The
Italy that Americans forget
Lately I’ve taken to reading excerpts
from people’s trips to Italy. Wine country, the cities, the fashionable
resorts, the restaurants, the countryside. And one thing has stood out from
some of those missives. It is the unique position we all have, the singular
perspective of Italy from our own point of view, and how it affects how we see
and interpret Italy to others. This is no simple thing, for there are as many
Italy’s as there are people experiencing it. But what makes some of those
dispatches noteworthy are the way they not only envelop the teller of tales
and their particular cosmogony, but how it brings others into their whirlpool
in a way in which the Italy they have created is fully believable and not just
a hopeful fabrication that they’ve hoisted once again upon the rest of us.
In other words, that they have given to us an Italy we
can share in and not just revel at their prowess in getting there and throwing everything
into the kitchen sink of detail in order to regale and influence us, to magnify
their place in the pantheon of Italianita, and make it seem they are
more important than the story they are trying to tell. This is no easy thing,
for it requires self-confidence, for sure. But it also requires stopping the
world and letting their intimacy with place take over and be the over-riding
influence over one’s perceptions. So much for being invisible, to an extent,
yes, but also being open to the cuckoo call in the glen, the gurgle of the
stream below the window of one’s hotel, the absolute quiet of the moment, which
is always there behind the incessant rattling of the monkey-brain.