Twosome

The slender woman must be in her late sixties, maybe seventy, and the portly man she is with is in his forties, maybe fifty. They sit across from each other in a booth in the coffee shop without saying a word. She eats one egg with potatoes and accepts another cup of coffee from the waiter. The man hungrily shovels pancakes, bacon, eggs, potatoes, toast, into his mouth. He is drinking a large Pepsi, and when he finishes that, he asks for another.

She is wearing black knit pants, a red sweater, and sensible black boots. He is in jeans, a long sleeved green t-shirt and sneakers.

They are mother and son. When he speaks, loudly, it is clear that he is mentally challenged. The mother answers him in patient, quiet tones. Her face looks tired.

I wonder: where is the father? Did he leave them years ago, unable to handle the situation, or is he dead? Are there other children, or is he her one and only? Does her life revolve only around taking care of her adult child? What dreams of hers have been thwarted by this twist of fate? Does she resent the boy or does mother-love overcome that?

Someone else is watching the duo, too. She is much younger, but she also has a son with obvious limitations. I can observe and wonder, but this young woman looks and sees her future.

Meeting Elvis

Elvis would have been 75 years old this month. People are talking about what he meant to them, where they saw him in concert, how he changed music forever, what he would be like now. Some people say that visiting his Graceland mansion is a life-changing experience. Many make regular pilgrimages there. Several years ago Paul Simon even wrote a song about it.

I've never been to Graceland. When Elvis first came on the scene, I was too young for him to mean much to me. At the time, I was more tuned into the innocent sweetness of Ricky Nelson. But I met Elvis once and in honor of his 75th birthday, I'd like to share that encounter with you.

After being drafted into the Army, Elvis was stationed in Germany at the same time that I lived there with my Army officer stepfather, my mother and two little sisters.

Germany in the 1950's was still recovering from the devastating effects of World War II. Americans were the victors, the dollar was king against the Deutsch mark, and I remember a certain sense of superiority among us. After all, we'd won the War.

Our mothers employed German housemaids for almost nothing. Peddlers selling Rosenthal china and Hummel figurines appeared regularly at our door. Dressmakers would come to the house with beautiful fabrics, all dirt cheap. I remember my mother had a beautiful pale gold brocade dress made for a special occasion. She had dresses made for her mother and sisters in Pittsburgh, too.

We lived in a military housing area built on the outskirts of the German town of Butzbach. Our compound was surrounded by German homes and farms, but we were discouraged from crossing streets into "the German area." A local farmer had his apple orchard right behind our apartment. Some adventurous children, including me, may have fanned his anti-Americanism by trying to steal apples from his trees.

Officers and their families lived in apartments on the East side of the compound's main road and the enlisted men lived with their families on the West side. "Fraternization" among officers and enlisted men, including their wives, was discouraged, but we children could cross the road and play with each other. We were all in school together anyway.

One day I crossed the road to play with my friend Catherine. That's how I met Elvis.

It was raining outside so we were playing in the stairwell of her apartment building. We had just come back from a dangerous foray into enemy territory. We had crossed the street over into the German neighborhood to buy candy at one of "their" stores. They had special sweets called gummy bears, which were unknown in the United States then. With very few pfennings, we could get a generous bag of them.

Unknown to us, Elvis and his father Vernon Presley were visiting the home of a sergeant and his family on the second floor. As we sat on the steps of that floor dividing up our gummy bears, the door to the apartment opened and out came Elvis, wearing his green dress uniform.

I remember looking up and recognizing him, but hey, he was no Ricky Nelson! He looked down at me, smiled, patted my head, and said, "Hello, little darlin'."

I can't say that Elvis touched my life, but he did touch my head.

Postscript: Later we learned that the wife of the sergeant Elvis was visiting left her husband and married Vernon Presley. It was the scandal of the housing compound.

Elvis photo: photobucket

Happy New Year !

A few years ago we had had an exhausting Christmas season entertaining our family in London. After they all returned to America, we felt like doing nothing more than sitting numbly in front of the television set. But in our more energetic moments prior to the holiday, we had made plans to spend Capodanno (New Year's Eve) in Italy with close friends.

Usually a trip to Italy perks me up, but that year I didn't look forward to the airport hassle or anything else that required effort and thought. I remember sleep-walking through the taxi to Victoria Station, the Gatwick Express train to the airport, and the two hour flight that took us to Florence. Then we made our way through passport control, retrieved our luggage, picked up the car, and drove to our house in the Tuscan hills.

It was cold, cloudy and getting dark, so the landscape that I love so much seemed bleak. Our car wound its way through the bends and curves of the hills until at last we could see the lit tower welcoming us to our little village. I could feel my mood lifting. To enter the town, we drove through the tower's opening and came upon an enchanted scene. All holiday weariness melted away.

During il periodo natalizio (the Christmas period) our village, like many others in Italy, transforms itself into a Presepe Vivente (living Nativity) set. Life-sized huts made of wood and straw line the streets. When in full swing, villagers take the parts of a il fornaio (baker), il maniscalco (blacksmith), i falegnami (carpenters), i contadini (farmers), and of course Maria e Guiseppe (Mary and Joseph), i tre Re Magi (the three kings) and Gesú Bambino (Baby Jesus), who is usually the youngest baby in the village.

We arrived after Christmas so we missed all the action, but the huts, still festooned with pines and fruits, evoked the mood of a centuries old custom. We learned later that our village only does the living Nativity every other year. We vowed to be there for the next one.

That attempt will be the subject of another blog when I am in the mood to write about the best laid plans gone awry.

Newly infused with the energy and excitement of being back in Italy, we made the rounds of the village, stopping for a caffé here, picking up groceries there. We are always warmly greeted by our friends in town, which makes us feel truly at home.

Our house guests arrived later that evening and we spent a cozy night eating pasta, tending a roaring fire, talking. In the wintertime I like to place hot water bottles, wrapped in soft covers, at the foot of all our beds. When we get under the blankets the beds are already warm, and our feet stay toasty until morning.

In the mornings we went to one or another of the small towns in the area for our breakfast. It is always a simple affair in Italy: un cornetto (a crescent) filled with crema (custard), marmellata (jam) or vuoto (empty, plain).

There is a special aura about entering an Italian caffé bar on a winter's morning. The warmth is welcome. Then comes the intoxicating smell of fresh coffee, the whirring of steamed milk for the cappucini, the excited buzz of people greeting each other, the cups tinkling against saucers, the energy of a new day beginning.

We always like to sit and slowly enjoy our cappuccini and cornetti, but the Italians don't waste any time. They stand at the bar and quickly eat their cornetti, then drain their coffee cups in a few swallows.

Can we talk about the sheer, almost sensual, pleasure of that first cup of cappuccino on a winter's morning in Tuscany? Why does it always taste better in Italy? Is it the milk? The water? We have had long discussions about this with our friends. We have tried and compared the cappuccini in different caffé bars around the area. We have plotted our day based on where we will get our first cappuccino.

Before I go into further rapture about the joys of Italian coffee, let's go back to that New Year's Eve holiday...

We spent New Year's Eve morning at the big outdoor market in San Giovanni. We learned that it is a tradition in Italy to wear something red to welcome the new year. That explained the mountains of red underwear on display. My friend and I picked out two lacey items to ensure that we would have good luck the following year.

Then the four of us selected things for a New Year's Eve feast. We planned to graze through the evening, starting with caviar, moving on to lasagna, then pork roast, ending finally with a selection of gelati.

We ate around the fire, talking, listening to music, and watching television. It was a cold, damp night and the night clouds had settled below our terrace in the hills so we could see nothing of the valley. Our place was sitting on top of a cloud.

We watched the countdown to New Year's Day on TV. Italian television is full of busty women presenters, scantily clad and heavily made up. Amid the forced merriment on the screen, we heard a popping noise. We went out onto the terrace to investigate.

I wish I could recreate the scene for all of you. Imagine a cold, dark night. You are standing on a terrace above the clouds. You can't see anything else. Then, first here, then there, a dazzling burst of fireworks shoots through them. Soon there are hundreds of fireworks from miles around the valley penetrating the night clouds below you. The colors and effects are spectacular. Golden star bursts to our right, red flames to our left, blue and silver sprays right below us. It is silent except for distant church bells ringing in the New Year.

The four of us stood spellbound for at least fifteen minutes, until the last firework dissolved into the clouds and the bells stopped pealing.

If you have ever wondered how director Federico Fellini was inspired to film some of his other-worldly scenes, those minutes on our terrace would have given you one answer.

It was one of the most magical evenings I can remember. I want to share it with all of you. Auguri per un Buon Anno (Best wishes for a Happy New Year).

The Bill Arrives...

We've all been there. Out to lunch or dinner with friends, the bill arrives. Everyone has ordered something different. Some are drinking and others are not. Two order coffee and the others don't. Some want dessert and the rest decline.

My inclination, though I am a non-drinker, is to always split the bill equally. I figure if we are friends who dine together frequently, things will even out in the future.

But there are those who watch the bill more closely. They offer the sum of what they ordered and no more. Is this good form or not? How should this be handled?

My father, a Mediterranean man to his core, will fight to pick up a check. I've watched him with his cousins, friends and my husband:

"Don't you dare! You're insulting me! Give me that check! You can buy me a cup of coffee sometime!" I like that about him.

I have a husband who often picks up a check, no questions asked. Sometimes he leaves the table quietly to pay a bill so arguments don't occur. I find that a classy move.

Growing up and living with that background, I am always taken aback when someone nitpicks a bill. But am I wrong to react that way?

I feel it is correct for others to observe the one who has ordered less and say when the bill arrives, "You had much less, so your share should only be..." or, "The rest of us will split the bill, but would you mind leaving the tip?"

The result is the same, so why does one seem crass to me and the other not?

Of course we have to assume that the big spenders at the table will notice the one who has been more restrained. If they don't, that's crass, too.

Confidence or Desperation?

A friend responded to my last blog (Wearing It Well, November 9) by asking if it was really desperation and not confidence that makes women of a certain age decide to wear make-up and clothing that some might find inappropriate for their years. I had used as an example of confidence Sophia Loren, age 75, looking good in tight leopard skin pants.

I've been pondering my friend's question and concluded that there is no correct answer. It's all in the attitude of the wearer and the eye of the beholder.

Desperation is not the word that comes to mind when I think of Sophia. I like the spark of fun that makes her put on those pants in defiance of what women her age usually wear. Someone else might interpret her wardrobe choice as an act of clinging desperately to something she used to have. I think she still has it.

What is it that makes a woman of 83, like the Mamma in our local caffe bar, paint her toenails red? Is it desperation or just the pleasure of looking down at cherry-colored toes peeping out of her shoes?

In Wearing It Well, I mentioned a lady I see every Sunday at the pizzeria. Always dolled up in an exaggerated style (dyed black hair, bright pink lipstick, high-heeled mules), she makes me smile because she seems pleased (and confident) with how she looks. There is a comic element to her fashion sense, but I don't see it as desperation. I see it as good fun.

The friend who posed the question, incidentally, is comfortable with a beauty that she chooses not to exaggerate like Sophia or the pizzeria lady. She has beautiful prematurely white hair, sparkling blue eyes, and la gioia di vita (joy of life) that leads her to go trekking in Bhutan, swim fifty laps a day, pick olives with the best of the contadini (farmers), get up and dance at the drop of a hat, and create a day with her little grandson that led him to say that it was the best day of his life. Hers is another kind of confident beauty.

This friend says that she likes the line from the 'Desiderata' philosophy: "Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth."

My philosophy is: If you like what you see in the mirror, pull those shoulders back and wear whatever you want for as long as you want. And do it gracefully.

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.

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.