not a "precise" bank. He worried that if we transferred the money we would not be fully credited with paying our bill.  He suggested we take the money from our account and pay at the post office, where we would receive receipts of payment.

15.  I signed the anti-Mafia document and our account was unblocked. Buddy Holly gave me the money and my friend and I walked to the local post office and paid the bill.

It took fifteen steps and three days, but our trash bill was finally current.

In retrospect, this incident is amusing.  It is the kind of story that charms foreigners who are there because they love the country but live most of their lives someplace else. Frances Mayes wrote often of such encounters in Under the Tuscan Sun.

Our Italian friends say this experience is the norm of life in Italy.  There are a few rules and regulations that can be creatively circumvented, but sometimes there is no way out of the labyrinth. You have to follow the rules, and hope the person enforcing them knows what s/he is doing.

Then let go of the frustration and go out and partake of all the things about the country you still cherish. Like the people you love, there are flaws but nothing you can't overlook because the pros outweigh the cons.

The Ambassador Scramble

It's the beginning of a new administration, which means there are a lot of people scrambling to secure an ambassadorial post. We were once one of them, so I can give you a firsthand account of how it plays out.

Ambassadors are chosen from three categories: 1) Foreign Service officers who are trained to represent the United States all over the world and hope to eventually be promoted to ambassadorial rank; 2) People who have raised big bucks for the president; and 3) Those who have worked on campaigns, in government, or other institutions relevant to the country or post they hope to be assigned to.

We fell into category three.

Many plum posts, like France, Italy, Great Britain, China, much to the rightful chagrin of highly trained Foreign Service officers, almost always go to the big bucks people. In all cases, though, the number two positions in the embassies are filled by Foreign Service officers. They guide the newly appointed ambassador and try to make sure he or she avoids a serious faux pas.  They usually, but not always, succeed.

If you are a contender for a post, the scramble to secure a position goes like this:

1. You will be asked for a list of what you want. This is not like applying for college where you have a "reach" and a "safety." They are all reaches. The competition is fierce. For example, I am told reliably that today in Los Angeles alone there are seventeen people who think they are entitled to an ambassadorial post.

2. You need to know someone in a position of power to send your name and choices to the State Department.

3. You will wait to hear something. And wait some more.  In the meantime, mysterious people will be vetting you. Make sure you paid your nanny's social security. Divest of anything that might be considered a conflict of interest. Hope that you have made no enemies in the State Department who are in a position to derail you.

4. If you are lucky, you will hear that your name and position have been cleared out of the State Department and sent to the White House.

5. You might wait for an interminable amount of time. Someone in White House personnel, whose name you will forget three months later, will become  the most important person in your world. Hope that you have no enemies in the WH who can derail you.

6. There will be moments when it looks like the whole thing is going down the drain. We were on track for a multilateral position in Vienna until we received a fateful call from our best friend in White House personnel. Things could go sideways for us. Why? Because "The Sound of Music" had just been shown on network TV, leading to "a new surge of interest in Austria."

I kid you not.

7. If you survive a serious threat like that, your name will clear the White House and be sent to the Senate for confirmation.

8. You will wait to be scheduled for a confirmation hearing before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. And wait some more.

9. Your hearing will take place. Hope that you have not made any enemies in the Senate who are in a position to derail you.

10. The Senate will vote to confirm you as ambassador. You breathe a sigh of relief.

What comes next is "ambassador school." More on that next time.