Although I've written here about my experiences in Britain,
Russia and France [1, 2, 3], I've
so far neglected Italy, a favorite.
Despite my surname, I have no ancestors from that country that I know
of, although I feel an intense kinship with it. I cannot be other than rhapsodic: Italy cooks the best
cuisine; lilts with the most musical language; sparkles with some of the
world's most verdant countryside and beautiful towns and cities; stuns with its
gorgeous classical art, churches and monuments; beats the world in modern
design; overwhelms with the loveliness of its people.
I won't prattle about Italy's museums, monuments and other
tourist attractions, dazzling though they may be. Because of its foundational place in Roman and Greek antiquity and the Renaissance, Italy has more of these than most, and you've no doubt seen them. Rather, I'll reminisce about some of
the personal experiences that enamored me of the country.
An earliest memory: Helen and I were visiting Rome in 1967
with David, who was not yet two.
We'd arrived at our hotel at about 7:30 pm, tired and with David
becoming cranky. The concierge
recommended a nearby trattoria where he said we could get a quick meal; but it
was Friday night and we found a long waiting line. We joined the line, imagining it was the best we could
do. Soon the maître d' came by and
scolded us: "You can't let the bambino wait for food at this hour! Come with me." He seated us, brought a roll for David,
and said he would immediately bring a plate of pasta for him. "The two of you can wait for your
food, but he must eat."
A later memory, this one concerning Abby: We were driving with her through the
Veneto in 1983; she was 12 at the time.
It was foggy—I could barely
see the road ahead. As we rounded
a curve, the fog broke in patches and Abby shouted, "Stop,
Daddy!" Fearing that I was
about to hit something, I brought the car to a quick halt. But Abby had yelled because she had
been staggered by suddenly seeing the 16th-century Villa Barbero, a
Palladian masterpiece, through a gap in the fog. Luck was with us: the villa was open that day, so we could
feast our eyes on its marvelous architecture and its still-vibrant Veronese
frescos. It was then, I am sure,
that Abby decided to become an architect.
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| Villa Barbero |
Still later, when
visiting Abby in Florence in 1992, where she was studying on a college semester
abroad: Abby had absorbed Helen's and my love of Italy and the Italians. As she took us to the many
out-of-the-way sights and restaurants that had become her favorites, I was
charmed by how patiently everyone encouraged her to speak in her adequate but
still-faltering Italian, urging her with smiles to finish her sentences. The Italians must be the most
child-centric people in the world.
There are so many more threads in the pastiche of my
memory: The infinite variety of
pasta dishes; pasta is surely the primordial tranquilizer, which must partially
account for the serenity of the Italian soul. The delight of participating in a national pastime— watching
opera—especially in provincial opera houses like the beautiful one in Trieste,
a mixture of La Fenice on the inside and La Scala on the outside. The surprise that even I—an inveterate
hater of shopping, especially in big cities—actually enjoy the experience in
Milan, where focused boutiques limn the elegance of Italian clothing
design. The joy of staying in
small towns like Asolo, a jewel of the Veneto.
Our favorite spot in the country? That has to be Portofino, which we visited time and time
again. It was to be Abby's wedding
site until the 9/11 catastrophe struck just a few weeks before, and the wedding
plans there had to be canceled.
Helen often said that she wanted her ashes to be strewn in the hills
above that lovely town, although I haven't been emotionally able to accede to
that wish.
A final, wrenching memory: a last boat ride with Helen and
Abby in Venice in 1998, on the way to the airport just before returning to the
U.S., where Helen died a few months later. I am so glad that she got to enjoy la bella Italia once again in her final days.
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| Portofino |
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| Helen's Farewell to Italy |