In the spring of 1975 I had been living in Florence, Italy for months- still camped out on a couch in my girlfriend Barbara’s living room. In a medieval tower. And medieval towers may be picturesque but they are not spacious. My original forty-five day ticket had long since expired but the friendship hadn’t. Amazingly, neither Barbara or her boyfriend, Alvaro, ever suggested that I find another place to sleep.
And so my days were still happily spent being Florentine- eating, learning about art and art history, (all one had to do was look in any direction) mangling and misunderstanding their beautiful language and conducting a passionate love affair with my newly-adopted home town. I never wanted to leave it.
And on rare occasions I would try out my language skills alla cinema. And most of the time these outings were dismal failures. If the movie was an American comedy with Italian subtitles, the Florentines didn’t get it. The cultural references didn’t travel. I saw Woody Allen’s Sleeper, “Il Dormiglione,” this way and I was the only one laughing in the entire theater. When the Volkswagen turned over- after 200 years in a cave- I roared but the rest of the audience sat in stony silence. (They were still mad at the Germans for railroading them into World War II and they refused to find anything about them funny- let alone the triumphs of German engineering.)
When the movie was in Italian, obviously there were no subtitles. And the gaps in my vernacular left my funny bone untickled. The house would be up for grabs with hilarity- except for poor, cluelesss me. It was my turn not to get the jokes.
Only once were we all on the same page. I had gone to see a revival of Fellini’s masterpiece, Satyricon, with a group of Italian intellectuals. Midway through the film, a faint wisp of smoke came wafting out from the wings. My companions murmured their appreciation of “FeFe’s” artistry and clever use of the smoke as imagery and commentary. “How Fellini-esque! Bravo, Maestro, Bravo!” they cried and applauded as the smoke became denser and denser. I, too, was impressed- until the management came out and informed all us intelligenti and cognoscenti that the Red Brigade had just bombed the theater and it was now on fire. We intellectuals left subito.
At night Barbara, Alvaro and I would go to some ristorante, enotecca, cantina, trattoria, or buca (a hole-in-the-wall joint) and have a twelve star dinner. Usually with their dear friend, Paolo. Who had never uttered one word to me. As far as I was concerned this bliss could have continued forever, but fate- and a glass of champagne- intervened.
I can not drink. Don’t do it. I appreciate the idea of a fine Chianti Classico or a sweet Asti, but red or white, they all leave me dizzy and I leave them strictly alone. To be safe, I always stuck with the “dark house red”- Coca Cola.
But one night at Harry’s Bar, at a gala dinner with lots of new friends, I threw caution to the winds and had a glass of champagne. Instantly I regretted my indiscretion. The room began to swim and my dinner companions seemed to be riding a cock-eyed merry-go-round. I staggered to my feet, whispered to Barbara that I wasn’t feeling quite the thing and started to leave the restaurant. I had to get back to the torre presto. Somehow Paolo was right at my side escorting me home. And as he gently guided me up the steep staircase, in my tipsy stupor I heard him say, “Ti amo.”
“I love you?” That sobered me up right on the spot.
“That’s not possible,” I replied (in Italian, of course.) “You don’t even know me.”
“But I do,” he gently disagreed as he gallantly opened the door, waved me in and left.
The next morning the phone rang. Barbara walked in and said “Paolo called. He asked if he could take out of the city to see his country house this afternoon. Would you like to go?”
I was in a panic. I wasn’t scared of him. Not at all. But the thought of spending an entire afternoon with a man I could only understand when he said “ti amo” seemed, well, a little constrained. On the other hand, poor Barbara and Alvaro. They had not had one afternoon off from their house guest in months. Didn’t they deserve a break?
“I don’t know? What should I do?” I asked my hostess.
“His villa is beautiful. It’s a fattoria, an estate. He makes his own olive oil and wine, grows his own tomatoes. It’s gorgeous. I think you would love it.”
I went. And I did. He walked me all around the beautiful old stone house and the surrounding fields. We never even went inside. But it was still chilly in the early Tuscan spring, and as we strolled, I rubbed my hands together to get some warmth.
Paolo noticed I was getting cold. “Guanti?” he asked. “Gloves?”
I didn’t have them I told him. I hadn’t packed any, I guess. When the afternoon light started to fade, he drove me back to the tower. No mention was ever made of his startling declaration of the night before. The next day a package arrived for me. In it were magnificent leather gloves of every color and description. Black ones, navy ones, chocolate ones, maroon ones, tan ones, red ones, dark green ones, long ones, short ones, ones with metal buckles. An unusual courtship had begun.
I knew from the outset that he was never going to be husband numero tre. I hadn’t even divorced number two yet. And along with her cooking tips, Barbara had pointed out to me- on many occasions- the folly and inevitable breakup of American/Italian marriages. The cultural differences were usually too great to overcome. (Even Paolo was amazed that after the breakup of my second marriage, I hadn’t just returned home to Mamma and Babbo.)
She had had many friends who had succumbed and it had never, ever ended well. And after the children arrived, and the marriage failed, the American mommies had to return to the States with the kids in tow. The hapless Florentine fathers would follow for the regulation six-week visitation. I didn’t even want kids yet but I knew my future offspring needed to have a full-time father on site.
He was also fifteen years older than me. At first I refused to believe this. He was young-looking and slim and I thought forty meant a wheelchair or, at the very least, a cane. He finally had to show me his passport before I accepted the generation gap, but this wasn’t in his favor. And in the end, I knew that for all my love of life Italian style, I could never live there permanently. I missed Thousand Island dressing too much.
But if Paolo wasn’t marito material, he was great boyfriend fodder. Attractive, well-off, kind, generous and amused by everything I said or did. And it was all in Italian. Now I was living The Light in the Piazza. (I wasn’t anywhere near as pretty as Yvette Mimieux but my second husband’s departure had provided me with the pony’s kick to the head. His crime spree of an exit still had me reeling.)
So perché no?
One last post to go. See you all Sunday for the finale. Ciao!
