The Olimpia Quartet- Quattro

Author’s Note:  I would be sadly remiss if I neglected to mention a terrible event that happened last week.  Barry Lind was killed in a traffic accident in Rancho Mirage, California.  Barry was my neighbor in Winnetka for eighteen years and a friend for forty.  I- along with the rest of Chicago- am reeling.  His tragic death leaves a hole in the world financial community and an even bigger one in the hearts of everyone who knew him. Generous benefactor to so many and patriarch of his devoted family, this loss is an incalculable one. To his devoted wife Terri, and the rest of his dear family, I send my deepest condolences.  To his many friends, let me add that I am simply heartbroken- as I know are all of you.  I just couldn’t post this today without saying something.  Poor everybody.

Well, the show must go on.  Let’s return to Italy and wrap up this trip.

In 1975 I was lucky to be in the most bellina city on earth- Firenze, Italia- but I no longer bunked on a couch in my girlfriend Barbara’s living room. An executive decision had been made and I had been upgraded.   After a brief stopover in an adorable pensione, I moved into a sunny apartment in centro.  That means downtown- Florence Central.  And a new chapter in my life had begun. Paolo, my now-boyfriend, had taken me under his wing.  And his very first mission?  Amore? Heck, no. He had to teach me to cook.

Like any other good casalinga, my mornings were spent food-shopping.  This was a true adventure.  My college Italian vocabulary might have come in handy when I studied Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an Author, but it was of no use at all in search of the bakery, the butcher or the green grocers.  I got lost a lot- and couldn’t undertand directions when I got them.

And when I finally did make it to the shops, I had to point out the things I wanted.  I didn’t know the exact names of the the lettuce (I did know the words “radiccchio” and “arugula” so we ate them all the time) or the cut of meat I needed.  And imagine my suprise to learn of a national coin shortage.  If you didn’t have the exact price of that day’s loaf of bread, forget about it.  They wouldn’t sell you one.  They couldn’t make change.  Other stores suffering from the same shortage as my baker, would give you back stamps or lemons instead of spiccioli– coins- if you forced them to make change.  But they didn’t like it.

Paolo picked up some of the slack by providing all the olive oil, wine, and tomatoes from his fattoria.  And he insisted on showing me the correct way to use them.  From the chopping of the vegetables, to the order in which they went into the pot, to the right pot itself, he was a strict disciplinarian.  There was only one way to make sugo (sauce) and he, so easy-going in all other matters, was a strict martinet when it came to the marinara.

He would stand over me as I added in the herbs or salt.  He would measure out the pepper or the garlic cloves. His eagle eye was never off me- or the pot.  His hand would hold my hand as we stirred.  And when it was ready he would taste the sauce and invariably turn to me and disappointedly say with a sigh, “Fatta dal’amerihana.”

“Made by an American.”

This drove me pazza.  How could he tell that the hand that held the spoon that had stirred the sauce was American?  Especially when his hand was on top of mine the entire time!  But I was determined to learn to cook lunch.  So every morning I set out ready to conquer the language barrier, my hopeless sense of geography, my inability to understand directions and a time limit.  Paolo would return from work by one sharp every day and I wanted to have the colazione on the table.

(To that end I never did get to tour Dante’s house  Something I was longing to do.  And  it was right next store to my butcher shop, too. But the line at my butcher’s was always much longer and I never had time to sightsee and buy the all-important mortadella.)

Every afternoon Paolo would eat, give me a quick kiss, and return to work.  And around  four o’clock, he’d call me up with his verdict.  It was short and sweet and soon these two words became my favorites of all the beautiful words in that beautiful language:  “Cena fuori,” he’d tell me.  “Dinner out.”

He took on another task when he became my mentor.  Because he spoke no English, my Italian was going to have to improve if I wanted to:

1. Win an argument

2. Get out of doing something I didn’t want to do

3. Complain

4. Explain

Although I had a sophisticated vocabulary as an American, as an Italian I operated around the third grade level.  Even the dogs understood the language better than I did.  I would hear someone say something to their pet, and the dog would lie down or sit or come over or go away.  I had missed it entirely.

I would also say “si si” a lot to cover up the fact that I lost the drift of a conversation.  That would get me in trouble.  While out one night with a group of Paolo’s friends, I was listening to a story, nodding my head and saying “si si” at appropriate times.  Overhearing this, Paolo nudged me.  “Why did you just say ‘yes’?” he asked me.  “That man just asked you if you’ve ever been to Ravenna.  You’ve never been there.”  He did?

I would be at a disadvantage on the telephone too.  Just a disembodied voice over the phone- minus the dramatic and helpful hand gestures and facial expressions- never failed to discombobulate me.  Once I answered a “help wanted” ad in the paper- thinking that maybe I wanted to do something other than cook all day.  The entire interview was conducted in Italian over the phone. The lady concluded it by saying that I didn’t qualify for the job because I didn’t speak Italian.  I understood that well enough.  I had to do better.  I now became the Ricky Ricardo of Italy.  I would operate most of the time in Italian, but when frustrated, angry or thwarted, I would lapse back into my native tongue.

It only made him laugh.  And he continued to show me Florence. We ate at every great restaurant the town had to offer.  We spent many nights in a sexy disco called “Full Up”- where I grooved to the strains of Pepino de Capri, Suzi Quatro, and Bari Why.  (That’s Barry White in English. The Florentines were wild about him.)  He had a great car, an Alfa Romeo Alfetta,  and a Vespa- because cars weren’t allowed in centro.  And in them, we made romantic trips to Lucca- the birthplace of Puccini- and Viareggio for the beach and the seafood.  We had a blast all over Tuscany.

Paolo was a smart guy.  And I learned much more than cooking from him.  He had one other very important thing to teach me.  I used to whine with self-pity about the recent and unfair upheaval in my life.  After all, I was now broke, homeless, on my way to divorce court for the second time and adrift.  I would have to go home some day and the future seemed bleak and scary.

“Sono povera, I’m poor,” I’d wail miserably to him.  (I ddn’t know the words for “broke,” “homeless,” “bleak,” or “adrift.”)

“No, sei ricca,” he’d laugh and contradict me.  “You’re rich.”

How was that possible?  I wanted to know.  (See above paragraph.)

“Because you’re twenty-five.  Anyone who is twenty-five can never be poor.  You have your whole wonderful life ahead of you.”

Of course he was right.  I know that now.  Thirty-eight years later, I benefit daily from what I learned from beautiful Florence and its fabulous citizenry.  Grazie tanto, i miei amici fiorentini.  And thank you, dear readers, for sticking with me.  I hope you enjoyed yourselves. 

P.S.  And I still have the gloves.