Month: March 2016

Almost every time I cross onto Corso Cavour or into Piazza della Repubblica, I feel like Scrooge on Christmas morning, or George Bailey rediscovering Bedford Falls.

Yesterday the town was crowded. Summer-crowded, or Jazz Festival-crowded. A sidebar consequence of all the visitors may be that waiters and sales people become more easily impatient with stumbling verbs. Or perhaps it’s not impatience, just the reasonable assumption that verbs will soon be joined by nouns and prepositions, so why not finish the sentence I’m struggling with themselves, and do it in English? Of course, when that happens I grow nervous, pronouns and articles join their kin in the abyss, and my behavior becomes incomprehensibly foolish.

Speaking only for myself, however, and regardless of crowds and the attitudes of waiters, language is always a problem whenever I’ve spent considerable time writing (in English) or walking (alone.) The mouth and brain stop functioning for speech, and are stunned when it’s required of them. When it’s Italian speech that’s required, brain and mouth pretend to belong to someone else. It’s their least embarrassing alternative when hurled violently towards panic. I do wish brain and mouth would consult me now and then.

I went out several times yesterday, all of them in Scrooge/Bailey mode. I love the crowds that fill the streets. Dogs wagging and sniffing and straining on their leashes; cats, undaunted but cautious, streaking low among giants. Infants, sitting in their strollers like the royalty they are, gaze astonished at the miracle of The World. Toddlers fall and spring up again, not missing a beat. Little kids roam in packs, create alliances, accept adoration as their due. Early teens look cool to cover their terror, dizzy with the discovery that the world they thought they knew is less friendly than it was a moment ago. Older teens seem to have recognized the terror for what it is – fear of the new – and find the new intoxicating.

Young couples are so in love with being in love, and with one another, that not to smile would suffocate. Young parents are so in love with their children that eyes and hands dance – or they are so worried, or they are so tired, or all three in elegant combination. Young families stroll like dust devils. Those newly released from active parenting float, waiting for demands that never come. Friends of decades scour their little-changing town for fresh detail, tease anyone within range, hold hands, lock arms, brush shoulders, kiss cheeks, laugh and scowl and nod and give forth. A few smile silently with a secret so carefully kept, and so generously shared, that the pulse quickens to see them.

After a half hour or so, I leave the streets and stop for dinner at Caffe del Teatro. They serve simple meals here – the warm parts purportedly from a package – surprisingly tasty, ambiance elegant, prices cheap. There is usually a menu in a lucite holder sitting on the counter, but I can’t find it. Neither of the young women serving is familiar. The older and lanker one is smart and ironic, the younger and more-relaxed, overflowing with sweetness.

I step up to the counter before I know what country I’m in, open my mouth and ask, ‘”Bufiht, gohgutnhdi faorataeede?” The older leans in. “What are you trying to say?” I repeat myself, only less intelligibly. She rolls her eyes, “We don’t do that here.” After coaxing her back, and with several more attempts in no language that exists, I manage to order. The younger serves me at table as if I were her favorite uncle.

The counter fills up. Four men, young by my standards but probably in their late thirties, discuss something – maybe soccer, maybe politics, maybe fashion, probably food. A few minutes pass and a gentleman who looks every bit an ancient Walt Whitman lopes in. He’s Orvieto’s homeless contingent – though he reputedly has a place to live, he just never goes there if he doesn’t have to. Then a young couple, so beautiful it’s embarrassing, joins the group at the bar. They order prosecco, and proceed to instruct the rest of us on how to pull off public displays of affection with the greatest imaginable ease. Shortly after that, a man in his forties, maybe older, with a face so appealingly handsome I immediately distrust him, confidently enters. He is delivered a drink the color of red papaya served in oversized stemware.

I linger over the last of my water, waiting, wishing the crowd would thin so I can make a dash to the register without anyone talking to me. The earlier tongue twisting was enough for one evening. I want to be back on the street, admiring, reveling, and observing – all from a tolerable distance. This bar scene, right now, is too intimate for my comfort.

Eventually, I finish my water, gaze at the lovely paintings on the ceiling for as long as I can pretend to have reason, suck in some air, and approach the counter. The lanky signorina asks if I’m an American. I assure her that I am, especially at this moment. “That’s why I said all that about the food,” she notes. I have no idea what she’s referring to. She follows this crypticism with a flurry of colloquial Italian that makes me smile, but clarifies nothing. The guy with the bright red-orange beverage says from behind me, and in magnificent English, “We Italians enjoy discussing food. We’ll talk about it for hours; the nuances, shades of flavor, color, origin, history, you name it.” Everyone nods, though I doubt their English is much better than my Italian. The lanky signorina begins a monologue with “If I (or “you” – I miss which person the verb is couched in) win the lottery…” She then continues for an acre while counting out my change. I make a flaccid stab at a witty reply, with “Well, when that lottery is won, you’ll share some with me, right?” She answers that if I win the lottery, sharing it will be my business. I guess it’s me who’s supposed to win.

Everyone in the Caffe is friendly, attentive, and ready to welcome me into their world. I’m as disoriented and distressed as George Bailey in Pottersville or Scrooge at his tombstone. I squeeze out a grin, conclude the transaction, and flee, relieved to be out but also feeling like I’m abandoning a room full of old friends.

Back in the street, the crowds are in passeggiata mode, thick and slow. But not as thick and slow as I feel. I reel, I stagger, I’ve either just had a mild stroke or the salad was dressed with grappa. Nothing brings me out of it, not even bambini or puppies. I wander, hoping the sensation will subside. It diminishes but does not go away. I weave up the two flights to my apartment, and throw myself onto the sofa.

At the end of this coming week I’ll be signing a lease for a house in Orvieto. A small place with a garden – an amazing find at an affordable rent. On the sofa last night, the thought crossed my mind that taking a house here was probably delusional and was surely a mistake. The thought crossed my mind, turned to look back at me with some nostalgia, and fell off a cliff. I had a warm drink and went to bed.

The ingredients are simple. One patron saint, a couple hundred children, an even greater number of their family and friends, some twisty streets, and a whistle. Oh yeah, some really dedicated and (so I hear) wonderful teachers.

Claudia let me know this was happening, both her boys would be involved. “At nine-thirty Saturday morning, there is an event in Piazza del Duomo. Confusion reigns supreme.” How could I not show up? I had no idea what I was going to.

On the way down Via del Duomo I check the alimentari owned by my friends Vera and Giovanni. As they’ve grown older, their previous schedule of Giovanni in the morning, Vera in the afternoon, and both together after four, has concentrated to include only the both together shift and that not until six. It makes it harder to remember to visit, so I made a special point to do so in early February. “We’re closing for a few weeks on Monday,” Vera told me. “The entire place is being restructured.” I’ve been peaking on my way past the store for two weeks now, but the windows, covered with sheets of white paper, have not let me discover what might be going on inside. This morning is no different.

In the piazza, a large crowd has gathered, lots of children, ages young to younger, wearing numbers safety-pinned to their shirts. Just about everyone I know or am familiar with in Orvieto is here. The first I meet are Natsuko and Andrea. “Don’t you love seeing the piazza full of people like this?” Andrea says, more or less greeting me with a statement. “Wonderful things happen here. I want to install a webcam.” He points up to a window I never in my mind connected with his apartment. “One night, I looked out my library window and there were three cellists formally dressed playing on the steps of the Duomo. No one else in the square, just them.”

A few minutes later Claudia emerges from the crowd, and a few after that Giorgio dashes by, dressed a little like he’d just stepped off a trans-Atlantic voyage with Noel Coward. It’s nine-forty, nothing has happened yet. At least nothing organized. I ask Natsuko what the kids are going to do. She describes a complicated route through a part of town sort of centered around the Liceo. I imagine a procession. After all it’s San Giuseppe’s Day, the city’s patron. I nod in response, smile, and take in the crowd.

The crowd grows thick. Children organize themselves into groups. Other people I know appear and disappear. Then the kids who have coalesced at the mouth of Via Maitani, which leads into town across from the central door of the Duomo, assume starting positions, leaning into an imaginary wind. I ask
Claudia “Is this a race?” She doesn’t hear me, but it sure is starting to look like it. Then one of a group of who seem to be teachers, steps forward with a coach’s whistle, gives it a mighty and throaty blast, the group of kids spills into Maitani, and most of the adults run – albeit at a slower pace – towards Via del Duomo.

We congregate in what is variously called Piazza Gualtieri or Piazza San Giuseppe. Soon a policeman on a beautiful motor cycle with sirens blaring and lights flashing clears a path. He is followed by a pack of kids running like demons towards a subtly identified finish line. Enrico, Claudia’s husband, now appears out of the crowd, and their sons, blond Adreas and dark Tobia emerge from the runners’ pack and go off to collect their gold medals and chocolate eggs.

But that’s not all of it. Much of the crowd now retraces towards Piazza del Duomo where a group of younger students are preparing their race for grace. The same thing happens again, only the contestants are a foot or so shorter. And a third time, with contestants so young they must have been assigned a special route, for their efforts are more to keep going in a single direction than speed. Each race is given a police escort, gold metals, and chocolate eggs (dimensions of which diminish slightly to match the corporeal size of the contestant.)

The crowd now strolls over to Bar Montanucci where the good people there have set up a table with dolce, coffee, and other snacks, free for participants and their elders. On the way I glance at the alimentari, and in the previous hour the paper has been removed and the new interior exposed for the town to admire. I excuse myself and step inside to congratulate Giovanni (Vera is not there.) “It’s beautiful,” I say. “Yeah, and pretty darned expensive,” he replies. Their daughter brightly repeats the slogan that was hand-written across the paper just torn down; “the tradition continues!” She and Sabrina, her daughter-in-law, are bustling about making final adjustments to products on display. It really is beautiful, and I say it again. Giovanni smiles, shrugs, and shakes my hand. I’ve been planning a gift for this moment, so excuse myself until I can find one.

At Montanucci, the scene is a dance of children and dogs and grandparents. Children with their medals and eggs, children in strollers, children toddling, falling, running, greeting and making friends on all sides. Andreas and Tobia run up to announce that their school, Luigi Barzini, was the overall winner of the race. How this was determined, I have no idea, nor does anyone else seem to know, but joy is registered all around. I don’t ask what other schools competed as I’m afraid there might not have been any, and why dampen the flush of victory.

Claudia and Enrico suggest I join them for lunch in Monterubiaglio. Claudia is returning to Orvieto early afternoon to pass petitions against using animals in studies on substance abuse, so I have rides both ways. The kids find us, and we walk towards Piazza Fracassini and one of the fresh pasta stores. There’s quite a crowd there, too. Claudia disappears, the boys run off somewhere, Enrico goes on ahead. When Claudia emerges she’s carrying two clamshells of ombrichelli, a thick, hand-rolled pasta typical to the region. “A gift to all who participated, today,” she reports, pleased and amazed. “Every year like this.”

We lunch on ombrichelli (and cheese, and favas plucked fresh from their shells,) I ride back with Claudia, take a short nap, and hit the streets again. At nearly five the festivities are still going. I run into Andrea, Natsuko, and theirs guests for the day, Hugh and Paola, and am invited to dinner.

Another round of races has begun. This one features boys of about 15, a team from each of the four quartiere, with each team member carrying what looks like it might be giant chocolate egg wrapped in colored foil – but the contents is never verified. Teams of girls and young women, each with a single male recruit to give their routines a point of focus (or so it would seem) perform on the stage set up for the festival. They do dance numbers, nicely choreographed, learned with studied determination, and presented with varying degrees of self-consciousness. Their courage and enthusiasm are greeted with appropriate abandon by the audience.

At about six, I stop at the flower stand under the loggia of Sant’Andrea to choose a mini rose bush with orange blooms. The lady wraps it elegantly, and I find my way through the crowds to the alimentari. Sabrina and a grand-daughter are the only ones in the shop. I present my rose. They are gracious. “Giovanni got tired and went home. Vera has a pain in her hip, so won’t be coming in.” They have other things on their minds, but I cleave to the hope the flower will be delivered, and that Vera will figure out who it’s from. Disappointed, I ask them to pass on my good wishes and slide into the street. I love those two, wanted so much to connect.

Awards are being given now to the young men who raced with their gigantic, and supposed, chocolate eggs. Each team has its own character, as if they were each from a different sub-culture, each quartiere enforcing its invisible rule. The young priest presenting the awards is enthusiastic and careful to point out that although this is a feast day of the church, it is more importantly a celebration of the city, the culture, and the community – regardless of one’s relationship to religion. I wonder if this disclaimer is made possible (or necessary) by centuries of direct papal rule, a period no one contemplates with pleasure.

A band of three acoustic guitarists takes the stage. They are called “The Bartenders,” and are marvelous. The lead musician was a teacher of mine at LinguaSi a dozen years ago. As always there is a space in front of the stage for little children to dance, and a flock of them willingly oblige. One particularly brilliant little girl is repeatedly held back by her grandmother, as if the woman believes dancing to be dangerous or immoral. The girl doesn’t complain, but as soon as her nonna’s attention wanes, she’s back into the swing. Grandma is unwittingly cultivating a ballerina.

I listen for a half hour, then go for dinner. Vera’s grand daughter is in the alimentari (renamed, as I now notice, “Botega Vera”) slicing prosciutto. I ask for a photo. She waves her hand and says “sure”, apparently of the opinion that slicing salted meat is not her most flattering angle.

Red noses. A whole bowl full of them.

There is a play called Red Noses by Peter Barnes. It’s about a priest during the Black Death who travels around France with a group of “God’s Zanies” spreading health through laughter. It’s a wonderful play and an even better notion.

I’ve helped arrange for several groups of clowns and commediani to come to Orvieto over the last 20 years, so seeing that bowlful of noses right in the heart of town pulled at something deep inside. I picked one up, several times, and almost put it on. I should have.  Instead I told the two Swiss and one Italian who were standing with me about having gifted a friend with a red nose. His professional life plunges him deep into politics so it was to help maintain perspective. My story was delivered in Italian, so I’m not sure how much of it actually landed. Putting the nose on would have landed. Everyone in the room wanted to, but only Katrin (the magical fisioterapista) did so, and only briefly.

The nose must be worn. Especially these days. Internally, externally, either will do. But we need to put it on and display it proudly and often. It is vitally important.

Okay, I’ll give myself a break. I put on an internal red nose several months ago to assuage the locals and amuse myself, and it has been off only rarely, since. As time passes, I wear it with more confidence and ease. Internally, yes, but internally, when worn daily and in public, is less distracting from the real point. I have lots of company, here, among nose wearers, and I’ve told you about a few of those.

The specific occasion that placed a bowlful of noses within easy reach was called Ridere per Vivere, (Laugh for Life,) and was sponsored by VIVA Orvieto, a spunky little cultural organization with a modest but extremely energetic presence, just steps away from Piazza del Duomo. They host documentary films, lectures, workshops in art, dance, theatre for kids, music, film, physical health; all with an international flair that at the same time glories in Italian culture. It’s Europe in a nutshell. It’s global in a gentle, smiling, thoughtful, joyful, deeply human way. It represents everything good about this community – as do many such organizations in this remarkably vital town.

The afternoon and evening’s offering was a lecture by Leonardo Spina and a film. He was a member of a group of American and Italian red nose clowns who traveled to Kabul (and the surrounding areas) in 2002 to help heal through laughter. These angels of mercy call themselves Clown Doctors. It’s a concept that began in the U. S. (in Philadelphia, best I can tell) and Leonardo, finding no such organization in Italy, later founded one. Among the several Italian groups now offering laughter to those who need its healing powers is Ritorno al Domani (Return to Tomorrow) dedicated to aiding the rehabilitation of children recovering from cancer. They do this by making them laugh.  And it works.

Leonardo is a remarkably free and effective speaker. I wasn’t able to understand more than the broad points and a few handy details, but his lecture covered the philosophy, spiritual value, scientific basis, and practical effects of using laughter to balance a body (and, by my personal extension, a world) thrown into chaos by confrontation with disease or injury. One phrase that stood out (and was made more clear by one of my Swiss friends) was that within a child’s ill or damaged body, is a still-healthy core. That core is what Clown Doctors address. It is the well child they speak to, strengthen and encourage. Encourage; give courage to.

The film, Clownin’ Kabul, followed Leonardo’s talk. It’s a beautifully put-together documentary based on the trip that Leonardo and twenty-some other Clown Doctors took in 2002. It effectively illustrates all of what Leonardo covered in his lecture. I can only say, watch it. I could blather on about what an inspiring work it is, but that wouldn’t come close. It’s about fifty-five minutes long. You can see it here. There are a few “difficult” minutes, but the resolutions are remarkable. The net effect is unifying. Keep a tissue handy, you may need it.

I’m told that I sometimes leave the impression that my experience of Orvieto has been an air-drop into paradise. It is. Not because the food is great, the town beautiful, the views staggering, the children gorgeous, and the streets lively. All of those are true. But in another way it feels like a hearteningly realistic projection of what a city can be — sharing, caring, realizing, accepting of a person’s humanity, offering spontaneous meetings and exchanges.   Long-time residents will say the city is isolated, sometimes too quiet, the native Orvietano distant and difficult to reach. For me the heart of this place beats strong. I look around and see red noses everywhere. When I came to understand the importance of wearing one internally, it was through the quiet encouragement of a community of clowns.

There is a plague loose in the world and it may take its toll, but there are also legions of zanies afoot, so there is huge hope.  That nose you just picked up?  Don’t be like me.  Put it on.

Ridere! Viva!

My language teacher, Mariella, shared an fascinating linguistic fact with me the other day.  All pharmaceuticals here are dispensed in blister packs. Tucked into the box with them is a rather large, oft-folded piece of very thin paper upon which is printed in very small type, instructions, directives, disclaimers, warnings, and other such having to do with the medication packaged therein.

These pieces of paper are called “bugiardini,” which translated literally means “little lies.”

What follows are a kind of bugiardini, warnings and disclaimers from a cappuccino-fueled imagination.

Particular Use of the Imperative Form of Verbs

When using the imperative form (do this, do that) with pronouns, a number of elaborate rules kick in, rules that can become increasingly complex depending on who is being addressed.

For example, when addressing a woman with dark hair who is the daughter or wife of a Senator – or the sister of a fisherman from Calabria – one uses an imperative form of the verb identical to the future anterior form, but which is in fact the “personal imperative very particular” (imperativo personale molto particolare) not the future anterior, even though it behaves exactly as if it were. If, however, the woman in question is the sister of a Senator, the indicative second person, familiar or formal, is used. Moreover, if she is both the wife of a Senator and the sister of a Calabrese fisherman, a form resembling the third person of the present subjunctive mood is employed. Like all Italian grammar these usages are elegant and perfectly sensible once you truly understand.

A further refinement to the rule: if the woman, regardless of hair color or male relations, is your mother, you don’t use the imperative at all. You ask nicely.

Progressive Ultra-Nationalists and Grammar Reform

As we’re on the subject of grammar, members of Italy’s Progressive Ultra-Nationalist Federation (FUNP) while observing the political “climate” of the U.S. have perceived an opening for Italian to supersede English in international commerce and science. American English, as they see it, is degrading so rapidly that within months (and possibly weeks) it will be all but useless save for hurling insults, throwing tantrums, and lying. In response, FUNP has launched a program to streamline Italian grammar, called The New Italian, thus rendering their language more agreeable to non-native speakers, and improving the chances of its replacing the form of gibberish English is quickly becoming.

An example: “posso” means “I can” or “I am able.” Because that is precisely the spirit FUNP wishes to associate with The New Italian, all verb forms will be based on posso, as illustrated in the FUNP’s table below:

Critics of the plan say implementing such change will effectively dumb the language down to a level almost equal with that of contemporary English. Proponents counter that dumb is the wave of the future, and as Italy needs to beat other countries to the punch, it’s now or never. The debate rages.

To help us stay on top of this story’s developments, Fox News will air a series called “Why Language is the Problem; An Unbiased Report.” MSNBC has similar plans with its show “Americans Who Hate English.” CBS is weighing profitability before it commits to a three-part exposé “Degraded Discourse – Necessary for a Healthy Economy.” Stay tuned.

Cross Town Traffic

Roberto Mosecci, an expert on civic planning and economic development with offices in Milan and Los Angeles, proposes a radical rethinking of how Italian hill towns are accessed by tourists and delivery vehicles. Having chosen Orvieto for his pilot program, he instantly identified the city’s distance from the autostrada as the principal reason for its failure to patch plaster and freshen paint. “One has to ride an antiquated form of transport (the funicular) to reach the town at all, and once there, the streets are narrow and impractical, these together discourage introduction of chain stores and other essential amenities, including importation of fresh building supplies.”

Mosecci’s proposal will send the Autostrada del Sole directly through the center of town. The funicular (which he hates “with a passion as deep as hell”) will be replaced by a newly-excavated automotive diverter. Four lanes of bi-directional traffic will plunge through the current Piazza Cahen, follow the route now taken by Corso Cavour (straightening the old-fashioned jogs and curves) turn Piazza della Repubblica into an Area Servizio with a Starbucks, MacDonald’s, and Pizza Hut (thereby introducing convenient and profitable food to the city’s core) down Via della Cava, and out through a widened, heightened, and completely restructured, Porta Maggiore, capped by a revolving Renaissance-themed restaurant.

“The Etruscans would approve.” he says confidently. “When they built Porta Maggiore, it was modern in every sense of the word – to them. We aren’t “them” anymore, so are compelled to honor the founders’ vision by bringing it up to current commercial standards.”

In his White Paper on Urban Renewal he lists the many benefits that will accrue: the razing of architecturally out-of-date buildings, a direct cutoff to subterranean parking covered by a much-needed green space to replace Piazza del Duomo, and improved efficiency of access to major tourist locations, such as the two or three churches not tagged for conversion into high-end health spas, a brand new steel-framed minimalist/brutalist version of Torre del Moro, and the city’s only Chinese restaurant.

“A crosstown highway will bring Orvieto, and other hopelessly inefficient hill towns, into the twentieth century,” he concludes. When asked about the twenty-first century, Mosecci responds “I am a preservationist; decades-old representative global traditions must be saved before it’s too late.”

Medieval World Italia!

In an unpublicized move, Sidney Corp, by special arrangement with Commune d’Orvieto, has purchased first rights of ownership to the city’s exposed external surfaces, and title to all revenue-producing activities, with an eye towards creating a theme park out of the city and its environs under the banner, Medieval World Italia!

“Let’s face it,” says Sidney Corp spokesperson Dyslexia Proze, “the Dark Ages are ‘in’ with a vengeance. But people want both the genuine experience and the convenience of facilities they’re accustomed to. We at Sidney Corp are going to give them what they want.”

The first phase of the entertainment giant’s feasibility study involves the overall “look and feel” of the town. “The cliffs surrounding this cute little burg are charming, in their way, but the color is depressing. All that gray and brown. So, we’ve begun a systematic study to scientifically determine alternate coloration,” she explains, pointing to a number of paint samples already in place around the city. “Before anything, today’s tourist wants an easy-to-absorb and primarily visual experience that photographs well by providing excellent contrast with the posed subject or selfie,” she explains.

Thus, Sidney Corp is testing two colors at a time, currently white (seen as most likely to attract wealthy Americans) and red (for who else? The Chinese.)

“We’ll make a decision based on data collected by remote sensors placed along the so-called Anello della Rupe (to be renamed Cliff Land within the new park) to measure sweat, pulse, panic response, and urge to pee when confronted by the color swatches, then we’ll match that data to national averages. We expect results within a year. Our current projection, founded on demographic surveys of Australian passengers deplaning at Fiumacino airport, is to paint the entire cliff area one solid color with a contrasting hue for the town. The Duomo (renamed Holy Land, pending conclusive marketing surveys) and quaint atmospheric detail elsewhere will be analyzed by computers to determine which parts to leave exposed so as to enhance the Dark Ages ambience park-goers flock to. Then, to give it that real flavor of authenticity, everything will be draped in sackcloth.”

Fun features of the plan include: a “sudden drop ride” off Torre del Moro, a haunted castle mechanized tour of Palazzo del Popolo, and a “living maze” disorientation experience (terrifying but safe) in the ex-medieval quarter (to be re-dubbed Inquisition Land.)

“While we respect history for its commercial value,” explains Ms. Proze, “we don’t feel in any way obliged to perpetuate it.” She followed her remarks with a cryptic, if somewhat disturbing, wink.

New Sanitary Ordinance

Italian culture prides itself, and rightfully so, on its elegant sense of design. When applied to laws, regulations, and ordinances, the culture’s appreciation for nuance and equilibrium reaches a dizzying degree of refinement.

In a recent move on the regional level, officials in Perugia have announced new laws regarding sanitary practices. They stipulate that all viral or bacterial disease in Umbria first be contracted, improvisationally, by American males living in towns founded by Etruscans and who are at least sixty years of age, of ancestral heritage not Italian, and are otherwise healthy. As with all things in Italy, the micro-organisms in question have fallen immediately into line under the recently passed regulations, and are working hard to assure compliance.

I am proud to support my adopted (possibly part-time) country in this worthy endeavor.

Viva Italia!

When I was staying in Firenze in 1975, there was a graffito sprawled across a wall that I passed almost daily. It said “Basta con la violenza dei fascisti! Morte ai tutti fascisti!”

“Enough with fascist violence. Death to all fascists.” Was that meant to be ironic or sincere? I’ve wondered now for forty years. Depending on what comes up in the news, or in daily experience, I flip opinions.

I notice that as soon as a thing is written down, even on a wall, I give it credit for nuance far greater than were I to hear the same thing spoken. Is that because when it’s said to me, I can see the person saying it, so if there is no ironic content, its lack can be observed? On a wall, or in a book or a blog post or a comment on Facebook – or sometimes even in a video – it is up to my mood to determine the slant, the implication, the intension.

Or am I just avoiding the obvious?

I was waiting to see Alessandro the immigration expert the other day and fell into a conversation with a woman also waiting. After the customary, and inaccurate, comment of “your Italian is very good” she asked where I was from. I told her and responded in kind. “Moldova.” How long have you been here? “Thirteen years.” Almost an Italian, then. “I hate Italians. Oh, not all Italians of course, Alessandro is a very good man, and so are many, even most, people I know here, but Italians as a whole I don’t like. They’re too dramatic. They generalize, and make a big deal out of everything. I’m calm, I think before I react. None of them do.”

Any irony there?

My creative life today was Trumped. I got fascinated by Facebook. You know, after two or three posts about the peculiar American political shenanigans of the day, I learn nothing further. The rest is repetition in different words. There’s a certain emotional pleasure derived thereby, but that’s it. When I go from an hour of that to a play I’m working on, all my writing looks like crap. Indeed it may be so, but if I wish to continue to write, I need to get past that phase. All rough drafts are crap. They need rewriting. That’s why they’re called rough. That’s why they’re called drafts.

The American Experiment is an ongoing rough draft.

The Italian political evolution is an even rougher draft.

The woman from Moldova is an rough-draft resident, only she doesn’t know it, so every misunderstanding, every unintended slight, every disappointed expectation that some nice American will take her away from all this, looks like crap to her.

After an hour on Facebook I can’t write plays because I want to jump on a soapbox and make my characters say things they have no organic interest in saying. Anything less seems like crap to me. I must save the world single-handedly! And immediately! And I don’t like those other Americans, either, most of them stupid, and all of them “the problem” – they get too excited, too dramatic, while I think everything through carefully before I react as if I didn’t.

That’s not to say there are not genuinely, stupidly, opportunistic people out there entrancing us all, one way or another, but I can’t do what needs to be done if I’m always in a tizzy about them. Being in a tizzy feels too good, feels somehow like I’ve done something just by being in a tizzy, while the crap draft molders in a file, going nowhere.

I keep expecting Trump to reveal that his whole campaign has been performance art, that it has been a send up of what the American electoral system has turned into. Maybe he was masquerading as the woman from Moldova, too. You think?

A friend here asked if I’d heard the rumor that Orvieto was run by the Mafia. I had not. What I have heard people say that the “mafia” (small “m”) has everyone outside their acquaintance as a member; not in so many words, but in essence. The Mafia, however real and expansive, cloaked as the “mafia”, is a wonderful all-purpose enemy that can explain the always unsolvable “problem.” Why did that person sell his restaurant so suddenly? The mafia. Now the conundrum can pass from thought into history, resolved, tied up – and forgotten.

The phrase “stupid people” (or a topical variation) can serve the same function as the “mafia.” Because there are opportunists duping people, as is their wont, does not mean the duped are all stupid. I’ve been duped. I’m not stupid. Most of the time.

No one is “the problem” either. Thinking that “the problem” can be heaped upon a subset of human being is the problem. Individuals who have run amok in their need for attention, however, can themselves be very problematic; pretty astonishingly so. They go forth to dupe and entrance because that feels at least as good to them as being in a tizzy does to me.

Now, to the point. (pause) I don’t think I have one. If I really had a point here, I wouldn’t be rambling like this. I’d have made my point, attempted to justify it, and been done.

I think instead of a point, I have a question or two. And an anecdote or three. And a hope that the question and anecdote do, in some fashion, relate. And that you (whoever you are reading this) will identify a question, ponder a relationship with some part of this post, and come up with a point. It may not be my point, but that’s okay. I doubt I would have arrived at Ultimate Wisdom in this blog post, even if I had had a point – perhaps especially.

In the meantime, let us accept the obvious crap for what it is and work hard to offer a strong contribution to the next draft. That will make things better. To prepare yourself for work on the next draft of whatever is “rough” in your view of life at the moment, you might want to close Facebook this instant. And use a timer for subsequent visits.

Maybe that’s my point. Even if not, it most certainly is my goal.