Ciao Bella

Currently flying back to the US following a monthlong Italian retreat - I’m only a little bit devastated to be returning. Waving ciao to our little hillside village this morning overlooking Lake Como felt a bit like saying goodbye to a beloved grandparent, and I craned my head as we drove away, trying to remember every wrinkle and stone in case this is the last time we see each other. I’ve never had a favorite country before, but I think I have one now.

Falling in love with Italy, I know, is about as cliched as falling in love with Audrey Hepburn (who I love). But I am unafraid to be trite in my passions! I mean, what’s not to love? Italy’s the total package. Incredible landscape, history, cities, food, architecture, design. Awesome people, super-fun language (isn’t parcheggio so much more fun than “parking”?), and a national character that wants to kiss you and punch you at the same time.

America is too manic. Canada too self-effacing. England too proud. France too neurotic. Italy, though, is the right combination of all of the above. She can’t keep a government together, can’t keep an economy going, can’t figure out where she belongs among her European siblings. And she’s got a wee fascist problem, sure, but so do those other places. But she’s also has a great sense of humor and an endearing habit of kissing you on the cheeks. Plus, there’s no problem in Italy a plate of homemade macaroni can’t fix.

I don’t want to hear that I’m romanticizing Italy. I know I am. But isn’t the entire point of a vacation to live a fantasy? To fall in love with your vacation destination. To pine for it when you return to your workaday life. Plus, I’m dealing with a certain amount of heartbreak back home.

Italy taught me some lessons on that front. A nation that was once the center of the world knows a little bit about the collapse of empire. How did Italians cope? Cannoli.

La dolce vita is a real thing. Or, if it isn’t, they do a pretty good job of faking the sweet life. It’s a term I don’t think I understood before spending months in Rome and, now, in the little town of Moltrasio. It doesn’t mean - at least it doesn’t fully mean - enjoying that which is sweet about life. Instead, it’s more about recognizing that every moment carries its own inherent preciousness.

Ciao bella.

I’m not saying Italians can’t be crabby or rude but their crabby/rude to joyful/welcoming ratio is better than that of any other nation I’ve visited. (I am, admittedly, not that well-traveled.)

My guess is, we’ve got a rough few years ahead of us. Maybe longer than that. Whether we’re able to dig ourselves out from our current Vesuvius is an open question at this point. At the very least, we will have lost a step or two on the world stage. Which means Italy has a few things to teach us about growing older with grace.

Will vacationers a thousand years from now tour the ruins of Waffle Houses the way we do Roman temples? I fear not, if only because Waffle Houses weren’t built as well.

So now I’m flying back to our Holy American Empire after a restful month mostly spent looking at a lake and shoving pizza in my mouth. It was good to get away and good to get back. Yes, I fell in love with Italy. But she was nothing more than a spring fling. My life is across the ocean in my own manic country. Land of the greed, home of the slave. But also a place of endless energy and invention.

For all of our current horrors, I’m returning from Italy hopeful. Ok, “hopeful” is too strong a word - it’s just that older nations than ours have so much to teach us about hubris and humility. We’re currently going balls to the wall on the hubris part and the humility part is rapidly approaching. Which, in the long run, can only be a good thing for the world. Right? Hell if I know.

Which is where the cannoli come in.