Let's look at the Food Section...

...Says you-know-who, last Wednesday while we were looking at The New York Times over breakfast, per our usual.

And while listening to NPR on the radio, he says, "She said President Obama, Mommy!"

And, "Mommy do you have power?"

(I think he meant superpowers. No.)

He also said, just once, but still, it was dazzling, "Mommy I want to hear what you have to say."

And, "Which one are you going to have?"

And sometimes when we look at magazines, he'll say, "That's art. And that's art," pointing to pictures of art.

"Look, Mommy, it's the Mona Lisa!"

Down here in Atlanta, there's a saying you'll hear sometimes.

"It ain't braggin' if you done it."

Well, okay, I didn't do anything but I'll brag a little that when Leo and I went to the Atlanta airport last week, he spotted the advertisement in this photo and yelled out, "Look, Mommy, it's the Mona Lisa!"

Unprompted, and while riding the airport train.

Of course, his name is Leonardo.

And while he, in fact, is Leonardo da Atlanta, he is aware of that other Leonardo.

Whose most famous painting, he'll tell you, is in Paris.

Pushy commands you grow to love

Here's one:

"Read it, Mommy," as my son Leo pushes a book in my hand.

Sometimes it's even a book in Italian.

Puglia in Tavola, prose poem in mind

Earlier this week, I took down from the book shelf in the kitchen where we keep the cook books a small volume we bought in Puglia: Puglia in Tavola.

And I opened it up this morning, flipping away from the recipe I had bookmarked to see what else is hidden inside there, and I find names of recipes that read like the seeds of prose poems in Italian.

Words so foreign to me, that they beggar the imagination that they could be Italian (and yet I see they are).

Words like: quagghjariedde and ghiemeridde.

I don't cook. But a recipe book in Italian? A little piece of heaven. Almost as good as a ciambellina.

Lost entry from my Italian trip diary

Back against the wall, eyes staring across the street, staring at the #54 , as if I were trying to memorize the address or the pattern of the iron work above the green door.

No need. My old apartment was at Via dei Serragli, 54.

Really I’m waiting for someone to pass. A short young American girl, in pensiero, looking slightly troubled, walking quickly, all business, coming out of the door.

Or a man with long hair tied into a ponytail at the nape of his neck and with a long stride, making his way down the street.

But those people are gone. They’re now approaching middle age and living in Atlanta. Besides, one of them is the person with her back against the wall, trying to retrace her steps, to figure out how she got there or here (and which is which? Am I here or there?).

I look up the bedroom window, which now has a lovely lace curtain. The door is adorned with a fancier campanile, filled with the names of tenants I don't know. But it’s all more the same than different – thank God.

I Good Mommy, I Good? (Poesia per Leonardo)

A poem for Leo, in honor of his third birthday, and the way his words have thoroughly entered my head and changed the way I hear speech -- forever.

*

“I good, Mommy? I good?”

Another little scrap of remembered conversation with you-know-who

“I good, Mommy? I good?”

The words follow me, from my house in Atlanta to the airport

To the airplane, to Bennington

To my notebook, and ultimately here,

To this poem

“I good, Mommy? I good?”

There’s a desperation in his voice

And I notice: his voice is a weapon, a weapon to break every bit of hardness in me,

Incisive and plaintive and capable of dispelling any notion of motherhood I might have invented

His voice, his plaintive, little words, his insistence on knowing if he’s a good boy or not
The abrupt change in tone, the turning of the head when I suggested, not so gently, that
He needed to be a good boy to gain this or that privilege

All of it, all of it, is conspiring to dismantle every intention of being tough with him.

I’m forced to say without any equivocation, “Yes, Leo. Leo’s a good boy.”

Oh how I want to equivocate, my own penchant for pettiness leaning ever so decisively toward quibbling

But the person asking the question isn’t the boy who climbs out of his crib during a nap or the boy who says no,I don't want to, or the boy who insists on walking where his mother fears he will fall

No, no the boy who asks is another

The boy who asks “I good, Mommy? I good?” is all of human kindness in one little body.

The boy who asks “I good, Mommy? I good?” is all of human yearning in one little body.

The boy who asks “I good, Mommy? I good?” is a far better person than I am or ever will be

The boy who asks “I good, Mommy? I good?” would have had his heart broken if I said anything other than yes.

Wait, did I really just go to Italy?

As I go about my days back in Atlanta, I’m seized every now and again by a sudden realization: I went to Italy last month.

Italy!

I really was there. It was truly amazing, as always. And it’s there waiting for me, whenever I’m ready to go back.

Favorite Italian Spots? Here's One

L'edicola. The newsstand. Still quite central to Italian life. If for no other reason than where, oh where, would you find so many puzzle magazines?

Reason #502 I Love Rome

THIS view. A window into heaven, as it were.

Reason #501 I Love Rome

This view.

And Then We Said Arrivederci

I'll continue to post photos from my Italy trip to the blog but I'll wrap up the story of my trip here.

So here are the numbers.

I spent a mere five days in Italy, including 24 hours in Rome.

My travels came eight years after my last visit to Italy (a thorough and thoroughly enjoyable trip to Puglia), and 10 years after my last visit to Florence.

I walked I would guess a dozen miles or more around the two cities, and spent hundreds of dollars, but not too much shame there since I spent them on the best things in life, and the things I like best – books, gifts for Leo and Mike and meals with friends.

When will I be back? Who can say? My job, as far as I was concerned, was to make the absolute most of my time in Italy. And I did that. As I wrote in my notebook that first afternoon in Rome, while walking through a minor piazza where a man was selling used books from a cart, “It’s already enough.”

I’m glad I was able to stay a few more days. I’d like to go back – tomorrow. Next month. Next year. And sure, I’d like to stay a week, two weeks, two months, maybe five years.

But if anyone out there wants to send me to Florence or Rome or anywhere in Italy for 24 hours, hey, you know where to find me. I’m always ready to hear a flight attendant say, “Benvenuti in Italia,” followed, of course, by a round of applause.

Where To Eat in Florence (the Update)

OK, a long, long time ago I wrote a post about where to eat in Florence. And I'm more than happy to update it now.

Full disclosure, before we go any further: I'm talking about Florence, Italy. Not Florence, S.C. OK, OK, here we go.

I wasn't there very long so I only have a few places to recommend. But I think you will like them. And in an unusual move, they are all places I'd never been before.

Trattoria Cammillo

Don't trust me with recommendations? Va bene. Trust The New York Times, which has reviewed this spot on Borgo San Iacopo very favorably several times. Not enough? OK, Beyonce and Jay Z were there last week. Ci siamo?

It's really your classic old-school trattoria. White table cloths, a touch of fancy, the thought that an important Italian dignitary might be in a corner table. Walls covered with art, the industrial coffee maker in a corner, just inside the door. Waiters in classic service garb. And the food is lovely.

I ate one of the best pasta dishes I've had in a while: paccheri sul coniglio. Paccheri pasta in a stewed rabbit sauce.

Plus a lovely glass of Vino Nobile, which was the "degustazione" of the evening. That was a new one for me.

Alex, my very lovely dining companion, had bistecca alla fiorentina (which you can see above).

Cento Poveri

This is a good, tried and true Florentine trattoria not far from Piazza Santa Maria Novella. Feeling a bit gluttonous (which in Italian sounds much less sinful: golosa), I ordered a plate of pasta: pici al granchio (in photo above). Pici, a type of thick, long pasta with a large piece of crab settled on top and quite delicious, once I'd managed to extricate its essential goodness from its hard shell (like so many other things that come in hard shells).

I also had a really lovely cheese plate.

And I found the prices to be giusti, and despite the location (on Via Palazzuolo) -- really a stone's throw from Tourist Central.

Alle Murate

In some ways you could say this is an odd ball. A former prison that's now really a cultural space as much as it is a restaurant and bar.

I had a plate of prosciutto crudo (which, in Italy, can almost never fail) followed by a lovely salad, plus the company of an even lovelier former roommate, Irene.

Besides what I ate, what's more important is that this place be on your radar as a punto di referimento. There are gallery openings, concerts, lectures, all sorts of cultural activities going on here that merit your attention or really anyone's attention. This week alone, there will be dance performances by Italian, Korean and Japanese artists.

Also: Near my favorite part of Florence: Piazza Sant'Ambrogio.

So, buon appetito!

Rome Notebook (An Italian Walks Into a Bar)

3:30 p.m. May 13, 2015.

I'll call this post: The difference between Rome and Florence: Take One

In a nondescript bar across from the Campidoglio/Monumento Alla Patria, I find a mix of tourists and Romans but the bar remains quintessentially Italian. It should be totally overrun by tourists, it should have no Italian identity left. If it were in Florence in the same kind of location, it would be the worst place to stop for a snack.

An Italian walks in, carrying a motorcycle helmet and wearing a tan fishing-style vest that’s popular among men in Italy. He exchanges one look with the barista, and tutto e’ inteso. Everything is clear.

The look from the barista says, “Oh finally you’re here!” and “What a day we’re having!” The look from the regular – because it’s clear from the first second, the way he walked in, the way he surveyed the bar and looked at the bartender that he’s a regular – says, “Do you see what I’m saying?” and “Can you believe that?” Where both parties know exactly what “that” refers to.

All without uttering a word. A few helpful Italian hand gestures, the jutting out of the chin, an “O!” or two, and everything is clear between these two.

This is the kind of drama that draws me in. It’s the everyday drama of Italy. I eat my schiacchiata with prosciutto crudo and I stare at the two expectantly. Go on. It’s getting interesting.

5 p.m., the same day

I’m on the fifth floor of my tiny, nothing-special hotel, gasping and gaping at a tiny rooftop deck whose view takes in a large, stately cupola and a dozen or more private rooftop decks, some with flowers, some with laundry. All with the majestic silence of Rome from the air, broken only by the neighborhood church bells, chiming out 5 o’ clock.

It’s exactly how I thought it would be. The trip, I mean. If I arrived safe and sound, and at my hotel in fairly decent shape (i.e., slept a few hours on the plane), I’d be quickly satiated, which is to say happy. And I’m not fussy. I don’t need a parade. I only need Rome to be Rome.

That said, I think Rome forgets sometimes it’s Rome (if a city can be said 'to think'. Which it can't. But suspend disbelief for a moment). One tiny, two-second glimpse of the rooftop deck – I'm still climbing the stairs, still tentatively opening the door – and then suddenly an enormous cupola is filling my vision field. I'm on top of the world. Absolutely stunning.

Rome thinks this is normal! Because it is – for Rome.

The Eternal City? Check.

Rome, afternoon, 14 May 2015

Jeanne Shops In Italy (My Top Picks)

OK, here are my favorite purchases from Italy earlier this month:

The coffee cup with the Palazzo Vecchio design. A must-have! Notice the green moka in the background. I couldn't resist. You can never have too many moka coffee pots. And besides as Leo says, "Green is our favorite color, Mommy!"

Placemats. OK, we use a lot of placemats at our house. And it's an everyday way to keep a little bit of Italy in my life.

For the little, future Mario Andretti in your life.

PLUS:
The most incredible tote bag I have ever seen! A tote bag with pithy little sayings about all the wonderful things one should do in one's life and they're all in Italian? Ding ding ding that's a gift for Ciambellina.

And as I mentioned in a previous post, I stocked up on my Elena Ferrante titles. What a twisted book cover this is, no? Well, I suppose, ci mancherebbe. Some of what she writes is a bit twisted.

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!