Why People Fall In Love With Italy (And In Italy)

It rarely fails. Tell someone I used to live in Italy and the swooning commences.

And these days, right after the person I’m talking to swoons, he or she launches into tales about upcoming or recently-completed trips to Italy.
Americans are in love with Italy. And understandably so. It’s a country of such exquisite beauty – not hidden, not at certain times of the year or limited to one particular feature or area – that you’d have to be somewhat immune to human charms in general to resist.

As it turns out, we can map some of the reasons we all love Italy.

1. The country is actually organized.

Hard to believe, right? You tried ordering a coffee at a caffe in Italy during peak morning hours and felt as though you were at the running of the bulls. Or worse, you rented a car in Italy. Yikes!

But it’s organized around public transportation, and divided, for the traveler at least, into two neat spheres of interest: country and city. To be sure, Italians themselves often live in drab, modern apartment blocks in the suburbs. But visitors are able to move fairly quickly and easily on the public transport system between stunning cities and the gorgeous Italian countryside to take in the best in urban and rural life.

2. Rituals remain at the center of Italian life.

Italian life is still dictated by rituals, and delightfully so. There’s a time of the day, week, year or season to do something.

And many Italian rituals are ours for the taking. You can do your own evening passeggiata, strolling past shop windows and stopping to admire the view or chat with someone. You can browse the flower stalls at the market or order un’etto of prosciutto crudo (but don’t slice it too thin, please). You can learn when to order a cappuccino and when to limit yourself to an espresso.

Italians. The people who not only invented the phrase buon appetito, but also a specific corresponding response: grazie, altrettanto!


3. What a visual culture it is!

It’s a visual culture. They understood #travelpics and click-bait long before the Internet arrived. My recent trip to Florence and Rome left me astounded by the gorgeous flowers tucked into every crevice. Gelsomina spilling over the walls of the city, geraniums hanging in flower pots, and quite a few other plants I can’t even identify. I, too, have house plants and tend flowers on a veranda. But they look nothing like this.

And don’t get me started on shop windows. The Italians are geniuses at arranging shop windows (along with the prices, thank you very much). So well-organized are Italian shop windows that they lure even someone like me, a confirmed non-shopper, into all kinds of stores.

They still live life outdoors -- unlike most Americans.

4. Italians are born communicators -- and remain so.

During my visit, my Italian friends expressed the same concerns I have about our digital culture, and the cult of the devices we have in our pockets, or really in front of our faces all day and all night. But, I can see, even in just the short while I touched down in Italy, that if given the chance, Italians would still prefer to talk to people face to face. Why else would the Italian coffee bar exist? They can make coffee at home.

And thank God they don't because there's nothing more entertaining than watching them as they kvetch with the barista over the partita or politics!

Signs You're In Italy

I went to Italy, as I’ve said, to rediscover the ways Il Bel Paese has thoroughly enchanted me and millions of others. Enchant, perhaps, may not be the right word. Maybe I’ll use the word that I wrote in my first post – beguile. Because Italy can be just as maddening as it is beautiful.

So, here are some signs you might just be in Italy:

*When I get into the taxi that will take me from the airport in Rome to my hotel, the temperature is above 80 degrees but the taxi driver has the windows cracked open only slightly, and the AC is decidedly not accesa (not on). To his credit, he offers to turn it on. But I want Rome to be Rome – and that means putting up with the heat in the old way.

*I’m raising or lowering something called a saracinesca. It’s a slatted, wooden window screen that works like a pulley. Oh what a racket it makes! The sound of it going up or down – and the wooden slats banging against each other – is part of the soundtrack of Italy.

*The tripe food cart vendor is doing a killing

*In a taxi ride back from a friend's house in Rome, the driver is blaring the Juventus game on the radio. When a key goal is scored, I notice him pumping his fist, and when I look up in the rear view window, I see he's trying to catch my eye. That goal? It's something he wants to celebrate WITH me. OK. Forza Juventus!

*I walk into a coffee bar off of Campo dei Fiori in Rome only to find the largest ciambellina I’ve ever seen, which I devour to the sounds of Gianna Nannini’s “I Maschi” (I love that song!) and the comments of the bartender who’s talking over the previous night’s Juventus game with a regular.

*The door key to any place I’m staying is tricky enough that it might overwhelm the CIA

*At the airport in Rome, there's an initial security check, after which you receive plastic bags for your phone cords, which is followed by check-in, and then the actual security screening. And just when you think you're ready to relax at your gate, you realize you have to take a shuttle bus to the terminal.

*You think we need one more? You think we need one more. OK: one more (to steal one of my favorite movie lines). And so let it be an omnibus: I know I’m in Italy because I’m walking everywhere, observing everything, game for anything; church bells are ringing; if it's Sunday, men are walking with their families while pressing portable radios to their ears to catch the partita; young couples are lavishing affection on each other while perched precariously on motorini and everywhere I look, there's something stimulating my brain in unexpected ways.

Also, every few seconds, I hear a man yell out, "O!" (The Italian way of saying, "Hey there.")

Stradina, Oltrarno, Firenze, 19,30, 17 May 2015

Ponte Vecchio, Florence, 7 p.m., 17 May 2015

At that hour, my spot along the Lungarno was the best place to enjoy the bridge, packed as it was with tourists and sunset-seekers taking in an impromptu concert.

What I Bought in Italy (Hint: Not Leather Goods)

Well, first and foremost, books. I bought tons of books while I was in Italy. Just ask my shoulder.

I bought two hardbacks of the remaining Elena Ferrante novels I have not read.

A book of interviews with famous Italians about the state of the country. A picture book for Leo about "Pimpa" (an Italian cartoon dog) going to Florence, and learning about Dante and Florentine history.

The Paolo Giordano novel that's gained success, in translation, in America.

But other things, too.

A brown shoulder bag with the Vespa logo. Magnets. Because you need them. For your fridge. No?

Placemats. Because they have Italian words on them. A t-shirt. (Because it has Italian words on it. Are you sensing a pattern? I bought the books for that reason, too, ahem). A sunny orange Fiat 500 t-shirt for our little driver.

I look at my haul of Italian treats, and honestly I feel a little guilty. So much consumption! But on the other hand, I was catching up. A 10-year absence from Florence is no small hiatus. And besides, after posting photos here of the gifts Mike has brought back for me from Italy for years, this is the first time I can build a "shrine" of my favorite Italian things that consists entirely of items I bought. Because I was there! There, in Italy! Me!

The real souvenirs, arguably, are the ones lining my pockets and the bottom of the suitcase. The scontrini – receipts – from all of the ciambelline, and cappuccini and books and bus tickets and magazines and snacks I bought. I know from experience that they truly remain long after the actual items have disappeared, been consumed or wear out from overuse. They're distinctive because they're different from American receipts and often of uniform size and rendering. They tell a tale of where I’ve been. (In fact, I find Italian receipts everywhere in our house.)

Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to buy the everyday things Italians buy, and which I bought when I lived in Florence. House shoes, for example. Biscotti from the supermarket – not fancy, not actually intended for Vin Santo – rather, the ones for breakfast. Or saffron. Or a type of bean called "giganti" that Mike wanted for a recipe.

Va bene, pace, maybe next time. Whenever that may be. And may it be very soon!

A Girl’s Gotta Eat (Everything in Italy)

Is it wrong to say I didn’t eat everything I wanted to eat in Italy? That I left, wanting more? I suppose, who doesn't.

(I also left with an ungodly number of books and yet I still wanted to buy more!)

Of course, I had a mental list of the things I had to eat. And topping that list:

A ciambellina.

Not just any ciambellina. A fresh one. An airy one. An obscenely large one, or just simply, a very good one. With just the right amount of sugar crystals dusting the top.

There’s a reason it’s the name of this damn blog. These donutesque delights (above left) are the best pastries you can possibly put in your mouth. Especially if you like something that’s uncomplicated and pure. And honestly I would say that’s the essence of Italian cooking: not fussy, not overloaded with a thousand ingredients or dependent on some tricky sauce or filling. Just the genuine article.

I also ate a lot of savory foods, too, of course. Here's a partial list:

Pici al granchio (in photo above; pici is a type of thick spaghetti often found in Siena and granchio, well, just ask Leo. It's crab); Fiori di zucca fritti; prosciutto crudo; paccheri sul coniglio (photo at top); a selection of cheeses one evening as a second (which included a lovely gorgonzola, of course, that when spread on a piece of crusty Italian bread became a snack worthy of the Medici), crostini with chicken fat and carmellized onions, and so on.

Oh and gelato. Nocciola, of course, the only gusto worth my time (even if the others are pretty good, hazelnut ice cream? You kidding me? Bring another coppetta over here, right quick please!)

And I could have eaten a lot more. I didn't get around to having anything with cinghiale -- wild boar -- which amounts to a felony in some parts of Tuscany. I also didn't have suppli (or arancini) in Rome, which produces a pretty good fried rice ball, if you ask me.

I also didn't have a Conca D'Oro, or enough red wine or fettunta with pomodorini or spaghetti alla carbonara or spezzatino (stew).

But I guess that will have to be for the next time.

24 Hours In Rome (Alive She Cried)

What can you possibly do in Rome if you only have 24 hours?

That was all I had given myself. I arrived around noon on Wednesday and was booked on the 11:50 a.m. Frecciarossa to Florence the next day so I could meet up with friends there and begin the real work of the Nostalgia Package Tour.

Oh you can do so much in 24 hours, I jotted down in my notebook, as I sat in the window sill of my second-floor hotel room in Rome, looking out over the street below and eye to eye with the ‘H’ and the ‘O’ in the vertical hotel sign on the side of the building.

Here’s what I saw, in some cases just quickly, after walking several miles around Rome over fragments of two days:

The Pantheon, the Campidoglio, the Roman Forum, Piazza Navona (with its many tiny balcony gardens), Palazzo Madama (the seat of the Italian Senate; I stood outside for a while, ogling the carabinieri in their crisp uniforms) the Thursday morning weekly produce market in Campo Dei Fiori, the Tiber, the tony neighborhood of Monti by the Coliseum, a friend from college I haven’t seen in exactly 20 years, and the largest ciambellina I’d ever seen (or eaten for that matter).

I also noticed men and women in religious garb everywhere, sometimes on bikes or cupping cellphones to their ears, and realized I might have been a stone’s throw from Francis.

I jotted down in my notebook, as I stood on the street, gaping up at the Campidoglio: I’m in super computer mode. As I walked the streets, I took photos, I recorded snippets of conversation on my phone, I breathed in my beloved tiny, white, gelsomina flower (which spilled over walls, and climbed up the sides of buildings, unleashing a powerful memory agent for this blogger) and I lingered over well-tended floral displays adorning terraces, window sills and the outdoor seating areas of trattorie tucked into vicoli.

It probably sounds like I was in a mad dash. But, of course, I had the luxury, in most cases, of having visited (multiple times, in some cases) whatever incredible monument I was passing.

(I also found I had such adrenaline, that a mere five hours of sleep was all I needed, especially if I stayed on my feet, drawing energy from my constant movement).

My eye was on the lookout for signs of life, symbols of the Roman personality. My objective was to breath in the Eternal City so that when I returned to America, a part of it would linger on long after I walked away from the Pantheon (my favorite building in Rome. Maybe the World. Shoot, who knows?).

Let’s just say: Mission Accomplished (as you'll see in future posts about encounters with taxi drivers and near collisions with nuns on bikes and conversations overheard and thoroughly enjoyed).

In fact, not only did I remember it’s an amazing city, I wondered – for a half-minute, abbiate pazienza – if I had chosen the wrong city to live in. Because Rome is a city I’d like to live in. A city that remains Italian, Roman to the core, a city where you can have real encounters with Italians, in Italian, if you just endeavor a bit.

Oddly enough the person I have to thank for being able to take such exquisite advantage of the scant time I had wasn’t anywhere near me. My little Leo. Since becoming a mother, I’ve learned to sfruttare (exploit) the hell out of five free minutes. So to think I had 24 hours there, well, shoot, what an embarrassment of riches.

Twenty-four hours in the Eternal City? Well, it felt like an Eternity to me.

The Nostalgia Package Tour (Jeanne In Firenze)

You can retrace the steps of Dante when you visit Florence, visiting his parish church, for example, where he spied Beatrice for the first time.

Me? I’m retracing MY steps as I walk through the streets of Florence. Steps I first took so many years ago. Nostalgia comes so naturally to me that I stumbled into a tiny piazza in Rome and stumbled back nearly 20 years to a weekend getaway to the Eternal City – my first with Il Nostro Inviato (also known as Someone). I looked up at the street sign – Piazza San Pantaleo – and my mind, photographic for things like street names and addresses and the dates that important moments happened – recalled instantly that we had stayed maybe two nights at a small pensione on the piazza.

My days in Florence are filled with what the Italians might call controlli. I’m monitoring the streets, the crowds of tourists, the number of restaurants (and gelaterie – there are so many now!), the exact locations of shops (the clothing shop Gerard has moved, ladies and gentlemen. So has Patrizia Pepe’s boutique), the routes of buses I used to take (you catch the No. 23 bus now in front of the station, not on the side) and so on.

I’m also monitoring what people say. As in, I'm eavesdropping. I’m swooning over the constant flow of Italian language in my ear. Finally, I’m once again surrounded by Italian, a scenario I find so inspiring, so fundamentally pleasing I wonder if they should prescribe it as therapy? Perhaps it would only work for me. Jeanne’s Therapy. But I suppose other people could get a prescription for French Therapy? Or Spanish Therapy?

(This is hardly a new discovery since I’ve long known that quite simply, I get my jollies hearing and speaking Italian. Spanish, too.)

Of course it helps to know what the Italians are saying when you eavesdrop. But not only. It helps if you can follow the peaks and valleys of the sing-song Florentine accent, through which the natives express a constant, often hilarious litany of slights, recriminations and general observations that there’s nothing that can be done about whatever problem is under discussion but oh what a mess things have become!

The Florentine patois seems perfectly attuned to bursts of desperation, expressed through comments like, “Dio buono, ragazzi!” (Good God!) and complaints of any kind, though mainly of the most pedestrian nature (a signora told me yesterday that she had been waiting 30 minutes for the No. 4 bus. I don’t belittle her complaint – the No. 4 bus jilted me, as well, because I wasn’t standing in the exact right spot).

And of course there are controlli of the most personal kind. My old apartment now has mosquito screens on the windows that I can see from the street. (I should say: Apartment No. 3 in Florence…I haven’t visited #1 or #2 yet. I did see #4. It’s a medieval tower in the center of the centro storico. So not much has changed, although they have cleaned up l’Arco di San Pierino where the Antico Noe sandwich shop is located. Exactly where did all the heroin addicts go?).

Today, the day stretches before me, and it promises to bring hundreds of small discoveries. I may even do something new (Museo Stibbert, anyone? Apparently the grounds of the museum constitute a gorgeous park, a stone’s throw from the center of Florence).

All I know is I’ve paid for the Nostalgia Package Tour. The “This Is Your Life” Full Immersion Tour. And the “Brush Up On Your Florentine Dialect” Tour.

Also the “Can I Really Be This Lucky?” tour. The answer to that last one is a resounding yes.

Morning in Rome

It’s noon on May 12, 2015 and apparently I’m about to touch down in Rome. Ladies and gentlemen, signori e signore, I’m back.

I’m sitting in my seat on the airplane and I see it. I see IT.

It’s Italy. It’s Italy.

My Italy. Just beyond the green and red Alitalia logo on the wing of the airplane is a country called Italy.

Wait—applause! Everyone is so glad we landed safely that they give the pilot a hand. Benvenuti! The Italian guy next to me has already donned his sunglasses. You can never be too cautious.

Am I ready?

To be honest, I’m a bit nervous. Will Italy and I still be in love?

Well, before we can even figure out whether we want to resume our love affair, there’s a slight delay in disembarking. You see, you can’t take the plane all the way up to the airport. You just can’t. You have to take a shuttle bus. Which isn’t here yet. Obviously.

Once inside the airport, it’s the usual major airport hysteria combined with a particular brand of Italian caos. But my suitcase arrives, the hotel pickup shuttle is there waiting for me, and we’re off.

And within a few minutes, gazing out at the city from the back of the taxi, I have that feeling again. I get it every time I see Rome. I don’t know how else to express it other than, “Oh right, Rome is so beautiful, so masterful, so all-encompassingly majestic that swooning is inevitable.”

It’s almost as though I forget or the human brain, my human brain, simply cannot spend all of its time computing how fantastic a place like Rome is. Each time I visit, I remember why it’s the Eternal City. Eternally enchanting. Eternally beguiling. Eternally mine (and yours) – if only I can find the time to catch a plane and get here.

Because when I do, I see vistas like the one in the photo above. Small, little splashes of Italy to brighten not just your day, but your life.

Luca Carboni's "La Mia Ragazza" Feels Right Now

I've been listening to Italian music and podcasts and interviews and anything I can think of, in preparation for my trip to Florence next week.

This slow-tempo, contemplative song by Luca Carboni has long been one of my favorites and feels right this week, as unexpected emergencies explode in our little domestic life, and render the trip a bit of an afterthought.

In many ways, the visit to Florence is neither here nor there. Sounds odd to say, but I simply love Italy. And I will love it, from near or afar.

Enjoy the song! It's about a man who falls in love with his girlfriend all over again as he sees her give birth to their son.

"I meant to say"

He says that now, too. "I meant to say blueberry, Mommy. I meant to say blueberry!"

Instead, he said raspberry.

"He."

A two-year-old, almost three-year-old, who seems to soak up every turn of phrase, every nuance, every blessed word you say.

Leonardo.

I'm sure it's typical, for children his age. But it's new to me. Hence this blog post.

You can call it a comeback

My african violets have finally come back from the dead, after years of budless limbo.

Film: "La Mafia Uccide Solo D'estate" - (starts 5/1)

With less than two weeks to go before I leave for my return trip to Florence, I'm still actively preparing for my reunion with Italy.

And that includes cinema.

Luckily, my trip prep happened smack in the middle of Atlanta's Italian Film Fest.

Not that the film I saw, "La Mafia Uccide Solo D'estate" ("The Mafia Only Kills During The Summer") was granche' (in other words, nothing to write home about, at least not subito). It was middling.

Except for one thing.

Through actual footage from news programs and a deft combination of history and fiction, the movie provides a chilling overview of the Mafia's reign of terror in Sicily, where the film takes place.

It zeroes in on the late 1980s and early 1990s, when some giants who bravely fought the Mafia fell victim to them, chiefly Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino. But not only. Generale Dalla Chiesa, the people of Palermo and others also get their this-day-in-history moments.

There's so much we in America don't know about Italian history (while the Italians seem to know everything about us). Someone like Giovanni Falcone, whom I'm come to revere along with most people in Italy, is almost totally unknown here in the US!

It was nice to sit in the theater and see up on the screen some of the events that have shaped modern Italy, for everyone to absorb and consider (even when the topic is so brutal).

It's a truly complex country that's often depicted in American popular culture as simply the birthplace of gondolas and pasta.

And it's not too late to see the movie! The film will be playing for a week, starting tomorrow (May 1) at the Midtown Art Theater.

Ode to Geen

He -- you know who -- says:

“That’s our favorite color, Mommy. Look, Mommy, that’s our favorite color. Geen.”

Or he says:

“We like geen.”

Or, pointing out items in a shop or at home:

“Look Mommy. That’s geen. That’s geen, and this is geen.”

Oh my little green angel.

He also likes lello.

A day is coming so soon on the horizon when geen 'normalizes' to become green, and lello passes away forever.

I'm recording him, of course. Public radio reporter that I was.

But once geen and lello are gone, so, too, is an entire era of language, expression -- and joy.

Of course, on the upside, I've recruited one more person to my Green Brigade.

"Vino e Pane" (Reading as trip prep)

Half of my brain is trained on preparing for my trip to Florence, which as I said in previous posts, will be my first return to the city I once called home in a decade.

Much of the preparation is mental (though there is a suitcase permanently open on the floor of my bedroom).

I'm listening to music (see below), reading books in Italian (or simply more than usual) and re-reading a few books.

One book is a travelogue by the great Italian novelist, Antonio Tabucchi.Mike brought it back on his last visit to Florence.

For a long while, I left it in the dining room, along with the other ricordini and gifts he'd hauled back, per our ritual.

Before I began reading it, I would look at it from across the room, and there’s no other way to say it. I got my jollies. Just from looking at it.

I'd think, 'Yup, it’s still there on the dining room table, still in Italian, still waiting for me to pick up.'

Looking at it, I felt almost a form of lust – literary lust, I guess.

Essentially Italian books get my motor running, send my heart racing, not all that differently than how a man would.

It sounds weird -- but I suspect only because I externalized a thought most bookworms have, even if only on an unconscious level.

Anyhoo, I'm also re-reading a lot of books. Like "Vino e Pane" by Ignazio Silone.

And I'm packing books for the airplane and to read while in Florence (because the books I buy there, I will first have to set on the dining room table and lust over for a few weeks. Ma e' chiaro, no?)

So as I pack, I'm asking myself: is this the trip I finally read “L’Ultimo Brigatista” about Italian terrorism? We’ll see. The book’s tone has always struck me as a bit too self-important, as if it doesn’t have to sell me on the topic.

Of course, I may just wind up staring at it from across the room. And I'll enjoy that, too.

"Tu, Catania, non mi basti!" (First, a little music)

As I said in my previous post, I'm going back to Florence, Italy, for the first time in 10 years.

The first city I lived in as an adult, and the city that arguably has held greater sway over my thoughts, my path, my desperate wishes, than any other (except, probably, New York).

Needless to say, my prep for the trip is anything but casual.

I'm warming up my Italian brain by immersing myself in Italian music, including this infectious song, which I can't get out of my head (see below).

Ever listen to Italian music? Italian pop music. Not Pavorotti.

It takes a while to cultivate a liking to it (unless you’re listening to Ilaria Graziano. Then you like the music subito).

And one big step toward liking it is to indulge your inner sentimentality (not hard for someone like me, whose favorite film is "It's A Wonderful Life.")

But once you fall in love with Italian music, well, be prepared for tears. Or at least, that's the effect it's had on me, probably because almost any Italian pop music transports me instantly back to the days I lived in Italy. Even music that wasn't on the radio in those days or sung in piazzas by friends strumming guitars.

Take a listen to "Non Ho Più La Mia Città," by Gerardina Trovato, who appeared at the Festival di San Remo back in 1993. She sings, "Ancora sto sognando..." I'm still dreaming. Me, too, Gerardina. Me, too.

A riveder le stelle -- Florence, here I come!

I’m about to write the most incredible sentence I can imagine.

(OK, it’s the second most incredible sentence. The first was, “I’m having a baby.”)

Here goes.

I leave for Florence in less than a month! FLORENCE, ITALY.

(No, not Florence, S.C.).

OK, so I will only be there for less than a week.

But I hardly think about that.

I.Am.Going.To.Florence.

The city I lived in. The city I loved. The city where I fell in love.

It must be the old woman inside of me – the person who emerged after maternity leave when everything is stripped from you and you learn to live again in a much more basic way – but I swear, two days there may be enough.

I will be so overwhelmed by every little change I see, that it will be any wonder if I’m able to get to sleep at all while there.

Wait, didn’t there used to be a fruttivendolo on that corner?

Wait, they finally removed the scaffolding from that church after a decade?

It will be a journey as much through time as space.

Just to see the faces of the people I once knew. Or walk the streets. Or look up at the white stone blocks on every vicolo, viuzzo and piazza, to re-read street names I haven’t seen in a decade. Very small pleasures that loom large inside of my head.

There’s also a few new things to discover. Like the tram! I plan to ride it into Florentine neighborhoods I’d previously ignored.

I'm going to Florence, Italy. It won't be the same.

But I'm not the same person I was 10 years ago, much less 20. So I think we're good. Real good.

Faccio io! (Leo's selfie)

He loves taking pictures. And he pressed the button on this one. So do I have to give him the photo credit?

My other Atlanta photo obsessions

An old shed in the back of my neighbor's house...

What I like to call 'country in the city.'

We've got a lot of that down here in Hotlanta.

"Cartoonists: Foot Soldiers of Democracy"

I went out last night to a screening of a French documentary film about political cartoonists that was organized by the Atlanta Press Club, and as I walked to my car, I felt a little surge of life!

It’s easy to see why. I went to see a film. And not just a film but a documentary. Moreover, a documentary film in French! About cartoonists who are boldly lampooning politicians specifically and inequities in general.

Do I really need to say it was cool?

The film, “Cartoonists: Foot Soldiers of Democracy,” followed around a dozen cartoonists from across the globe as they observed their culture, including the explosive events they’ve chronicled through their drawings, and explained how they worked. It thoroughly captured what it was like to live in their worlds.

The cartoonists were interviewed in their native tongues – Arabic, French, Russian, Chinese, Spanish – as they worked, or in the case of the Russian cartoonist, as he danced in the countryside with friends. Imagine an aging Russian cartoonist dancing on the grass with friends!

The press club had several Georgia cartoonists on hand, including Rick McKee of the Augusta Chronicle. When I asked Rick about being in such an elite group, he said, “There are about 50 of us around the country left.”

There’s just something about the cartoonists’ ability to conjure up so much with just a small square of a drawing. And the stories they tell in the movie! Of being summoned by the KGB or banned from publishing or threatened. One scene included an interesting conversation between two cartoonists in Africa about the limits of what they could and couldn't publish. Spoiler: the scene includes a part of the male anatomy!

And as a board member of the Atlanta Press Club, I was super proud we could sponsor such a cool event!

I should also mention the French Consulate here in Atlanta was an important partner in pulling off the event. Now if only I could say that in French!

Found and lost (Cat streetscape)

I took this photo (I think of it as 'cat streetscape') in an enclave of artist live-work spaces, off the Beltline, back in 2009.

And it's somewhat curious that this little bit of street art is now gone.

My neighbor, Art

I take walks sometimes with my 83-year-old neighbor, Art.

A retired chemist born in Chicago to a Swedish mother and a German father, he's in remarkable health. Thin of bearing and spry, taking off on long, cross-country drives, and heading out often to (mainly classical) concerts.

Yup, he's decidedly young at heart. And a lovely man, who's retained a wide-eyed curiosity about life.

And he says to me this morning, as we're walking in Grant Park near my home in Atlanta:

"I'm really looking forward to aging."

As you might. At 83.

Steps to nowhere

I've been intrigued for a few years by the sheer number of old steps in Atlanta that lead nowhere.

They once led somewhere, to be sure.

But now the original building is long gone.

Yet the steps remain.

So I've started to take photos of them.

I suppose other cities have steps to nowhere, as well.

But perhaps because Atlanta is a city with many single-family homes and standalone office buildings, the steps seem to stand out...or maybe pile up quicker.

As a reporter, I traveled to Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina. And Atlanta's steps to nowhere have the odd echo of the properties I saw in Biloxi where all that remained of a house might be the foundation. Or the steps.

Found photos (Southern Italy edition)

In the age of the digital photo, you 'forget' some of the photos you've taken. Here are some 'found' favorites of Southern Italy.

The Book of Moods

I feel sometimes as though I could write an entire book about my moods. Is everyone this way?

Join me as I indulge this fantasy.

I could write it along the lines of Bridget Jones' Diary, but oriented, in my case, for the (ahem, older) mother of a toddler:

Sleep: 7 hrs, 45 min sleep
Caffeine intake: 1.5 caffelattes
Time to write: 1.5 hours solid work
Mood as of 8 a.m.: "It's A Wonderful Life" (last scene, obviously)

Then you could do a night-time edition:

Sleep: 7 hrs, 45 min sleep
Caffeine intake: 1.5 caffelattes
Total time writing: 4 hours
Exercise: Ran three miles
Book I'm Reading: Henry James' "The Portrait of A Lady"
Alcohol in-take: Two glasses of red wine
Wine quality: We were drinking aglianico so fan-fuckin'tastic
Funny things Leo said: "Whatta happened?" and "Look at that Mommy face!"
Mood as of 8 p.m.: This feeling should be illegal

Alternative version: when I sleep a little less than I should, sometimes I find the gates of perception are nonetheless wide open, and I'm stumbling from one thought to another, and one prospect to another, with boundless hope and good will.

Sleep: 6 hrs, 15 min sleep
Caffeine intake: 2.0 caffelattes
Time to write: 1.5 hours solid work
Songs listened to: "No Government" by Nicolette on the way back from daycare, then Springsteen, then Gianna Nannini's "America"
Read some Italian? Yes; finished third book in Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan series
Mood as of 10 a.m.: Hallucinating about taking over the world (and hence needing and wanting to write down every thought)

Just me?

From the Leo Journal (Nina Simone edition)

The last two evenings, Leo has jumped up after dinner to say, “Let’s listen to some music.”

He runs over to the boom box on a corner bookshelf in the kitchen and begins fiddling with the knobs. He knows which CD is his – a children’s album of Woody Guthrie songs from my friend, Margie – but he’s also curious about my jazz CDs.

The first night, he listens to the song "Take Me Riding In the Car," and shouts out certain words: Back seat! Blow the horn! There's a frog in the car!

Then he looks at Nina Simone’s face on one of my CDs and decides he wants a listen. I cue up “My Baby Just Cares For Me,” one of my favorite songs, and try to dance him around the dining room. He’s not having it.

But he likes the next song, “Don’t Smoke In Bed.” On the second night, he begins playing his CD, then says, suddenly, with perfect enunciation and recall, “Don’t Smoke In Bed.” I roar with delight, and he says, again, “Don’t smoke in bed, Mommy."

Menefreghismo! Yes!

There's an incredible new nonfiction book by the Economist's John Hooper called The Italians.

How do I know it's incredible? According to a book review in The New York Times, he explains concepts like "menefreghismo"!

For the uninitiated, it means not giving a crap about something; the phrase "non me ne frega niente" is something you hear every day, every day, in Italy. Typically 'niente' might be replaced with 'un cazzo' -- that kind of thing.

In fact, menefreghismo sums up the attitude of vast numbers of people, including just about anyone in public office.

Finally, the REAL Italy. Not just gondolas. Please tell me there's a chapter on the tredecisima!

Read The New York Times' book review here.

**ciao ciao ciao ciao ciao ciao**

Look at that face!

"Found" dialogue:

"Look at that face," he says. "Look at that Mommy face."

My two-year-old. Leonardo.

Then he adds, "Mommy happy? Mommy happy?"

**

Nicolette - No Government

I love this song so much by the British/Nigerian singer, Nicolette. Listening to it, I feel as though I'm committing a crime or telling a lie, its beat is so infectious and sinister.

OK, so I have a thing for trays

This tray is part of my "Italian tray" collection. Yes, the collection has subcategories.

This tray was actually a gift for Il Nostro Inviato.

I was delighted to see an article about trays in the New York Times' Home section today. As the article says, they "corral" items that would otherwise be clutter and also convey a sense of service, if used for drinks or food.

Unlike the trays featured in the Times, my trays all come from thrift stores! Even the one from Italy!

Sesame Street: Leonardo da Crunchy's "The Muncha Lisa"

This is what we've been watching this morning. "The Muncha Lisa"? Oh Lord, too funny.

We discovered this video just as we'd been looking the past few weeks at a calendar of Leonardo Da Vinci paintings, including, of course, the Mona Lisa.

I can only imagine that comparing the two -- even just the names -- made the discovery that much sweeter for my Leonardo.

And for this Italophile, the accents on the Leonardo and Mona Lisa puppets are hysterical! And spot-on.

C'era una volta a Firenze

Più che una libreria, fu una chiesa per i libri.

Libreria Condotta was a delightful little bookshop not far from Piazza della Signoria. The type of bookstore with those old ladders left leaning against the shelves, which of course lined the place from floor to ceiling.

The owners were incredibly knowledgeable, and even a bit intimidating. I always had the sense I was interrupting something very important whenever I asked a question.

But they had everything, so many delicious Italian novels.

It's now a winebar. Ah, the remembrance of things past! Past and now lost forever.

My latest dose of Italy

c/o Il Nostro Inviato (ma certo).

Quasi quasi piglio il libro di Tabucchi e mollo tutto!

Spotted at Blue Ridge and Cleburne (ATL)

Buongiorno, right back at you!

Italian Books Rock! (Bambino edition)

I recently received one of the most beautiful books I've ever seen. And it wasn't for me (though I quickly appropriated it). Take a look. Squisito, no?

It's a children's book that my cousin-in-law, Stephanie, brought back for Leo from Italy. (Stephanie, a.k.a., Mary Kate Wife, in Leo's parlance).

The images are gorgeous, the thick cardboard cutouts are solid and elegant, and the design is ingenious!

Sometimes it's as though all I do in my life is fall in love again and again with the same things! Ahhh....books!

And I suppose if that's really what life is like, well, shoot, it could be worse.

The other view from my room at Bennington

When I awoke most mornings at Bennington College this month for my grad school residency, there was a lot of gorgeous, fluffy snow falling outside of my window. And then inside, there was this:

Sharing a soda with Leo at the Blue Benn diner.

You can put that on my tomb (Robert Frost)

While I was at Bennington for my grad school residency, I visited the churchyard where Robert Frost is buried. Take a close look. The inscription reads:

"I had a lover's quarrel with the world."

Commence swooning. Is there a better inscription?

It makes me feel a bit like I have nothing to say so I will simply add: I, too, am having a lover's quarrel with the world. And I'm quite enjoying it.

Leo on the Rodin sculpture at the High

Here's Leo's take on the Rodin sculpture on the front lawn of the High Museum in Atlanta:

"He not moving. He not get down."

So true.

My view of the world today (feed the mind's eye)

I have this little obsession with what I put atop my chest of drawers. As if the little items have a certain power, perhaps, to remind me of what is right. Not that I need reminders of the people in this photo. But maybe sometimes I need a reminder to be grateful.

Signs of Christmas (for Jeanne)

Beginning to look a lot like Christmas?

For me, it is.

I have my Buon Natale sign up. It's finally time to whip out my favorite CD of Christmas songs, Robert Shaw's Festival of Carols, which I swiped from my parents. (I can't start listening to it too soon. That would ruin everything.)

And as soon as I cue it up, I have to start baking cookies.

Pretty soon, it will be time for the ultimate Christmas tradition.

But not yet. Not yet.

Happy Holidays!

Elena Ferrante quotes (#2)

From Elena Ferrante's Q&A with the Financial Times:

Q. When did you know you were going to be a writer?
A. I still don't know -- and I never will.

Q. What does it mean to be a writer?
A. Pursuing what we are not able to say. Writing during any scrap of free time and without worrying about getting published.

For more of this intriguing interview, go here:

http://www.ft.com/intl/cms/s/0/7f1c9ed4-4269-11e4-9818-00144feabdc0.html/

The New York Times also had an article about Ferrante this week:

http://nyti.ms/1zogEeC/

Io (Leo) and Loud Noisies (not a typo)

One little person -- my little person -- loves “loud noisies.”

Not loud noises, loud noisies.

My little Leo finds ways to distort the language that instantly sound like a vast improvement over the original.

He also refers to himself as "io," which he pronounces as "ee-oh." It turns out 'L' is a tough letter for little tongues! So to say his own name, he says "Io."

This linguistic misstep turns out to be anything but. Indeed, for me, it's magical. Little does he know "io" means "I" in Italian. Little does he know the importance of Italian to me -- and to him.

Elena Ferrante quotes

From Elena Ferrante's La Frantumaglia:

“Il bisogno d’amore è l’esperienza centrale della nostra esistenza.”

[Trans.: "The need for love is the central experience of our existence."]

Un po' di formaggio ci vuole

Già una buona forchetta che sa grattuggiare il formaggio.

The Italian Advantage! (Ferrante post #501)

It's not every day that knowing Italian actually gives me an edge but ha ha! Today it does!

I don't have to wait until Ann Goldstein at the New Yorker translates Elena Ferrante's latest book from her Neapolitian series. I can go ahead and read it in Italian! YAY!

Just look at it. (In fact that's all I can do since I still have to finish Book #2 of the series).

Storia della bambina perduta.

(Thanks to Il Nostro Inviato for picking me up a copy last week when he went to Italy for work.)

Happy reading everyone!

Sunset, Hilton Head Island (La Carolina del Sud)

E poi in realta, il tramonto era ancora piu favoloso -- la macchina fotografica non riesce a ricreare cio che l'occhio percepisce.

***

"LA STRADA" - Ilaria Graziano & Francesco Forni

One of the most gorgeous voices I've ever heard.

Cool photo (IMHO)....Oh and the kid's cute too

Leo with cat. And tomato.

Either my new fancy camera can't take a bad picture or this kid is pretty cute or maybe both.

Thinking of a Jovanotti song today

Beautiful thought:" È questa la vita che sognavo da bambino."

("This is the life I dreamt about as a child.")

Best book in Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan trilogy?

Just finished Elena Ferrante's "L'Amica Geniale," just started the second book in the trilogy, "Storia del Nuovo Cognome."

Already read "Storia di Chi Resta E Di Chi Fugge."

So what's the best book in the trilogy?

I would say NOT the first book.

The last book is amazing (last one, at least so far).

And I think book #2 is off to a good start.

*********

"L'Amica Geniale" (Ferrante...again)

I'm reading "L'Amica Geniale" di Elena Ferrante and sometimes I stop myself because the pleasure of reading in Italian is so intense, I need to take a breath!

Here's to cultivating passions....Cin-cin!

**************

Air Force One? All In A Day's Work

I meant to post this photo a few weeks back. Every now and again, you pull an odd assignment in journalism.

Mine, the day I took this picture, was to wait for Air Force One to arrive in Atlanta with Pres. Obama, and then wait for it to leave, all in the hopes he would toss off a comment as he was arriving or leaving.

He didn't. But I did see him jog up the stairs to the plane and then turn around to wave goodbye to Atlanta.

So there was that.

Actually it was cool. Watching airplanes take off is always exhilarating, and the wind on the runway even on a hot day cools you down.

Medieval Salento!

Just discovered this book on a Web site for the CENTRO PRIMO LEVI ONLINE MONTHLY:

"Medieval Salento
: Art and Identity in Southern Italy" (University of Pennsylvania Press).

Look at the cover art!

And the title!

They had me at Salento.

Fibonacci

Non sapevo che il matematico Fibonacci si chiamo' Leonardo!

Greatest book title ever?

"Storia Di Chi Resta E Di Chi Fugge" by Elena Ferrante.

Although I will say Calvino's "Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore" is also in the running.

I've finished "Storia Di Chi Resta E Di Chi Fugge" and am now reading the first book in Ferrante's Neapolitan trilogy, "L'Amica Geniale."

#chebellalettura