The Swimsuit Conundrum

Italian women wear bikinis.
Doesn't matter if they're over 80, as wrinkly as prunes, as roly-poly as sausages, or as saggy as old sacks.
If you are an Italian woman, YOU MUST WEAR A BIKINI.
End of story.
How else can your stomach go the color of chocolate?
I mean, really.
This, unfortunately, poses a problem for me.
Not that I don't want to go the color of Nutella.
I do.
And do.
With the best of them.
Anyone who knows me -- even slightly -- knows this.
Colleagues in Washington used to be horrified at my tan in the summer. My doctor would scold me.
I tried to explain there's an entire country of people obsessed with the sun like me. Even more than me.
Back to the swimsuit.
Thing is, I know I look better in a one-piece bathing suit.
No, it's more than that: I don't look good in a bikini.
Are you kidding?
I mean, c'mon. I've had two children. They're in their 20s. I'm over 50, soon to be over 55 (oh god).
And there's plenty of me, although my one saving grace is that I am quite tall.
"Bona," as they say in Italian.
I can just about get by in a one-piece.
And looking decent in a bathing suit -- as sexy as I can muster with what Gigi and Luciana gave me -- is important to me.
If you're an Italian woman, YOU MUST MAKE THE MOST OF WHAT YOU'VE GOT.
That's the rule.
I am not Luciana's daughter for nothing. (You shoulda seen her in a swimsuit.)
Oprah magazine says any woman over about 25 looks better in a one-piece. Not to mention any mothers. We won't even go there.
Which, of course, is right.
They're more flattering.
I defy anyone to disagree.
Not that anybody reads Oprah here.
Or gives a shit.
I'm starting to stick out though.
I am the only woman in a fucking one-piece bathing suit anywhere in sight.
What am I, a nun? An aging nun, at that?
This is now getting to me.
My stomach, though, is the color of Carrara marble (hasn't seen the sun in years) and my legs, chest and arms more akin to mahogany furniture.
Cannot imagine reconciling those two. Or wanting to.
I ran into a lovely, elderly English woman I know here yesterday. Not sure her age, but right around 80, I know.
She was off to buy a swimsuit.
A bikini, of course. What else? She's lived here forever.
I was actually in my bathing suit when I saw her, just back from a swim in the lake.
A decent, turqoise-and-red, halter-neck one-piece I bought in the States.
She commented that she liked my suit. Asked where I got it.
I asked her if she will ever, uh, even consider a one-piece. (Like maybe when she turns 90?)
No, she replied. I like my stomach to go brown. Even though I wish they had more choice beyond just the string bikinis. (Excuse me? Did you just say you're about to go buy a string bikini?)
And then, with no prompting, out of the blue, she laughed, and said: "You're so American."
What?
No, I am not so American.
I am Italian. You are English.
I am just wearing the wrong fucking bathing suit.

Italian Food: Serious Business

Went to watch the World Cup final last night at my friend's house near here.
She's got a massive HD TV (that always seems to work) and the comfiest sectional I have ever parked my ass in.
I could live on that sofa if she would let me.
Her house is just so homey.
Not to denigrate mine.
Mine is beautiful too. With a view to die for.
But hers is actually her home, full-time, which makes a huge difference.
She's got everything. Everything works. She knows where everything is.
A big beautiful dog lying at the front door. You know, a home.
You want to just go there, lie ALL OVER that damn sofa, say yes to her offer of another glass of chilled white Vermentino, turn on that big 'ol TV with all its English-language channels, and just never leave.
So when she said come on over for the game, yep, I'm there.
I had made an Amatriciana pasta sauce over the weekend, and had bought the bucatini pasta to go with it, so I offered to bring it for dinner.
She said sure, great.
Right before I left to drive over there, though, we talked, and she warned me that an Italian friend of hers, who was also coming to watch the game, when she told him I was bringing the pasta for dinner, had remarked: "What does she know about Amatriciana? She's American." (I told you: Italians are very direct. They don't bullshit around, especially about food. I like that).
A bit of background here.
I've met this man a few times and spoken to him in Italian always (you have to with Italians, even if they speak some English, which not many do. There's really no choice).
And I'm sure I must've bored him with 'my born in Naples, brought up in the US story.'
But at the same time, he's heard my friend and I just get all US East Coast too, talking loud, laughing loud, and being, well, the Americans we are. (Love that. She's from New Jersey. Love the Jersey vibe.)
Huh. Okay.
Now, for those of you who know, Bucatini all'amatriciana, a classic Roman pasta dish, is just not that hard to make.
That's the thing about Italian food. It's pretty simple. That's the beauty of it.
Foreigners tend to fuck it up when they try too hard, change it, add too much to a recipe, like that. Just not accepting its simplicity. And comforting repetitiveness.
I like simple. And because of my mother, Luciana, I know how it's supposed to taste.
Even though their food is deliciously simple though -- and they'll be the first to tell you that -- Italians truly believe nobody can do it but them.
Michelin-starred chef? Doesn't matter.
Not Italian? Can't do it.
Trust me on this.
So, I make the pasta. And hold my breath.
He decides when the pasta is ready (That's fine, better actually. That's what Gigi used to do too. Italian men all over the country are tasting bits of pasta every night telling their wives when is the perfect time to drain it.)
I'm stirring the sauce.
He peers at it. Seems to approve. Looks right, anyway.
Gives me a little squeeze on my arm.
"I keep forgetting you're a Neapolitan," he says.
Massive vote of confidence.
But the real proof comes later.
He eats two bowls. And then polishes off what's at the bottom of the serving dish.
Just like an Italian, a Roman even, eating bucatini all'amatriciana.
Success.
Whew.

A Gigi Sighting

Saw my father Gigi yesterday.
Or at least someone who looked remarkably like him.
Right after I wrote to you about him.
I am not making this shit up, I swear.
I know I could. Easily. But I'm not. Trust me.
I don't need to make it up.
Went to the lake near here in the late afternoon, early evening time.
That was Gigi's favorite tanning time of day.
Yes, my Neapolitan father loved sitting in the sun, going brown as a chocolate bar.
I have yet to meet an Italian who doesn't.
So, I drove around the lake a bit, picked up a two-day-old English-language newspaper (more like reading history, but it's a hard habit to break) and looked for a new place to park myself.
Found a spot of sand drenched in early evening sun.
Spread out my towel, took out my history book -- uh, I mean newspaper -- laid down -- and then saw him.
He was sitting right in my line of vision.
Elderly, distinguished Italian man, sitting on a towel, face to the sun, approaching the color of Nutella.
Tall, thin man -- like Gigi -- with long angular legs bent in front of him.
Wearing a light blue bathing suit that looked more like shorts that reminded me of a pair of denim shorts Gigi wore all the time -- for years maybe. (Gigi was frugal -- an immigrant, after all).
Same length as Gigi's shorts -- quite short -- that exposed the same amount of long, lean brown leg.
The man's tiny little brown stomach rolls folded just like Gigi's used to.
Didn't have an ounce of fat on him. Like my dad.
He wore his hair like Gigi too -- salt-and-pepper hair -- quite unruly if left to its own devices -- combed hard down.
It was uncanny.
I couldn't stop looking at him.
Thank god I was wearing sunglasses.
Even though he did notice.
And gave me a suggestive little smile.
That's when I had to look away.
You're my father, buddy.
You're not understanding my interest at all.
When I couldn't look at him any longer -- or risk having him come talk to me and shatter all illusions -- I turned my head to the lake and just thought about Gigi.
God I miss him.
God I loved him.
Is he the reason I'm here, the reason we bought this slice of Italian hill 15 years ago, the reason I keep struggling -- in vain, I'm thinking -- to make Italy my home?
Almost definitely.
Even though he wasn't happy when I told him we had bought this land. Which happened not that long before he died.
Not happy at all actually.
Not what I was expecting.
Well, maybe a little.
When I told Gigi my British husband and I had plunked down our life's savings for a slice of hill overlooking a lake in central Italy, where we were then going to build a house, my father looked at me, frowned, and asked:
"Ma, chi te l'ha fatto fare?" (the hand moving in that Italian questioning gesture).
Which means, literally, But, Who Made You Do It? (Meaning: Why the hell would you do a stupid thing like that?).
I couldn't say it, I didn't say it, but the answer was certainly: Why you, Dad. Who else?

Italian? American? Italian-American?

I had just decided to settle into my foreigner status after the coffee bar incident -- I mean who cares what the hell you call yourself? -- when I was reminded that no, actually, I am Italian.
100 percent. And stop pretending otherwise, please.
I mean, what, you think you're better?
No. Not even a little bit. I just don't know what to say anymore.
Met this very interesting Italian woman the other night at a friend's house, an extroverted actress about my age who runs her own little theatre outside of Rome.
Full of opinions and stories. Great to watch -- and listen to.
Fascinating woman.
Also named Daniela.
A rose by any other name.
We chatted for awhile and then she asked me where I was from, that loaded question.
I said I was Italian-American, born in Italy, brought up in the US.
That's my new answer here.
Took me years to make peace with that label. And probably some therapy.
No wonder really.
My father spent my entire childhood repeating to me that I was in no way an Italian-American, for him some weird loathsome hybrid creature that couldn't speak Italian properly, that didn't know pappardelle from pasta con fagioli.
That's not us, Gigi would say over and over, while being rude to every Italian-American he met. We're real Italians.
Okay, Gigi, whatever you say.
So I used to just say I was Italian when Italians asked.
But boy, could that feel bogus.
They would look at me quizically, trying to pinpoint my accent.
Or what it was that made me somehow just not Italian.
If I talked to them very long, the explanation would then come out.
So I've decided to dispense with all that now. And just say it right up front.
I mean, Italian-American, that is what I am, no?
I went to the States when I was three years old, was educated there, went to university, spent my entire career working for American media companies.
If you met me, and we spoke in English, you'd just think, American, yep. Check.
Unless you meet me here. Then there's more.
Gigi put his money where his mouth was. Tried really hard to keep me Italian -- while I was growing up American.
My parents spoke to me only in Italian my entire childhood. Sent me back here every other summer so I would never forget where I came from, so I would know my Italian family (who I love).
Thank you, Gigi.
Daniela looked at me quizically when I said I was Italian-American.
Didn't like that answer much, it was obvious. (Nobody ever likes my answer to that question no matter what I say. And I've tried every variation.)
"Italo-Americana?" she asked, just dubious as hell.
Si.
"Is your mother Italian?" she pressed.
Si.
"Is your father Italian?"
Si.
"And you were born in Naples?"
Right again.
"Well, then you're Italian, for chrissakes, not Italian-American."
Whatever you say, girl.
Whatever you want.
I know one thing: Gigi would've liked you.

Who the Hell Are You?

Had a bit of a setback on my efforts to build on last year here on my side of the hill in Italy yesterday.
A little reality check, shall we say.
Went to the coffee bar I decided last year would be MY coffee bar.
I told you that Italians always have their coffee bar, the bar they go to everyday, sometimes several times a day for their jolt of java.
Always standing up at the bar, cappuccino in the morning, caffe macchiato, mid-morning and then just plain caffe later in the day.
Like clockwork. Their place.
The comforting rigid rhythms of Italian life.
So, last summer -- and then the month I was here in the winter too -- I set about making this bar my own. It's the closest coffee bar to us, just down the hill.
A big hang-out for locals. Not a tourist in sight.
So, I chatted amiably to the baristas every time I went in, who were either the forty-something son or daughter of the owner, who by now is an elderly woman. She works the bar too, but much less than she used to.
This past winter, I chatted lots to her son, who had just had his second baby, another boy. Two sons like me, something we had in common.
He would always greet me with a smile and a comment or two, as his sister was starting to too.
It all takes awhile in Italy.
Like years.
I mean, you're a foreigner, always, if you're not from this town.
Doesn't matter if you speak Italian.
If technically, you are Italian.
But I was breaking through.
Stopped at the bar yesterday for the first time. A little later than usual, more into the lunch break time.
The elderly owner was working the bar.
She served me my coffee and I asked her how her new grandson was, who I knew was now about six months old.
Since it's been six months since I was here.
Since her son told me about his new baby.
I've seen this woman dozens of times over the 15 years we've owned our little slice of an Italian hill. And she greeted me with a warm buongiorno when I walked in.
They're nice, this family, part of the reason I've decided to favor this bar above most others. Not all Italian shopkeepers are nice. Trust me on that.
But when I asked her about her grandson, she looked at me quizically and asked plainly: "Who are You?".
Italians can be very direct.
Deep breath. Big warm smile.
"I live up the hill. You remember me, signora!"
Long stare. No real recognition.
Still aways to go, folks.

Dividing your Time

I'm back to my side of the hill in Italy.
It's wonderful to be back -- in a way.
I was just starting to feel at home in our new place in London. Which we had only lived in about a month. Third move in 18 months.
It felt so good to start feeling at home somewhere I liked. So comforting. Hadn't had that. Even made a friend. First new London friend since leaving the US.
Now I'm here. For months.
Bye-bye, new friend.
Bye-bye, new home.
Bye-bye, tentative new life in London.
See you later.
Happy to be here.
So grateful to have this side of the hill, don't get me wrong.
But just so fucking disoriented.
Haven't been here in six months.
What's in this drawer? Where's my stuff? How do I use this crappy Italian cellphone I've got here again? Why doesn't that light work anymore?
Is that water coming out of the bottom of the washing machine?
No newspapers. No landline. Problems with Internet always. Shitty TV reception.
Cut off.
Great pasta, though. Fabulous lemons.
And my son's here now.
Which is amazing. And weird at the same time.
He works 12 hours a day, though. And lives in Rome.
Remind me what my life was here.
Oh yeah. I hardly had one.
Was just starting to build one, when I left.
I am living my dream.
Or at least the dream I thought I had.
I am dividing my time.
Which is what I always said I wanted.
Like authors you read about on book jackets.
What a joke.
It's not that easy, I'm finding.
Nothing ever is, is it?
I feel like I don't live anywhere.
Have no life anywhere.
No routine. No schedule.
Which is what every book on cognitive behavior therapy will tell you is what you need.
My husband's back at his job in London.
He's got a life in London. Centered on his job.
When you have a job, you have a life.
Deep breath.
Need to build on what I managed to accomplish last summer.
Which wasn't much, I admit.
It is Italy after all.
You never accomplish much.
You gotta do everything three or four times before it's done.
Made huge progress this morning, though.
Put out my recycling on the right day in the right bag in the right place for the first time ever.
And they took it away.
This may sound small.
It isn't, trust me.
It involved several trips to the local council last year. Get the right bags you need (don't sell them anywhere.)
The schedule. (as complicated a schedule as you can imagine.)
Sign up.
The office is hardly ever open.
That's all done now though.
They've picked up my trash.
For the first time.
I've taped the schedule to the inside of my kitchen cabinet.
I have the right bags.
Now I can live my dream.

London on two wheels

London is best appreciated -- slowly, I'll give you that -- on two wheels.
It's a joy to go cycling here: flat as a pancake, lots of big, green parks, plenty of cute little side streets with tidy rowhouses, dedicated bike lanes, and drivers, although not perfect, about as polite as you'll get anywhere on the planet.
Flat as a pancake is the big thing.
You're just not scared to go anywhere here, because basically, you know you're not going to be confronted with any big hills along the way.
So off you go.
It was really hilly where we used to live on the outskirts of Washington. Even though at the bottom of the big big hill where we lived, there was a beautiful long flat bike path that went on for miles and miles.
Because of that big steep hill, though, we only biked along that glorious bike path there a couple of times.
Which sounds immensely pathetic, I know.
We did go walking there a lot, up the hills, through the paths, along the Potomac River. With our beloved dog, Lucy.
I could miss that a lot if I thought about it.
Not much cycling, though.
Here, cycling is becoming our best leisure activity.
We don't have Lucy to walk anymore.
And on these long British summer evenings, where it doesn't get dark until past 10 p.m. here, there's nothing nicer than a long bike ride, we're finding.
Over and around the 18th century historic house and magnificent gardens I was telling you about. That they just restored.
What a place. It's huge.
It's not only us, I see.
As I was coming back with my morning newspaper this morning, my retired elderly neighbor whizzed past, on quite a flash mountain bike, the wind coursing through his white hair.
And I met a young mother at my favorite hang-out place the other day that runs a website selling chic cycle accessories. Doing well, she said.
Our new two-wheeled obsession has meant my husband has again turned to one of his pet London subjects: Getting me onto a Vespa.
He thinks it would be a great way for me to get around London.
Vespas can go in the bus lanes here. They don't have to pay the central congestion charge to go downtown. You can park them almost anywhere. They're fuel-efficient. It would be much easier to commute. They'll teach you everything here in a two-day course. After I learn here with all the sane British drivers, maybe we could get one for our little Italian town, which would be convenient. I need transportation here sometimes and I don't feel like buying a car. I would look cute on one. I'd have fun. So Italian, for chrissakes!
He's got lots of reasons.
I like the idea.
But I'm scared too.