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.

Wish You Well? Part Two

My last blog, Wish You Well? (November 1), struck a chord with many of you. I received lots of responses, most saying, "I know exactly what you mean!" One friend was pleased that I "put it out there."

I was told about someone who had been seriously ill and received loving care and attention from a large circle of friends. Now, years later and happy and healthy, she asks, "Where did they all go?"

A sister who innocently sent details of where she could be reached on her travels was shocked to learn that some of her siblings thought she was showing off a jet-set life.

A group of young single women, always very close, became stand-offish with the one who got engaged.

A woman of a certain age who got a little surgical assistance and looked wonderful heard that her friends were saying, "Well, she should! She had a major facelift!"

Then there are the people who bask in compliments about themselves but never think to return the favor when a friend does something well.

What is all this about?

The consensus among you is envy. I agree, but since I've put myself in a philosophical chair on this subject (and it's not a place where I am comfortable) let me throw this out to you: Could it be that if we are dissatisfied with ourselves and our accomplishments we find it hard to feel happiness for anyone else?

It doesn't matter if we are thought to have achieved a lot. It is all internal, how we think we are doing measured against how we thought we would do. Maybe the success or good news of a friend makes us feel as if we are failing if comparable things haven't happened to us. A friend reminded me of what the prolific and accomplished writer Gore Vidal once said, "Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something inside me dies."

Wish You Well?

What does it mean when your good friends don't wish you well?

Don't misunderstand me. If you were seriously ill, they would be right there to support you, drive you to the doctor, pick up your medicine, make chicken soup. If your life fell apart, they would be there with advice, a shoulder to cry on, a vodka tonic, tickets to a play.

But if you do something well, if circumstances take a bright turn for you, if good things happen in your life, those same friends might suddenly go silent, disappear.

Why does that happen? Is it envy? Anger? Resentment? Why is it easier to be a friend to someone in need than someone who seems to need nothing?

It's something to think about. If you have an answer, let me know.