Had I finally been affected by the word on the streets in Rome? Was this some final
effort to become Italian? Was this a gift to myself, or was it a gift for some as yet not
even imagined lover? Was this an attempt to start healing my libido after the sexual
self-confidence disaster of my last relationship?
I asked myself, "You gonna bring all this stuff to India?"
34343434
Luca Spaghetti's birthday falls this year on America's Thanksgiving Day, so he wants to
do a turkey for his birthday party. He's never eaten a big, fat, roasted American
Thanksgiving turkey, though he's seen them in pictures. He thinks it should be easy to
replicate such a feast (especially with the help of me, a real American). He says we can
use the kitchen of his friends Mario and Simona, who have a nice big house in the
mountains outside Rome, and who always host Luca's birthday parties.
So here was Luca's plan for the festivities--he would pick me up at around seven o'clock
at night, after he'd finished work, and then we would drive north out of Rome for an hour
or so to his friends' house (where we would meet the other attendees of the birthday party)
and we'd drink some wine and all get to know each other, and then, probably around 9:00
PM, we would commence to roasting a twenty-pound turkey . . .
I had to do some explaining to Luca about how much time it takes to roast a
twenty-pound turkey. I told him his birthday feast would probably be ready to eat, at that
rate, around dawn the next day. He was destroyed. "But what if we bought a very small
turkey? A just-born turkey?"
I said, "Luca--let's make it easy and have pizza, like every other good dysfunctional
American family does on Thanksgiving."But he's still sad about it. Though there's a general sadness around Rome right now,
anyway. The weather has turned cold. The sanitation workers and the train employees
and the national airline all went on strike on the same day. A study has just been released
saying that 36 percent of Italian children have an allergy to the gluten needed to make
pasta, pizza and bread, so there goes Italian culture. Even worse, I recently saw an article
with the shocking headline: "Insoddisfatte 6 Donne su 10!" Meaning that six out of ten
Italian women are sexually unsatisfied. Moreover, 35 percent of Italian men are reporting
difficulty maintaining un'erezione, leaving researchers feeling very perplessi indeed, and
making me wonder if SEX should be allowed to be Rome's special word anymore, after
all.
In more serious bad news, nineteen Italian soldiers have recently been killed in The
Americans' War (as it is called here) in Iraq--the largest number of military deaths in Italy
since World War II. The Romans were shocked by these deaths and the city closed down
the day the boys were buried. The wide majority of Italians want nothing to do with
George Bush's war. The involvement was the decision of Silvio Berlusconi, Italy's prime
minister (more commonly referred to around these parts as l'idiota). This intellect-free,
soccer-club-owning businessman, with his oily film of corruption and sleaze, who
regularly embarrasses his fellow citizens by making lewd gestures in the European
parliament, who has mastered the art of speaking l'aria fritta ("fried air"), who expertly
manipulates the media (not difficult when you own it), and who generally behaves not at
all like a proper world leader but rather like a Waterbury mayor (that's an inside joke for
Connecticut residents only--sorry), has now engaged the Italians in a war they see as
none of their business whatsoever.
"They died for freedom," Berlusconi said at the funeral of the nineteen Italian soldiers,
but most Romans have a different opinion: They died for George Bush's personal
vendetta. In this political climate, one might think it would be difficult to be a visiting
American. Indeed, when I came to Italy, I expected to encounter a certain amount of
resentment, but have received instead empathy from most Italians. In any reference to
George Bush, people only nod to Berlusconi, saying, "We understand how it is--we have
one, too."
We've been there.
It is odd, then, that Luca would want to use this birthday to celebrate an American
Thanksgiving, given these circumstances, but I do like the idea of it. Thanksgiving is a
nice holiday, something an American can freely be proud of, our one national festival that
has remained relatively uncommodified. It's a day of grace and thanks and community
and--yes-- pleasure. It might be what we all need right now.
My friend Deborah has come to Rome from Philadelphia for the weekend, to celebrate
the holiday with me. Deborah's an internationally respected psychologist, a writer and a
feminist theorist, but I still think of her as my favorite regular customer, back from the
days when I was a diner waitress in Philly and she would come in for lunch and drink
Diet Coke with no ice and say clever things to me over the counter. She really classed up
that joint. We've been friends now for over fifteen years. Sofie will be coming to Luca's
party, too. Sofie and I have been friends for about fifteen weeks. Everybody is always
welcome on Thanksgiving. Especially when it also happens to be Luca Spaghetti's
birthday.
We drive out of tired, stressed-out Rome late in the evening, up into the mountains. Lucaloves American music, so we're blasting the Eagles and singing "Take it . . . to the
limit . . . one more time!!!!!!" which adds an oddly Californian sound track to our drive
through olive groves and ancient aqueducts. We arrive at the house of Luca's old friends
Mario and Simona, parents of the twin twelve-year-old girls Giulia and Sara. Paolo--a
friend of Luca's whom I'd met before at soccer games--is there, too, along with his
girlfriend. Of course, Luca's own girlfriend, Giuliana, is there, as well, having driven up
earlier in the evening. It's an exquisite house, hidden away in a grove of olive and
clementine and lemon trees. The fireplace is lit. The olive oil is homemade.
No time to roast a twenty-pound turkey, obviously, but Luca sautes up some lovely cuts
of turkey breast and I preside over a whirlwind group effort to make a Thanksgiving
stuffing, as best as I can remember the recipe, made from the crumbs of some high-end
Italian bread, with necessary cultural substitutions (dates instead of apricots; fennel
instead of celery). Somehow it comes out great. Luca had been worried about how the
conversation would proceed tonight, given that half the guests can't speak English and the
other half can't speak Italian (and only Sofie can speak Swedish), but it seems to be one
of those miracle evenings where everyone can understand each other perfectly, or at least
your neighbor can help translate when the odd word gets lost.
I lose count of how many bottles of Sardinian wine we drink before Deborah introduces
to the table the suggestion that we follow a nice American custom here tonight by joining
hands and--each in turn--saying what we are most grateful for. In three languages, then,
this montage of gratitude comes forth, one testimony at a time.
Deborah starts by saying she is grateful that America will soon get a chance to pick a new
president. Sofie says (first in Swedish, then in Italian, then in English) that she is grateful
for the benevolent hearts of Italy and for these four months she's been allowed to
experience such pleasure in this country. The tears begin when Mario--our host--weeps in
open gratitude as he thanks God for the work in his life that has enabled him to have this
beautiful home for his family and friends to enjoy. Paolo gets a laugh when he says that
he, too, is grateful that America will soon have the chance to elect a new president. We
fall into a silence of collective respect for little Sara, one of the twelve-year-old twins,
when she bravely shares that she is grateful to be here tonight with such nice people
because she's been having a hard time at school lately--some of the other students are
being mean to her--"so thank you for being sweet to me tonight and not mean to me, like
they are." Luca's girlfriend says she is grateful for the years of loyalty Luca has shown to
her, and for how warmly he has taken care of her family through difficult times.
Simona--our hostess--cries even more openly than her husband had, as she expresses her
gratitude that a new custom of celebration and thankfulness has been brought into her
home by these strangers from America, who are not really strangers at all, but friends of
Luca's and therefore friends of peace.
When it comes my turn to speak, I begin " Sono grata . . ." but then find I cannot say my
real thoughts. Namely, that I am so grateful to be free tonight from the depression that
had been gnawing at me like a rat over the years, a depression that had chewed such
perforations in my soul that I would not, at one time, have been able to enjoy even such a
lovely night as this. I don't mention any of this because I don't want to alarm the children.
Instead, I say a simpler truth--that I am grateful for old and new friends. That I am
grateful, most especially tonight, for Luca Spaghetti. That I hope he has a happy
thirty-third birthday, and I hope he lives a long life, in order to stand as an example toother men of how to be a generous, loyal and loving human being. And that I hope
nobody minds that I'm crying as I say all this, though I don't think they do mind, since
everyone else is crying, too.
Luca is so clutched by emotion that he cannot find words except to say to all of us: "Your
tears are my prayers."
The Sardinian wine keeps on coming. And while Paolo washes the dishes and Mario puts
his tired daughters to bed and Luca plays the guitar and everyone sings drunken Neil
Young songs in various accents, Deborah the American feminist psychologist says
quietly to me, "Look around at these good Italian men. See how open they are to their
feelings and how lovingly they participate in their families. See the regard and the respect
they hold for the women and children in their lives. Don't believe what you read in the
papers, Liz. This country is doing very well."
Our party doesn't end until almost dawn. We could have roasted that twenty-pound
turkey, after all, and eaten it for breakfast. Luca Spaghetti drives me and Deborah and
Sofie all the way back home. We try to help him stay awake as the sun comes up by
singing Christmas carols. Silent night, sainted night, holy night, we sing over and over in
every language we know, as we all head back into Rome together.
35353535
I couldn't hold out. None of my pants, after almost four months in Italy, fit me anymore.
Not even the new clothes I just bought last month (when I'd already outgrown my
"Second Month in Italy" pants) fit me anymore. I can't afford to buy a new wardrobe
every few weeks, and I am aware that soon I will be in India, where the pounds will just
melt away, but still--I cannot walk in these pants anymore. I can't stand it.
Which all makes sense, given that I recently stepped on a scale in a fancy Italian hotel
and learned that I have gained twenty-three pounds in my four months of Italy--a truly
admirable statistic. About fifteen pounds of that I actually needed to gain because I had
become so skeletal during these last hard years of divorce and depression. The next five
pounds, I just gained for fun. As for the final three? Just to prove a point, I suppose.
But so it is that I find myself shopping for an item of clothing I will always keep in my
life as a cherished souvenir: "My Last Month in Italy Jeans." The young lady in the shop
is nice enough to keep bringing me bigger and bigger sizes, handing them through the
curtain one after another without commentary, only asking with concern each time if this
is closer to a fit. Several times, I have needed to poke my head out of this curtain and ask,
"Excuse me--do you have a pair that is slightly bigger?" Until the nice young lady finally
gives me a pair of jeans with a waist measurement that verily hurts my eyes to witness. Istep out of the dressing room, presenting myself to the salesgirl.
She doesn't blink. She looks at me like an art curator trying to assess the value of a vase.
A rather large vase.
"Carina," she decides finally. Cute.
I ask her in Italian if she could please tell me honestly whether these jeans are causing me
to resemble a cow.
No, signorina, I am told. You do not resemble a cow.
"Do I resemble a pig, then?"
No, she assures me with great seriousness. Nor do I resemble a pig in the least.
"Perhaps a buffalo?"
This is becoming good vocabulary practice. I'm also trying to get a smile out of the
salesclerk, but she's too intent on remaining professional.
I try one more time: "Maybe I resemble a buffalo mozzarella?"
Okay, maybe, she concedes, smiling only slightly. Maybe you do look a little like a
buffalo mozzarella . . .
36363636
I have only a week left here. I'm planning to go back to America for Christmas before
flying to India, not only because I can't stand the thought of spending Christmas without
my family but also because the next eight months of my journey--India and
Indonesia--require a complete repacking of gear. Very little of the stuff you need when
you are living in Rome is the same stuff you need when you are wandering around India.
And maybe it's in preparation for my trip to India that I decide to spend this last week
traveling through Sicily--the most third-world section of Italy, and therefore not a bad
place to go if you need to prepare yourself to experience extreme poverty. Or maybe I
only want to go to Sicily because of what Goethe said: "Without seeing Sicily one cannot
get a clear idea of what Italy is."
But it's not easy getting to or around Sicily. I have to use all my finding-out skills to find
a train that runs on Sunday all the way down the coast and then to find the correct
