American know-how

    I met a young, attractive American woman at our hotel yesterday who definitely got me thinking.

    She's a wedding planner based in San Francisco who plans weddings for Americans all over Italy. She was here, lying by the pool, waiting to meet her bride later. 

    She said she doesn't usually come to the weddings, but in this case, she wanted to be sure this bride had the "magic day she deserves", as she put it. She had found a 24-person villa for the wedding party -- plus two other apartments -- but the whole party had to travel down the winding Amalfi road to the next town, and it's been really hot, so she just wanted to be sure it all went off without a hitch.

     She told me about her business, where she helps high-end clients plan any kind of event in Italy. I looked at her website later.

     American business sense just never ceases to amaze me. 

     This woman spoke virtually no Italian, had no real ties to Italy, and lives at least 15 hours away by non-stop flight. Yet, she had a thriving business (you could tell) helping luxury clients spend tons of money here in Italy. And she was making heaps of money doing it.

     And here I am, also American, but with fluent Italian, my own house, and a deep knowledge of almost everywhere in this country, scrounging around trying to get another job working for The Man. In London. Where I'm not sure I even want to be.

     There is something wrong with this picture, folks.

     This 55-year-old brain has just got to rid itself of all old notions of work. Forget about the media. And The Man. The Man never loves you back. 

      Concentrate on Italy. But use that American know-how I must've acquired too growing up in the States.

                               

The Amalfi Road

      I've been thinking a lot about my Italian mother these days here on the Amalfi coast. So much has been reminding me of her.

      Yesterday evening, we took a sunset drive along the Amalfi road.

      For those of you who don't know this road (are there any foreigners left who don't?), it may just be the most picturesque road in the world, a tiny two-laned street full of hair-pin curves that hugs a coastline of dramatic, craggy cliffs and pastel-colored towns that cascade down into the Mediterranean.  

     If there is a more beautiful road on this planet, I don't know it. 

     One of my most treasured possessions is a watercolor my mother painted of the Amalfi road. It now hangs in our living room in London. It used to be in our bedroom in the States.

    I love that watercolor. It's very simple -- just the blue sea and the winding road and the cliffs. I love it because it's sunny and fresh and always reminds me of southern Italy. I love it also because my mother painted it.

    As we were driving, I tried to pinpoint the exact spot my mother depicted in that watercolor. And I thought about my mother's life then -- and later what it became in the States.

    It must've been so hard for my Italian parents to leave this magnificent area, this majestic country, to make a new life in America. They only left because my father went broke. It hurts to even think of their sacrifice.  

    We passed an ad that used a phrase that also reminded me of my mother -- "gonfie vele," or full sails. It basically means to go full steam ahead, under full sails, confident and with plenty of wind behind you.   

    My mother gave me a gold pin of a sailboat on a birthday once, a pin she said my father had given her when she was pregnant with me. She explained the "gonfie vele" saying to me then, and said my father had given the pin to her for good luck with her pregnancy. 

    On the day I was born at a clinic overlooking the sea in Naples, not that far from here, my parents had planned to take the ferry to Capri for the day with my grandparents. I wasn't due for a couple of weeks yet, and it was a beautiful July day, my mother explained.

    They never made it, because my mother went into labor in the morning.

    So I was born overlooking this sea on a sunny July day when I was supposed to be going to Capri instead.

    Is it any wonder this place makes me weak in the knees?        

Real Italy

     I can relax now. The boys arrived at the house. It took them almost 20 hours from the east coast of the U.S. to get to our Italian side of the hill, but they're there, safe and sound.

     "You have not walked up that hill until you've walked up it carrying a big backpack after a 20-hour journey," our son told us last night.

     Uh, okay. Yeah, I can imagine. Your choice, though, I seem to recall.

     Anyway, they're there. And we're here -- on the Amalfi coast.

     How bad can that be, right?

     Not bad at all. Gorgeous actually. 

     The water is clear and beautiful, the sun never stops shining, the landscape is majestic, and the chilled limoncello (made from some of those monster lemons I was telling you about) is exquisite.

     It's not real Italy, though, I hate to say it. It's overrun with foreigners. Last night, as we walked around town and then had dinner, we heard more American and British accents than Italian. 

     One of the waiters at our hotel confirmed what I had noticed. "Hardly any Italians come here anymore," he said. "It's all foreigners."

     There's probably one Italian guest for every 10 foreign guests at this hotel at the moment. And the center of town is one souvenir, ceramics and limoncello shop after another. (although the Duomo, or main church, is magnificent). 

     That's what I love about our side of the hill. It's Italy.

     Not that foreigners don't like the area. They do. It's gorgeous there, too, on that big, beautiful lake. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes even got married nearby.

     We were concerned that could change it. But it hasn't. 

     It's still unmistakeably, undeniably Italy in every way.

     Grazie tanto for small favors! 

                            

     

Lemons on Steroids

     We all have foods we love that remind us of our childhoods. One of my favorite childhood foods -- a love I carried with me into adulthood -- are lemons. I squeeze lemon onto everything. There's never less than half a dozen lemons in my fridge. When I buy them in bulk, my husband warns they'll go bad. They never do. They get used long before that.   

     I dress all my vegetables and salads the Italian way -- with olive oil and lemon. I squish fresh lemon on a steak, chicken, fish, fruit, fries, pasta, pretty much anything edible. Not to mention anything drinkable. 

    And when you see the lemons here in the south of Italy, where I was born, you can easily see why.    

    Southern Italian lemons are lemons on steroids. Big as melons. Huge, juicy, thick-skinned lemons everywhere. And all kinds of things made with lemons for sale.

     I remember the summer I first discovered the lemons of southern Italy. It was in Naples, and I was about 8 years old. My mother took me to an outdoor cafe down by the sea in the center of the city for an afternoon ice cream.

    We sat on a swing at the cafe looking out at the sea, swinging back and forth, holding hands, listening to all the honking horns and the Vespas, when I saw a waiter hurrying past with one of those huge lemons on his tray. Halved and filled with lemon gelato.  

    I told my mother I wanted to try whatever that was. And that was it pretty much.

    I thought about that lemon gelato in that big old halved lemon for months, maybe years, after I went back to the States. I dreamt of opening a neighborhood stand where I could serve ice cream in scooped-out lemons. I wanted to dedicate myself to halving big lemons and filling them with ice cream. I thought maybe it could become my life's vocation. 

    My mother listened patiently to all my lemon dreams, but the conversation would often end with, but, cara, they don't have lemons like that here. If you want to do that, it has to be in southern Italy. 

    I knew what she meant. I had certainly never seen them anywhere else, not even in Rome.

    But why, I would want to know. Why don't they have lemons like that here?

    Because lemons like that only come from southern Italy, she would tell me. Like really good mozzarella. 

    Only in southern Italy. Where I was born. Where I am now. Where the lemons are as big as melons.

          

    

              

         

             

Clearing Out for a Few Days

     My husband and I are leaving our side of the hill in Italy today for a few days. Because our elder son is coming with three of his college buddies. Sounds counter-intuitive, doesn't it?

     Anyway, we'd stay if we could. But we promised him awhile ago (before we started missing him so bad it hurts, I suspect) that he and his buddies could have the house to themselves this August. He wants to show them around without us around. Pretty simple. Pretty devastating.

     They were initially going to come to the house for a few days three times during their month-long European backpacking extravaganza. Now, they've decided twice because one of the times, it was just plain hard for me to leave. 

     He might be relenting on the last time they're here at the end of August. Relenting in the sense that his mother might be able to at least be in the vicinity during their stay. That could be because at the end of their trip, they'll probably be exhausted, broke and hauling around a bunch of dirty laundry. Which is never a bad time to have your mother around. That's not decided yet. 

       Our house is not that easy to get to on public transport. That's one of the reasons it's still so unspoilt here, despite the incredible beauty of this area, which hugs a massive, clean volcanic lake. There's no train station in our town. 

     To get here from the nearest international airport, if you don't rent a car, you have to take a train to Rome, then another train out to this lake, and then a bus from the train station to our town. None of those are coordinated to connect with each other. And at the end of that journey, you have to hoof it up the hill with your backpack.

     So, that's how they're getting here tomorrow. Even though we offered to pick them up and then leave or get a car service to pick them up at the airport and bring them here after their overnight flight from the States. Or almost anything pretty much.  

      Nope. The fun of backpacking, my son says, is figuring out how to get there despite the odds. And if it's a real hassle, or if it doesn't work, then it's even more fun. And if they miss the last bus to our town (a distinct possibility with their timetable), they'll find a hostel (there is no hostel there) or failing that, just sleep in the park on their sleeping bags until morning.

      Oh God.

      Yesterday, I spent the day clearing up and putting things away (my son doesn't like the idea the house is now crammed with our stuff from the States -- he liked it empty). Put sheets on all the beds where they'll be staying. Fresh towels. Soap. Put the games out, so they could find them all.    

      Last night on the phone, I told my son that I was worried about them getting here after their flight (he knows that already).

      "It's going to be a long summer if you're worried about that, Mom," he replied, laughing. "What about how we're going to get to Barcelona for the weekend from there? We haven't even thought about that yet."

     Oh God.            

     This morning, I woke up with a start. Immediately thinking about the boys and how I wished I could be here to help them get ready for their adventure. 

     My husband woke up a bit later, not worried about a thing. 

     "We're going to the beach today," he said, happily.

     "I'm worried about the boys," I said.

     "Whaaaaat?",  he asked incredulously.

            

      

        

Dividing Your Time

    

      Have you ever noticed when you read about authors on book jacket covers, for example, you often find they divide their time between some beautiful hot place and some normal everyday place? Like, she divides her time between Bermuda and the Boston suburbs. Or, he divides his time between Malaga and Manchester. Like that. 

       I've always wanted that. I've always dreamed of getting to the point in my life where I could divide my time between Italy (the dream) and fill-in-the-blank (the unknown).

      It sounds fabulous, doesn't it? But is it that easy to achieve? 

      I've got a girlfriend who is presently dividing her time between London and Paris, mostly Paris (unfortunately for me). She and her husband own a place in London, which they've kept, but they've moved to Paris to a rented flat for a few years for his work. And they go back and forth. Besides the fact she gets frantic trying to keep up two households, and sometimes can't remember where anything is, it seems to be working pretty well for her.

      They go back and forth together pretty much all the time. And they've kept their primary home intact. 

      Maybe therein lies the difference: They've kept their primary home, where their daughter mostly grew up, comes home to, and where they've lived for years, intact. And they go back and forth together.

      Last night, after a couple glasses of wine and an ensuing shot of confidence, I said to my husband, I can make this divide-your-time thing work. Why not? What am I stressing about?

      Then, this morning at dawn (what is it about dawn and middle-aged women?), I looked over at him sleeping and thought, wait a minute, he's got to leave at the end of next week and go back to work. 

       And unlike my friend, I'm not going with him. And we're not sure when he can come back.

       So, in our case, it's kind of a single divide-your-time thing at the moment, him in London, me here.

       Can that work? 

       I thought I had almost lost my husband to a serious illness six years ago. And now, I've given up almost everything in my life except him. 

       Does solo dividing your time just lead to estrangement? Will it mean that he'll plow ahead with creating a new London life while I nest here? 

      That wasn't the goal, was it? 

       

            

        

     

                    

                         

Progress?

    My husband and I have made enormous progress in the last two days with the boxes. It's a lot easier than it was in London. Here, everything fits.  

    We found places for all the furniture we brought down. And since we brought a couple of big chests, and a couple smaller ones, everything we're unpacking has a place to go too.

    Although we've had this house for 10 years now, it didn't have a lot of furniture in it because furnishing it was all part of the two-weeks-a-year vacation time from the States. With our boys. And often guests. 

    The more I tell you about this house, the more ridiculous the whole venture seems. (And my father didn't even approve?) 

    Anyway, thank god IKEA opened near here the year we finished it. I remember my editor in the States calling me into her office to give me the news. (She was an Italian afficionado and an online retail nut). I jumped for joy in her office.  

    Shopping can be a pain in the butt here (more about that later). Especially when you need absolutely everything, which we did then. And my husband, like many I suspect, literally despises shopping, which is not his idea of a vacation. Not that it's mine either.

    Anyhoo, that was then, and this is now. 

    It's going to look nice here when we're done. I can see that even amidst the boxes and wrapping paper.

    And it definitely makes me feel good to have my stuff around me again -- and create a nice home again.

    Yesterday, though, as my husband was stuffing wrapping paper into bags outside while I was unwrapping stuff inside, it hit me again that although this feels good, this isn't any total solution.   

    We don't have that many more days here together already, since my older son is coming next week on his graduation trip with friends and wants us to clear out. And then my husband has to go back to work in London.

    And then I'll be here alone. Which is fine. But I won't be making any progress in London, which is where he'll be, alone too.