Carnivale!

It's Carnevale (Carnival) in Italy right now and with it come memories of the time a friend and I inadvertently experienced the merriment of the season there. I'd like to relive them with you.

We did not know it was Carnevale when we decided on a whim to drive from Vienna to northern Italy to buy garden urns. Yes, I know it is a long drive (four hours to the border) to run an errand, but I have always taken any opportunity to go to Italy. My friend had visited us many times in Vienna and had already seen all the sights, so we had an added incentive to explore a new place.

We made the road trip before the border between Austria and Italy was erased by their entries into the European Union. As we approached the barrier that would take us from one country to the other, we did what all self-respecting women do before they cross the Italian border: we reached for our lipstick.

It didn't matter that we still had a way to go on the autostrade before we arrived at our destination. Italy makes some of us instinctively ramp up the glamor a bit. Italians in general take such care in how they present themselves that it seems wrong not to do the same.

As we walked around the northern city of Udine, we had our first clue that something unusual was going on: we turned a corner and were startled to see a figure in a long black cape with a white Bauta (the traditional white Venetian mask that covers all facial features), and a black tricorno (three-cornered hat), sitting statue-still between two columns. Remember, we didn't know it was Carnevale, so the encounter seemed entirely random, like something in a Fellini film.

Soon we were caught up in una sfilata (a parade) of costumed adults, children, and showers of i coriandoli (confetti). We asked a spectator what the occasion was. "Carnavale!," she said.

This festive period takes place in the weeks leading up to Lent, which begins on Le Ceneri (Ash Wednesday). While the austere Lenten season encourages penance, no meat, and giving up the things you love for forty days, during Carnevale "ogni scherzo vale," (anything goes).

Mischief and pranks are expected, carried out by people usually wearing le maschere (masks), so they can act anonymously.

Carnevale in Venice is well known for its elaborately dressed and masked frolickers who preen and make merry while being photographed by thousands of tourists who descend on the city to take part in the centuries-old tradition. It gets so crowded that police have to direct foot traffic through the narrow Venetian streets.

We were not far from Venice geographically, but the merriment was much quieter in the tiny town of Cividale, near Udine, where we had booked our hotel. We arrived late in the afternoon and stopped for a caffe macchiato. As we sat at a window table overlooking the town's piazza, it was already getting dark and much colder.

Our conversation was interrupted by two jovially masked men who appeared in front of the window and clowned around for us before turning the corner and disappearing down one of the narrow cobbled streets.

We prepared to leave, but first things first: we reapplied our lipstick. As we did so, my friend looked at me and began gesturing with her head towards the window. I looked up.

There before us were two naked rear ends. They seemed particularly white in the dark square. Two pale moons in Cividale. Moons on the piazza. Moonstruck. We burst out laughing. The merry masked mooners, apparently satisfied with our reactions, pulled up their pants and went on their way. It was a Fellini moment again.

Soon enough we experienced another one. When we arrived at our small hotel we found a sign on the front door that read "mercoledi chuiso" (closed Wednesdays). It was Wednesday. But we had a reservation! We banged on the door until someone finally answered. "Abbiamo prenotato per stasera!" (We booked for tonight), I said. "Va bene, avanti (It's fine, come in)" we were relieved to hear. If we had arrived without a reservation, we were told, the hotel would have been closed to us because it was Wednesday.

My language skills at the time were not up to pursuing the logic of that. Today, with more advanced skills, I would know better than to even try. Sometimes you just have to shrug and say, "It's Italy."

Later that evening we strolled across the piazza to a nearby restaurant. I wish I could adequately describe the street sounds of an Italian town at night. It is a soft cacophony of footsteps on stones, conversations, music drifting out of windows, a peal of laughter and an occasional shout, all echoing off the buildings of the narrow streets. I've never experienced sounds quite like it anywhere else.

We examined the menu and asked a few questions of the waiter, who was anxious to practice his English. My friend asked what cinghiale was. With elaborate hand gestures he explained, "It is...it is...it is...the wild beast!"

Who could resist ordering that? Later we found out it meant wild boar, a common Italian dish.

When we left the restaurant, classical music was wafting over the empty piazza. There was a bright crescent moon peeping over the ancient church at the far end of it. We started across when suddenly two masked men in capes jumped in front of us. We were too startled to react, and had no time to do so as they took us in their arms and waltzed us across the piazza.

Imagine whirling around an empty, moonlit piazza with a masked figure. It makes an impression that will last a lifetime.

At the other end, they bowed to us and vanished down a side street. My friend and I were speechless for a moment. The music continued. We looked at each other, laughed, and shrugged. It was just another Fellini moment. It was Carnevale. It was Italy. Ogni scherzo vale.

top photo: karnavati

confetti: free extras

Pittsburgh Girl

In my last post (Girls Night, January 14) I mentioned not being into American football with its first downs, tight ends and wide receivers. Televised football games are the background noise in my house every Sunday. It's a sound that lulls me to sleep, with one exception: when the Pittsburgh Steelers are playing. To be more precise, when they are in the play-offs that lead to the Super Bowl.

Why? Pittsburgh is my hometown. I haven't lived there since I was five years old, when my mother's remarriage turned me into a globetrotting Army brat, but I am still a Pittsburgh girl at heart. Most people I know who left the city feel exactly the same way. It is some deeply ingrained loyalty that does not go away. When one Pittsburgher meets another there is an immediate connection.

It would be generalizing to say Pittsburghers are the nicest people you will find anywhere, but I find it to be true.

It's easy to identify each other. While visiting the salt mines near Hallstatt, Austria, a couple next to us asked, "Did younze go dahn the chute?" I know Pittsburgh when I hear it.

Other verbal giveaways: "How you doin', hon?," "How's come?" and dropping "to be" in a sentence, as in "My lawn needs mowed." The odd dialect is thought to have developed from Eastern European and Welsh immigrants.

My mother could not wait to leave Pittsburgh and never had a nice thing to say about it when I was growing up. She mellowed as she grew older, but I can remember a time when she didn't like to go back for a visit even though her whole family lived, and still lives, there.

I never adopted her attitude. For me a trip there was going home. My relatives still ask when I am "coming home" for a visit.

In the early 1900's, immigrants flooded into the city to work for a pittance in the steel mills. Everyone identified with an ethnic group. My maternal relatives were from Eastern Europe, my paternal ones from Syria, and we knew lots of Italians, Greeks, Serbs, Poles, Irish, Germans. Even today, it is still common in Pittsburgh to refer to someone as "an Italian boy," even though he is fifty years old and his family came over from "the old country" in 1912.

A typical Pittsburgh wedding reflects the city's ethnic mix. In between doing the electric slide and hokey-pokey on the dance floor, a guest is presented with a buffet that could feature rigatoni, stuffed cabbage, grape leaves, pierogi, kielbasa, and sauerkraut. That might be followed by a return to the dance floor for a polka, tarantella or Arabic dance. Later, a huge spread of delectable sweets made by family and friends will be laid out. That might include Italian frizelles, Hungarian nut rolls, Syrian baklava, and German strudel.

(weddingbee.com)

When the steels mills were in full production, the pollution caused from it created a thick black smog that led to Pittsburgh once being described as "hell with the lid off." That changed after World War II, when there was a concerted effort to clean the air and rivers.

When the steel industry died in the 70's and 80's, the town almost went with it. It lost over half of its population. Things were looking as bleak as the narrow wooden houses that still ramble down the Pittsburgh hills. Bruce Springsteen's "My Hometown" evokes the mood. A bright spot, and source of great civic pride, was the success of the Pittsburgh Steelers, who won four Super Bowls in the '70's.

There was something about a winning team in a losing city that made everyone in town band together to root for them. They always had a devoted fan base, but in the '70's people who had never had an interest in sports made an exception for the Steelers. My grandmother bought one of the original "Terrible Towels" and laid it across her TV during Steeler games. When they scored, she dutifully walked across the living room to twirl it. Upon her death, that towel was passed on to her eldest child, my aunt, who treats it like a priceless family heirloom.

A regeneration project begun in 1977 has been so successful that Pittsburgh now regularly appears at the top of lists of the most livable cities in the United States. The former Steel City is now known for cutting edge health care, education, film locations, technology, financial services, and of course the Pittsburgh Steelers.

The formerly rough working class town is paradoxically home to a lot of old money names like Mellon, Heinz, Frick, Phipps, Westinghouse and Carnegie, to mention a few.

The city once known for its depressing black air has inspired artists like Mary Cassatt and Andy Warhol. Authors Michael Chabon, Rachel Carson, Willa Cather, and Annie Dilliard all hail from Pittsburgh or its environs.

Musicians Christina Aquillera, Perry Como, George Benson, Henry Mancini and Stephen Foster come from the area, as do dance legends Martha Graham and Gene Kelly, actors Jimmy Stewart, Jeff Goldblum and Sharon Stone. David Selznik, the producer of "Gone With the Wind" is a Pittsburgh guy, as are George Ferris, the inventor of the Ferris wheel, and Robert Fulton, who invented the steamship.

With such illustrious figures to choose from, whose statue greets you when you arrive at Pittsburgh's International Airport? Former Pittsburgh Steeler Franco Harris, in a recreation of his 1972 "Immaculate Reception," a catch made with just 22 seconds left to play in a game that became the first ever play-off win for the Steelers. That act is considered a turning point for the Steelers, a formerly losing team that went on to become the one with more Super Bowl wins than any other (six).

I'm getting out of my comfort zone in describing football plays, but I think I've made my point about how tight the connection is between Pittsburghers and their Steelers. Try to come between them at your peril, as this true story illustrates:

Several years ago, a family friend was involved in a legal situation that could have had serious consequences. He was watching a Steelers game when two investigators appeared at his door with a few questions. His response:

"How dare you come to my home on a weekend!? When I'm watching the Steelers! Who do you think you are? Get the hell out of here!"

They left, no questions asked.

In one of Pittsburgh's hospitals this week, newborn babies were wrapped in Terrible Towels. A hospital supervisor explained, "They're born Steelers fans here in Pittsburgh."

(Mike Jones/Upper St. Clair Patch)

By coincidence we will be in the States when the Steelers play in the Super Bowl on February 6. Despite my limited knowledge of the game (first downs are good, offsides are not the same as out-of-bounds), I can't wait to cheer on the home team.

If you are fans of the other team, I have just one question:

How's come?

top picture: about Pittsburgh.com

Girls Night

A few evenings ago a friend and I had a girls night out. We went to a true "chick flick" (Love & Other Drugs) and then to a late supper of spaghetti and shared desserts (note the plural).

The restorative power of such an evening cannot be overstated. Women need their girlfriends.

This is not to say that our husbands/boyfriends/partners are not enough in our lives (or maybe it is), but sometimes you just need to be able to talk about things they might not be interested in, like: Do you think Jake Gyllenhaal and Anne Hathaway had an affair as a result of all those hot sex scenes in the movie?

My friend is in the middle of a move and her husband is changing jobs, each a high stress situation. We have both just returned from the States after visits that included the holidays and complicated family matters.

As we settled back in the cab on a rainy London night, en route to the cinema, she sighed, "I really needed this." I knew what she meant.

A woman several years older than I am recently told me, "I prefer men. I like their company much more. I could do without women, couldn't you?"

My answer was a resounding, "No!" I like men and have a few male friends in whom I can confide, but they could never take the place of my girlfriends.

Fortunately, I am married to a man who understands this and is not threatened by it. He and I enjoy each other's company (usually), we like to do things together, we "get" each other's senses of humor (crucially important), and we share the same values.

All of those things make for a successful marriage, but hey, he's still not my girlfriend!

He is never going to understand things that are strictly between women (PMS, the best bra to buy, mothers-in-law, menopause, hair stylists, beauty secrets, old flames, the eternal feminine appeal of films like "Moonstruck" and "Dirty Dancing," or complaints about husbands and/or boyfriends).

To be fair, I am never going to understand the attraction of a noisy, smelly pub, rugby, or the films "Master and Commander" and "Shawshank Redemption." I still don't get what a "first down" is in American football, and I think the positions of "tight end" and "wide receiver" sound vaguely vulgar.

However, I don't mind at all if he wants to bond with his male friends and discuss the greatest plays in football history while downing several pints of beer or bottles of red wine.

A few years ago another friend needed time away from the demands of her family. We went to our place in Italy, stopping first in Rome. There we did something our husbands would not have been inclined to do: For dinner we had gigantic gelato concoctions at the fabulous 19th century Gelateria Giolitti. Why not?

A few other friends have joined me from time to time for an Italian respite from daily life and the results have always been the same:

After several days in which we lingered over cappuccini in cozy bars in the morning, visited famous sites if we felt like it, shopped in the daily markets in various towns, ate pasta for lunch and dinner if we wanted to, never passed a good-looking gelateria without stopping, took naps, sat by a blazing fire at home and talked endlessly about everything, each one felt relaxed and ready to resume daily life with renewed energy.

Times away like that are not often possible, but evenings out together are a good substitute.

Several years ago in Washington a friend was dumped egregiously by her soon-to-be-famous husband. Most of us preferred his company to hers, but the event triggered an automatic support group of girlfriends for her that continued for a long while.

One of my daughters has a solid group of girlfriends from high school who have remained loyal to each other through university, marriages, babies, illness, difficult times and joyful ones.

Sex and the City famously celebrated the importance of girlfriends, which is why more women than men are fans of the show. Did you go to the first SATC movie? How many men did you count in the audience?

Women can overlook the shallow emphasis on fashion and the vulgarity of the show because the friendship among those women is familiar, powerful and often poignant.

Carla Bruni and Angelina Jolie have something in common, aside from beauty, skeletal frames and a predatory/contemptuous attitude towards men: They both say they have no girlfriends.

Girls, what does this tell you about them?

Just yesterday I read that critically wounded Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords was visited by two friends, Senator Kirsten Gillibrand and Congresswoman Debbie Wasserman Schultz. They held her hand and told her all the things they were going to do when she recovered. After awhile, and for the first time since the horrific shooting, she opened her eyes.

The doctor in the room was astounded, saying it was "really, really significant progress."

Kirsten Gillibrand and Debbie Wasserman Schultz were elated by the turn of events. They believed at least part of it was attributable to "the power of girlfriends."

Un Natale Male (A Bad Christmas)

We always wanted to spend Christmas in Italy, and a few years ago we decided to do it.

We had heard that during il period natalizio (the Christmas period) our village, like many others in Italy, transformed itself into a Presepe Vivente (living nativity) set. Villagers took the parts of il fornaio (baker), il maniscalco (blacksmith), i falegnami (carpenters), i contadini (farmers), and Maria e Guiseppe (Mary and Joseph), i tre Magi (the three kings) and Gesu`Bambino (baby Jesus), the latter often the youngest baby in the village.

We looked forward to being a part of this village tradition. Good friends who owned the villa next door decided to join us, so we would be a group of nine revelers.

Our daughters would fly to London, where we lived, and together we would travel to Firenze (Florence). A good friend and my mother-in-law would fly directly from the States to Florence.

Our plans were made. I had a suitcase filled with presents for everyone. I had even tucked in a gingerbread cake mix. Coffee and gingerbread are Christmas morning favorites at our place.

Everything was on track. The girls arrived in London, and after two nights there, we got up early to make our way to Gatwick and our flight to Florence. We were all excited about the new Christmas adventure.

As we checked in, the ticket agent made a face. "This passport is expired," she said, handing it back to us.

It was mine. The woman who prides herself on organization. I had two passports for travel purposes and accidentally picked up the one that had just expired. There was no time to go back to the city to pick up the other one and still make the flight.

"I can get you on the flight tonight," the agent said. I was furious with myself, but there was nothing I could do about it. We decided that John and one daughter would go ahead with all the luggage, and the other daughter and I would take the evening flight. Not perfect, but not bad.

Two of us trained back to the city to pick up the other passport and wait until it was time to train back to Gatwick. We made the best of it and had a nice steak frites lunch.

After a few hours, we called the house in Italy to find the other two had just arrived. I told John to take the black suitcase into our room unopened because the presents were not wrapped.

Dead silence.

"What black suitcase?" he asked.

"The black one with the tan edging."

More silence.

He asked our daughter to check the car. She didn't find it. They looked all over the house. No suitcase. Maybe he had left it on the luggage carousel, in which case it would be at the airport when he came to pick us up that night. Surely that was what happened.

When we arrived at the Florence airport late that night, we were met by two solemn faces. The present-filled suitcase had not been found. It had been delivered to the airport on their flight, but it had disappeared without a trace. Was it taken by mistake or had it been un ladro (a thief)?

As we made our way down the autostrade towards the Incisa exit, the mood in the car was grim. All the presents so carefully selected, gone. The gingerbread, gone. And Christmas was three days away.

I went to bed in a funk that night. The next morning I felt the full weight of what sometimes settles on the shoulders of women during the Christmas season: the desire to make everything perfect. But in what I like to think of as a Scarlett O'Hara moment, I threw back the covers and decided that, in our family at least, the mood of the mother determines the mood of the holiday, so it was time to forget the lost presents and try to create a Buon Natale (good Christmas) nonetheless.

We descended on the weekly markets in the area and picked up new presents. They were not carefully thought out, but who had time to think? We stopped for creamy cappuccini and warm cornetti (croissants) in a little caffe full of festive market shoppers. Our spirits lifted right along with every "auguri" (best wishes) directed our way.

On a rainy Christmas morning we gathered around our rustically decorated tree and with a wood fire blazing, happily exchanged our market presents. We looked forward to a holiday dinner, Italian style, and the living nativity in town that night.

After dinner, which featured a long-legged tacchino (turkey) we all bundled up and went to town. It was still sprinkling, but we were undaunted. Nine of us, one in a wheelchair, arrived in the village looking for the Presepe vivente.

It was to start at 6 pm, so we went to wait at a local caffe. Maurizio, one of the family that runs the place, was behind the bar. We asked if he had a nice Christmas. He indicated that he did not. One daughter suggested that he had a "un Natale male" ( a bad Christmas). That brought a faint smile to his lips.

With the wheelchair clattering over the wet cobblestones, we went to another caffe. The town was dead, which perplexed those of us in search of the living Nativity.

That caffe was quiet, too. "A che ora comincia il Presepe?" (What time does the Nativity start?) we asked.

"Annullata. Fa piove." (Cancelled. It's raining). We learned it was rescheduled for January 6, long after our departure.

The whole reason for our Italian Christmas had been cancelled due to drizzle.

The weather continued to play a part in our vacanza (vacation). On the day we were to fly back to London, snow began to fall in the region. We arrived at the airport, which was operational, checked our bags, and went to the boarding gate. We waited. And waited some more. We watched the snow accumulate on the runways at an astounding rate. It was clear that nothing would be flying out that night. It took awhile, however, for the authorities to announce that the airport was closed and we should collect our luggage.

An Italian airport that closes during what would later be called an "historic" snowstorm is, to say the least, chaotic. After a few hours of waiting to reschedule our flight, we were driven over snowy roads to a nearby Novotel for the night. Our new flight was at 7 am the next morning.

That flight was cancelled, too, but not before we got up at 5 am to be there on time. We were hauled by bus through a snow-blanketed countryside to the larger airport in Pisa, which closed just as we arrived. Things were just not going our way.

The snowfall was truly enough of a weather phenomenon in Tuscany that pictures of a snow-covered Duomo made the front page of the International Herald Tribune that day.

We eventually made our way back home, weary and defeated. One daughter developed a bad flu. The other had a sore throat. John and I were exhausted. Over time, though, we all began to regale friends with our Natale tale of woe. Eventually we saw the humor in it.

It was a Christmas we wanted to forget, but it was one we will always remember.

Addicted, Part 2

I said in my last post (Addicted, November 11) that I would try to exercise control over my internet addiction and not go online before 2 pm each day.

You can guess how long that lasted.

Judging from the amount of feedback I received following that post, I am comforted that there are so many of us in the same boat.

We are slaves to our devices. We know it, but we can't stop. Like the gambler who loves the rush, we get excited when we see mail in our inbox or text messages on our phones. We enjoy searching for answers on Google. I like to look at the weather in our little Italian village and compare it to London, where we are, or Washington and New York, where our daughters are.

Don't laugh.

I received some telling anecdotes about how far this compulsion can go: One friend told me how her husband, preoccupied with his Blackberry, fell into a swimming pool, fully clothed, phone in hand. Accidents can happen to anyone, though, right?

My friend kindly lent him her Blackberry until he could replace his. The next day, focused on her device, he once again fell into the pool, fully clothed, phone in hand.

Another reader sent me a text to say that she and her husband were with another couple having coffee together in New York City. All four of them were on their devices, enjoying a companionable silence while they focused on their phones.

A teacher at a posh school for girls in London confiscates the phones of students if they try to use them in her class. She has to hand them back when the school day ends. Otherwise parents become frantic with worry if their daughters do not immediately respond to their calls or texts. The teacher admits to a bit of phone envy as most of the girls have smartphones and she doesn't.

Side note: There is a video circulating that shows a teacher in Thailand confiscating a student's cell phone and smashing in on the floor. In Asia, where teachers are held in highest esteem, she had no fear of the consequences of her actions. Teachers elsewhere might fear for their lives, or at least a lawsuit.

One friend was relieved that her computer was down for several days because she accomplished more without its distractions.

Still another reader told me she stopped using the internet altogether after developing a serious blood clot in her leg from sitting for hours in front of her computer.

I have a slight fear that device addiction can lead to isolation. We don't need to leave the house for much anymore. We can do online banking. Many of us can work from home. Groceries can be ordered online. Who needs to go shopping for clothing or gifts when it is so easy to browse and order on the internet? We make our own travel arrangements. We can even attend university online. We are able to exercise at home by plugging in exercise DVDs or Wii-Fit. We don't need to talk to our friends because we can interact online.

All of this is wonderfully convenient, and I partake in it with enthusiasm, but is it good for us?

Since getting old is a fate in store for all of us, I am interested in why some elderly people do well while others decline and withdraw from life. If there is a serious illness and/or physical/mental disability involved, that is of course another story, not for this post.

My un-scientific conclusions: Those who do well seem to maintain their sociability. They have friends in all age groups. They leave the house every day. They belong to something, like a club or church. They stay on top of the events of the day and have an interest in learning new things. They exercise every day, walking or at a gym, where they see other people.

They have learned to use the internet to maintain contact with friends and family, or to find old acquaintances. It doesn't go much further, though. They still go out to shop, bank, socialize. They turn their devices off.

Are we addicts in danger of becoming anti-social loners? Even in a roomful of people, it is easy to tune everyone else out while we focus on our little screens. You may have read about the mother who shook her infant to death for interrupting her online game.

It is something to think about.

While I am thinking about it, I am also likely to continue indulging my addiction.

My latest effort at containment is this: I will allow myself no more than one hour on the computer in the morning to read the news and check emails. I will then put the computer away and not look again until after 2 p.m. (phone texts excluded).

That's my plan and I'm sticking to it.

Or maybe I will just try it out and see how it goes.