Thursday, September 18, 2008
When you live in Italy, especially in Tuscany, sooner or later you confront what I call the "Under the Tuscan Sun" syndrome. This affliction is characterized by the conviction that moving to Italy will be one long sex-food-designer shopping-restore-a-country-villa-fest, that living here will provide the necessary doses of la dolce vita to solve all your problems. Especially women seem to think that they can avoid menopause, an irksome ex-husband, or spoiled over-achieving children by a romp in the bel paese.
What a bunch of unadulterated crap.
Now I realize that I may be about to alienate a potential reading public, but I am here to tell you, dear Readers, that life in Italy isn't all Prada and porcini. Without a doubt, Italy seduces. And life can be good here, of course, damn good at times--but there is a reality that most tourists, zealots, and fanatics never experience. I know that people don't want to hear bad things about this sunny peninsula (Italians, above all, are ostriches in this regard)--it would be like discovering that Mother Theresa kicked her dog, or that Martha Stewart picks her nose and then proceeds to make maple pecan brownies without washing her hands. We all want to believe that Italy is paradiso--some kind of mediterranean, metaphysical Disneyworld, with no entrance fee, great food, and where everyone is tan and sports fabulous sunglasses.
It is my hope, discerning Readers, that I can open a window for you that gives you a glimpse of the "real" Italy. At least the Italy experienced by an average expatriate, a working mother of two.
First, we must do away with our ideas of "Tuscany", as implied by its ubiquitous use as a marketing tool. The word "Tuscany" has become as overused, abused and meaningless as the word "love". Tuscany, for many, conjures up images of long rows of cypress trees punctuating gently rolling golden hillsides, graceful umbrella pines shouldering up against picturesque, crumbling old hill towns, tumblerfuls of chianti next to platters of thick slices of toasted country bread brushed with green olive oil, etc. etc. Well, this can be Tuscany, just as "love" can mean, well, love. And this, of course, is what the marketers count on....
But, I ask, what is Tuscan about my mother's Ypsilanti apartment complex, ambitiously called "Tuscan Creek"?!! Not a cypress in sight there, my friends! Or American restaurant menus that list things such as "Tuscan Chicken Penne Pasta"?!! (You will never, I mean never see a chicken-and-pasta combo in Italy, god forbid). I've seen Tuscan sheet sets, Tuscan room paint, Tuscan cookware, Tuscan toilet brushes and Tuscan windshield wiper blades (ok, I made those last two up--but believe me, they are in the development stages somewhere).
So, dear Readers, disabuse yourselves of any previous notions of what Tuscany is, of what Florence is, and listen to me. I'll give you the real story.
"Under the Tuscan Sun" my ass.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Florence roared to life at the beginning of September, the August vacations having ended. The viali swarmed anew with slaloming mopeds, cars choked the lanes, horns blaring in that impatient Italian way, and orange buses flung themselves down the narrow streets of the centro storico like marauding Greeks storming Troy. After the eerie--yet delicious--quiet of the ghost town Florence becomes in August, the change was jarring. This great Italian collective roar is what heralds the rientro--the return, the re-entering, the restarting of "real" life after the hedonistic lazy days of August, wherein it is too hot to even think of working or accomplishing anything. In fact, if you are so unfortunate as to be left in the city during this month (it feels like being one of the few survivors on a barren Earth after a nuclear holocaust, alla Twilight Zone), you find that you can't get anything done: forget yoga, forget doctor's appointments, forget applying for a mortgage, and pray you have enough food to last until September.
I have always preferred Autumn to the other seasons, and even as a kid suffered through summers that always seemed unbearably long. September has always meant new life and a new beginning to me, primarily because of school (which I loved). So the characteristically dramatic way Italians have of welcoming (or begrudging, depending how you look at it) September rather appeals to me. All the news programs talk about the rientro, as if it were some amazingly noteworthy cultural phenomenon (well, perhaps, it is). Now is the time to get down to business, buy school supplies, see what "serious" books have come out (not that Italians like to read serious books), check the theatre schedules, sign up for judo. Suddenly the phone is ringing with mothers wanting play dates with my kids, all the shops are open, a government office concluded a matter with me suspended since July, my yoga studio is open. Even the miserable humidity and cannibalistic mosquitoes have abated, high-tailing it out of here on the hind legs of summer.
I have, then, in the spirit of the rientro, begun these letters to you, dear Readers.
My best regards,