The Olimpia Quartet- Due

Bentornata!  Welcome back.  It’s 1975 and we’re all still in Florence, Italy.  And I was still sleeping on a couch in my girlfriend Barbara’s living room in a tiny medieval tower.  Each day we’d start out with a latte for her and an hot chocolate for me at Rivoire, the cafe in the Piazza Signoria- the main square of Florence.

We’d stand at the bar.  Sitting at a table was strictly for tourists.  I had instantly gone native my very first day and I patronizingly distanced myself from all things American from then on.  Like people eating pasta as a main course.  Ugh.  How could they be so disgusting?  What were they thinking?  (Forget the fact that I, too, had done it all my life- until ten days ago.)

Barbara was young, pretty and blonde.  I was young, brunette, and now that I’d had a makeover Italian style, made a good impression.  Maestro, as her boyfriend was known, got a big kick out of squiring us around town.  He showed us off shamelessly.  We went everywhere as a threesome.

But although Barbara and the Maestro were great tour guides, every once in awhile I would give my hosts some privacy and sneak off on a little sightseeing passeggiata of my own.  But Florence is tricky geographically.  Even with the Arno river on one side to keep me oriented, I would often become mired in the labyrinth of its ancient byways and back streets.  Once I got so hopelessly lost that when I saw a moving crowd and heard an announcement from their bullhorn “We are now going to the Piazza Signoria…”  I gratefully joined the throng and went with them.  As I was swept into the piazza by this sea of people, I was greeted by a horrified Barbara.

“What are you doing marching with the Red Brigade?” she cried.  “They kidnap people!  They set off bombs! They’re terrorists!”

“I was lost for two hours and they did announce that they were going to the Piazza Signoria.  What else could I do?” I countered logically.

Days were spent hanging out in the Uffizi or the Bargello or the Palazzo Pitti and Boboli gardens. And butchering the Italian language- the language of hometown hero, Dante.  I became the Charo of Italy.

I’d mistakenly ask for fazzoletti, kleenex, in restaurants when I wanted faggioletti, green beans.  I’d yell Tacchino! instead of facchino at every train station on every side trip.  That’s calling for a turkey instead of a luggage porter.  When I requested a bom- BO-la instead of BOM- bo-la, the shopkeeper fell down.  I had just asked him for a whore instead of a doll.  I tried to buy a pot for my spazzatura (broom sweepings) when I meant “spezzatina.” (Stew.)  The salesgirl was helpful but confused as to why I wanted to cook my garbage.

But the Florentines were always gracious about my mistakes.  They laughed and encouraged me. They were amazed that I, an American, spoke any Italian at all. They simply refused to believe it.

“Inglese?” They’d inquire about my country of origin.  “Francese?”

“No, Amerihana,” I’d try to convince them.  (That “h” in the middle is not a typo.  Remember what I said about the ugly hard C sound?)

In time I became more Florentine than the Florentines.  The only habit I could not lick was my love of Coca Cola.  I drank it with all meals instead of wine. To them Coke was a digestive aid.  So I was essentially drinking Pepto Bismol with all their great cuisine.  My revolting habit earned me a nickname- “Signorina Ho Hola.”  But they said it con amore.

And I got invited into their homes.  This was a rare treat and a genuine revelation.

Most of Florence’s external architecture was created by geniuses so it’s protected by the Belle Arte Commission.  The current owners can never alter one chip of marble.  But inside?  That was a whole different calcio game.  Their native love of sleek design and anything new translated into their furniture.  Florentines were fed up with living with antiquity all the time.  The result?  Exterior by Lorenzo di Medici. Interior by George Jetson.

My nights were spent with Paolo.  He was a successful businessman- a lifelong friend of Alvaro’s.  And long before I ever came on the scene, the three of them would have dinner together three or four times a week.  I was just the house guest who tagged along.  Paolo and I never directly exchanged one word.  He spoke no English and his accent was so Florentine that I couldn’t understand anything he said.

And he was shy.  That’s right, a shy Italian.  Living there exploded many myths for me.

First, I never saw a fat Florentine.  They were too into la bella figura to be fat.  And they all smoked liked fiends.  I never met a poor Florentine.  This is a very expensive city- small and exclusive.  You had to be well-off to live there, no different than Manhattan or Aspen.  The poor Italians migrated to the United States long ago.  They had nothing to lose.  The rich ones stayed there.  Why would they leave?  Where would they go that was better?

In Florence art was sacred and artists were gods.  They loved all things beautiful and all beautiful things.  They loved living well.  They didn’t believe in hurrying.  They savored every moment of the day.  Florentines would enjoy leisurely lunch hours when all the businesses were closed. (A very civilized idea that let them have warm conversations with their friends or passionate encounters with their mistresses or illicit boyfriends. This was pre-divorzio Italy of the seventies, don’t forget.)

And they took the time to appreciate their food.  And what food.   Unbelievably delicious.  Never had I been exposed to food like that.  Barbara’s apartment was conveniently down the street from Camillo, a world-famous trattoria.  We feasted there all the time.  Florence is the home to the exquisite invention steak fiorentina.  And in season, they would gild the lily by hiding a sumptuous filet under a giant porcini hat.

When tomatoes were at their peak, they would be celebrated in pappa al pomodoro, a kind of bread and tomato soup.  Divine.  And I had my first taste of panzanella, a bread salad, and crostini, kind of a heavenly chicken liver on toast thing, and ribollita, a peasant soup fit for the Medici.  And lasagna made with bechamel sauce.  And that whole antipasto thing.  It was lovingly and artistically laid out as a still life on your plate.  Florentines made a vegetable-lover out of me.  The ways they could prepare carciofi– artichokes- and zucchini sent me swooning.  Before Italy, my idea of contorni- side dishes- were overcooked string beans and Niblets canned corn.

We also frequented the fabled Harry’s Bar.  Pink table clothes, high prices, great service, and petti di pollo– chicken breasts that were my favorite main course.  And I don’t have enough cyberspace to discus the wonders of their pasta.  Night after glorious night, we four would go to these legendary ristoranti.  And still Paolo never said one word to me.

I never stopped loving the United States but I had to give Florence its due.  Americans knew how to work but Italians knew how to live.  This was no cliché.

I’m getting hungry. I’m off to find some cannelloni.  See you Sunday with a change-up.  Arrivederci!