A Domani, Italia

Good-bye Italy, for now.
I am sorry I don’t love you.

Mattia Barzaghi's vineyards, San Gimignano.

And after two summers in your grasp, I fear I may never develop that Frances Mayes, dewy-eyed romance with you.

Many of my friends yearn for your gold-dusted sunsets, your size 2 women in stilettos, your DOCG Chianti, blue-green Riviera shores, Etruscan artifacts, Limoncello, your David.

I am clear-eyed.

The way I see it, Italia is the Rivendell of the 21st century.

Back to Mediterranean Middle Earth in a moment.

But first, let me say there ARE many things I adore in Italia.
Chiefly – people.

Cristiano Papi, Florentine to the core.

For example, Cristiano - my partner in teaching travel and cultural reporting for Miami University in Firenze. Such a smart, funny and easy-going guy. He would be a friend anywhere.

Cristina, my landlord of two summers. Turn the air conditioning down so low it blows fuses across the 1500s-era building? “We fix this,” Cristina says, adjusting the remotes with a severe look, then sashaying out, waving her hands and laughing. Get stuck in the 4-by-4 elevator? “I was so worried, Aaaaaannie,” Cristina cries, her dark eyes showing that she means it.

Carlo, my Italian teaching colleague, who spent 8 long years earning at Ph.D. at Cornell in Ithaca, N.Y., where I also spent many years. “Too cold,” he says, shuddering and clutching his shoulders, then laughing loudly at his good fortune to be back in sunny Italy again.

Claudia, the Holland ex-pat living in Naples who can navigate a train strike like a pro. The courtly Lorenzo, unafraid to strike up conversations with middle-aged women outside churches, then invite them to coffee. Mattia and Cassandra, tending lives rich with art in San Gimignano. Jerry, the fashion photographer who came to Italy as an American college student 20 years ago and realized he’d been born in the wrong country.

These are some of the people who have touched me - an American living abroad without, shall we say, proper training.

And then there’s your beautiful countryside, Italia. Of that, I would never complain.

Wind surfers on Lago Iseo, Italia.

In fact, though I have found many quiet, green places in Firenze to get lost, I feel most comfortable in your rolling Tuscan hills, your Alps, your clear seas.

Your bella lingua. Your persistent recycling efforts.

Your love of art and word and symbolism. And the fact that you live relatively respectfully every day with rich heritage, millions of tourists. That you value quality and family and friends.

For these things, Italians are to be admired.

But my Mediterranean Rivendell, all the magically charismatic natives, vistas and envious tourists will not save you in a global economy that, for you, includes the long distrusting arm and currency of the EU.

Church at Castelvecchio ruins, San Gimignano

This is also what I also see after two summers with you...
You hate change.
Your higher education system is broken.
You often lack ambition.
Your justice system is often unfair and impractical.
Your trade unions dictate your economic landscape – at least those parts that the mafia or Silvio Berlusconi doesn’t control.
You are sometimes sneaky (especially the older women who jump lines everywhere).
You objectify women and futbol and food and immigrants... and tourists.

Sunset over Firenze, Italia.

The Rivendell-esque characteristics are everywhere.
Golden sunlight washing over crumbling buildings.
Boastful egos still reveling in Medici accomplishments of centuries ago.
Siestas in the middle of a work day.
Threadbare clothing worn with handmade leather shoes.

Songs of passion that cannot carry a future’s tune.

Arrivederci, Italia.
But also, perhaps, a domani.

You Say Tomato, I Say... Rat

First I see the dog.

Secluded riverbed path along the River Arno

It is frenetically running up and down the Arno River bank, barking incessantly, chasing some ghost.
Usually, you see unleashed dogs strolling in the evening with their human companions along the lower riverbed paths, away from the hustle and bustle of Italian city life. It’s a peaceful place, since the Arno is some 400 meters wide in central Florence, and it is still.
But there are no humans with this small, black dog.
And he is quite out of his mind.

As I draw closer I see them. In the water, swimming some 5 to 10 meters off shore, three overgrown…. rats. They look about a half-meter long, including tails that leave ripples behind them.
And there is an animal chasing them through the water – another small dog with a strong dog paddle stroke.
Clearly, his unnerved partner on shore wishes he were giving chase in the water, too. Hence the noise.
It is a futile effort. Every time the Michael Phelps of the Arno closes in on a rat, it dives underwater, ne’er to reappear.

About a week later, in the pre-twilight, I am walking along the Arno with some backpackers, one French, the other German. When I say walking with them, I mean we are strolling in a loose group, as we have already established they do not speak English well and I only took one semester of French in college. German, nein.
Then the French woman begins squealing and pointing.

A nutria dining on the River Arno

And there they are, those… rats.
“Not rats!” says the French Animal Lover, shaking her head vigorously, as the German man pulls out a long-lens camera.
“How you say… I no know word,” she continues as the German Photographer and I begin snapping images.
One rat is swimming about a meter offshore while the other is dining on some river greens. The French Animal Lover swears she sees a “be-be”, too.
The German Photographer shakes his head, struggling for the English word for these creatures, which – up close – look furry, benign and, well, cute.
“Not rat,” he manages.

Just up the river is the “beach party café,” where you can rent a riverside lounger and order a drink next to a dam that seems to attract every beer bottle and plastic container in Florence. Charming is not a word I’d use for this tourist trap.

Riverside Florence, with tourist sunbathing spot in foreground.

But the “rats” add another dimension that convinces me I’ll never patronize that joint.

I take my images home and turn to Google.
And the word that comes up in my searches to identify this creature is… nutria.
The South American native is a large, herbivorous, semi-aquatic rodent that some ecologists vilify because it eats the stems of plants, but not all the greenery.
Wasteful, in other words.
Brought to Europe and North America by farmers who wanted to grow it for fur, the nutria was set loose after the market cooled.

It’s an immigrant, a tourist of sorts.
Something scrambling to make sense of life in a foreign climate and culture, chased and maligned by natives that do not understand it.
And I, an American living temporarily in Italy, realized…
I can relate to that.

Leaning Tower of Debt - to History

It seemed like I would never meet an Italian who was entrepreneurial in a BIG way.

Seems like most everyone I come in contact with in my day-to-day life in Florence has a Small Business, Smallish Personal and Financial Goals, a Defeated Before I Try aura. Lots of excuses, or complaints, or arguments why things will never change.

Fatalistic even. This is life. I’m living, so things are fine.
“Come sta?” I ask one Florence card shop owner in rare confidence of my basic Italian. She looks up slowly from her book, and replies, “Bene, bene. È quasi tempo di siesta!” referring to the fast-approaching siesta hour, when most businesses close for two or three hours.

A few weeks ago, three friends and I stayed at an Umbrian B&B compound with luxury appointments and breakfast, noteworthy landscaping and a divine pool above Lake Trasimeno. The owner, Nadine, who grew up in Interlaken, Switzerland, clearly has a vision and passion.

But then she mentioned that her Italian husband, whom she met while a student at university in Perugia, worked during the week as a meter money collector, emptying coins from machines in towns near and far. “It is boring, but it is a job,” Nadine says, with a shrug.

This entrepreneurial inertia in Italy has been perplexing to me, the American. It reminds me of a conversation I had not long ago with a young Cincinnati, Ohio, CEO who was bewildered about why his brother – a business partner – wasn’t as passionate about their company as he was. The brother preferred 9-5 hours and responsibilities, so he could go home to his wife, dog, TV.

“Why doesn’t he want to work 24/7 on this company, like I do?,” the boyish ball of fire asked, frustrated. “I can barely contain my energy – we WILL succeed.”

An article in today’s New York Times cemented many of my perceptions about the Italian business climate and ethics. “Is Italy Too Italian?” the headline of Dave Segal’s article about Italy’s devastating debt and business challenges read.

“To understand why (the Carlo Berbera) factory, and so much of Italy, is stagnant or worse, requires a bit of geopolitical history and a look at the highly idiosyncratic business culture here,” Segal writes. “It is defined, to a large degree, by deep-seated mistrust — not just of the government, but of anyone who isn’t part of the immediate family — as well as a widespread aversion to risk and to growth that to American eyes looks almost quaint.”

Basilica di San Miniato, Firenze, Italia

After I read the article this morning, brow knitted, I took a power walk high above Florence to the Basilica di San Miniato, an renowned 1800s church I had never visited. I sat, stunned by both beauty and perfect acoustics, in its nave as the choir sang luminously and the organist did encores.

Afterward, in the shade outside, is when I meet Giuseppe, Super Italian Entrepreneur, who also was inspired by the Mass. Though he is his 70s, Giuseppe says he has no intention of retiring from his investing business. He whips out a Blackberry to show me buy/sell emails he’s just received from a Hong Kong advisor. He mentions that he had a firm in Chicago set up – via remote - his online trading system.

Guiseppe is bullish about green energy stocks, and he listens intently as I talk about recent energy reporting I’ve been doing. He makes a note of the New York Times article to read. He mentions that the homily just delivered by a San Miniato monk has got his wheels turning about a new business opportunity – but he’s Not Ready to Share It, he says with a wink.

As we talk, Giuseppe keeps glancing at the spectacular view of the entire Florence valley spread in front of us. People pant up the long flight of stone steps from far below.

When we part, he asks for my business card so he can send me tips – or maybe arrange a lunch meeting to discuss investing. I decide it is not a pickup line.

It is only as I am navigating the stone steps myself that I notice one other thing Giuseppe might have had in view just below as we talked. A late-model, two-seater red Lotus coupe.

I don’t have to turn to see if Giuseppe is following. He has a Lotus frame of mind.

In the Santo Spirito

The church bells are already ringing when I leave my Firenze apartment at 10:15 this Sunday. The peels wash over me as I cross Piazza di Santo Spirito and climb the basilica’s stone steps.

I follow a mother and her young daughter, maybe 8 years old, as they enter the 13th century Augustinian church through a side door. The girl is wearing a white summer smock, with matching ponytail ribbon. An attendant greets them familiarly, but looks me over before nodding me through (my polka-dot dress, covering both shoulders and knees, apparently passing muster).

As we three walk down the long nave, a friar in a simple black, hooded cassock unchains the front pews to allow parishioners closer to the altar. He greets the mother and daughter, his voice warm, and chats with a group of older women up front.

I haven’t attended Mass on my own volition, well, ever. Dragged by my mother to Holy Redeemer Catholic Church in Webster Groves, Missouri, until the age of 12, I have layers of resentment, resistance and disconnect buried in the crypt of my spirituality.

My mother decamped to the friendlier Emmanuel Episcopal Church up the street, and my brother and sister became staples of its youth group. But my father and I stayed home, each with our reasons.

The closest I feel to spirituality today is in woods, fields and streams, along with the occasional service at the 1866-era Plum Street Temple in Cincinnati. I joke to friends that I attend The Church of the Sunday New York Times.

But these last two summers in Italy have sent me strolling through dozens of chiesas and basilicas. And I’d come to believe that to really appreciate the architecture, the art, the devotion, the raw display of money and power noble families invested in these churches, you need to feel it all come together as it was intended.

At Mass.

I genuflect and sit eight rows back in this basilica, designed by Brunelleschi and graced with a freestanding carved Christ on the cross attributed to Michelangelo, at age 17. A plethora of 8-foot by 10-foot, or larger, paintings – some of them quite notable, according to Santo Spirito literature – mark the 30+ smaller recesses and chapels. My pew has a small bronze plaque memorializing one Enzo Basile.

This is the first time I’ve been in Santo Spirito, though I frequent its piazza often. I gaze around at its refreshing simplicity – except for the spectacular, octagonal sacristy.

Some 15 other people sit around me as the hidden organist begins to play. The mother and daughter join the cluster of older women up front. A ray of light beams onto the richly carved confessional to the left.

The friar returns in ornate green robes, his gray hair freshly settled, sandals on his feet. He moves swiftly up the aisle to the altar. And suddenly, in twos and threes, the worshippers grow to about 50. As the older women – a choir of sorts, apparently – begins to sing, the rest of us rifle through our hymnals to blend in.

The padre’s Italian rings clear and crisp, each syllable enunciated. Yet it echoes down the Basilica di Santo Spirito like a lively intellectual discussion, rather than the dry, cold dictates of Father Gottwald at the Holy Redeemer of my memory.

During his 20-minute homily, the friar talks about family, church and community. About a chiesa both historical and relevant today. About contemplating the place of Christianity in our lives. I only catch these snatches of thoughts, as I don’t speak Italian well. But he is not challenging us, not arguing with us, not punishing us. He is merely sharing his thoughts about the readings, real life and how to fit God into all of it.

Surrounding him, the altar and sacristy of intricate inlaid marble and stone – like an oversized four-post bed, with a latticework iron cap – glows from both natural light and electric candles spaced along its walls. A single fresh flower bouquet is placed near the sacristy door. The gesture is truly unnecessary.

When we kneel, the worn, unpadded benches are just as unforgiving as I remember in my youth. I squirm to relieve the pressure on my knees, but not as much as the two restless toddlers behind me. The elderly man in front of me rises from his knees and leans over the railing instead.

The exchange of the peace catches me by surprise, and I whisper “peace” to those all around me who reach out to shake my hand. They appear not to notice my English. But I am prepared for the collection. The 8-year-old and her mother pass the collection dish up and down the aisles, and I add 3 euro.

The wooden confessional to my left warns me sternly as the others rise for Communion. I sit put. And soon the service is over, the last hymn sung, the people rising and socializing, as happens in churches, temples and mosques all over the world after worship.

As I move toward the door of the Basilica di Santo Spirito I see the friar, back in his black hooded robe, lay his hand, one-by-one, on the young twins who had squirmed behind me the entire service. Their father, in orange linen pants and handmade leather shoes, watches benevolently.

Next comes the 8-year-old, her long ponytail swinging, as she moves toward the padre. He speaks quietly to her, touches her head, and she replies, smiling. He raises his eyes and extends the smile to me.

And then we are out the door, back into the piazza, into the sunshine, the experience of celebrating Mass together trailing behind us like the lingering notes of a Renaissance operetta. But an operetta unfinished.

On the Bright Side...

While sifting through the 50 photos my Italy students sent from our trip to Venice, one person kept re-appearing, a chameleon with a charming, genuine smile.
La vie de la partie.
In fact, you'll find him dancing with a street musician in my own post below.

Justin Russikoff is not a Miami University guy, but joins us from Penn State.
If I ever am privileged enough to receive the url to his blog, a requirement for my class, I'll share it here.

This week, my students are crafting scenes observed in quiet moments (and some rowdy ones) while traveling. Read them via the links at right.

I could have written a scene including Justin, but doesn't this visual - taken on a Venetian river taxi - say it all?
UPDATE: Link to Justin's blog. Someday, you may see this link on Comedy Central.

Hot and Cold in Venice

As the water taxi rounded the corner to our drop-off point in Venice, the sun beat down upon the cream, maize and faded pink of palazzos facing the Grand Canal.
In moments, that brilliant midday sun was beating down on our heads, too, as we hauled our weekend bags to the Messner Hotel, near the spectacular Santa Maria della Salute church on Venice's southeast corner.
At 95 degrees, this was a day for the beach, for an air-conditioned nap, for several glasses of something cool in the shade.
We would get none of that.

No, our 55-person group was off to tour the Doge's Palace and the Basilica di San Marco, where tour guides would ply us with rich Venetian history, with spectacular statuary, with a close look at a famous prison just steps from where the Doges lived for centuries.

And out a prison window, through the bars, comes the view of The Bridge of Sighs, that last vista a doomed prisoner might get before being hanged. Say goodbye to family and friends, waving at you from that bridge, then you are dragged to the gallows. (I love you Richard Russo!)
We mopped the sweat from our faces, necks, arms as we went.

It was a metaphor for a weekend in which Mother Nature just got in the way of treasuring a famous city.
Probably didn't help that 50 people in this group were college students on their first weekend in Europe, with World Cup to watch at rowdy Venetian college venues and early calls for tour departures.

But even the locals were done in by the heat and humidity.
"Caldo, si?" the mail carrier said to a heavy, 70ish woman wearing a flowered housedress as they passed on the 1.5 meter-wide canal sidewalk.
"TROPPO caldo," the woman replied, with a long sigh. She shifted a bag of groceries to the other hip and trudged on.
The mail carrier stopped in the shade, took out a stained handkerchief and wiped his forehead, then leaned again the cool stone wall and closed his eyes for a moment.
I couldn't agree more.

Still, it didn't stop some of my students from having fun. Several of the guys pulled out their cameras and hammed it up photographing the glorious butt of a spectacular statue in the Doge's Palace.
Another student played air guitar with a street musician.

For there is Italy to digest, to savor and to surrender to.
Even in the heat of summer.

Corriere della Culture

What is news in Italy?
Answer: Whatever makes it past the government and Berlusconi media "censorship."
Censorship both self-inflicted and power-inflicted.

In case you think I jest, Freedom House in 2009 ranked Italy as only "partly free" in terms of media censorship. For novices: The prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi, is a media mogul, and what he doesn't own, he oversees as PM.
This is a very complicated and nuanced scene, and not the focus of my posting today, although Italy's recent persecution of YouTube - and the ramifications of that - are breathtaking.

Back to the Corriere headline: I do love to read the Milan-based news media Corriere della Sera, or Evening Courier if you must, since the former is so much more poetic.

Today's headlines in the English language version of "Corriere" cannot fail to attract attention, although the writing in some is tedious.

"Dell'Utri Found Guilty - Forza Italia Not Involved." The hed does not do this lady justice, as the mafioso political crime verdict story says so much about the criminal justice system in Italy. For further information, read "The Monster of Florence."

"Pope Attacks Belgian Magistrates Investigating Paedophilia Scandal." Despite the fascinating spelling of pedophilia here, what would any Italian paper be without a "Pope" article? Much less one in which investigators drilled into a cardinal's coffin.

"Lippi Accepts Responsibility for Defeat as Buffon Says Azzurri Deserve to Go Home." Signore, we are all suffering from World Cup heartache. And I'm not just talking about those vuvuzelas.

"No Protection Programme for Spatuzza." Yes, spatula attacks are my great fear. But this is why reading Corriere della Sera is such a pleasure.

I hope, for you too.