Bella is Beautiful in Italiano

Helena Rubinstein once said, “There are no ugly women, only lazy women.”

So does that make me incredibly motivated- or just plain vain?

Curious thing about vanity- or at least my version of it- is that it has less to do with actually being beautiful, than it has to do with just wanting to be perceived that way. Mine is not the divine providence variety of ‘bloody-skinny-bitch-eat-anything-and-never-so-much-as-glisten-on-the-treadmill’ kind. Or even the ‘my-eyes-and-nose-are-the-perfect-symmetrical-ratio’ kind. But the kind of beauty my vanity aspires to, wants to say- “She has it together.” With an alchemical application of lipstick, a magical waving of the mascara wand and hey presto there stands someone to be liked, listened to... loved.

Before visiting Italy, this worried me a bit. After all, it’s a bit superficial- let alone diminishing to have to apply self-confidence with a lip-gloss stick. Oh how I longed to be capable of oozing assurance whist turned out naked faced, flatly-shod and with a pony tail more ‘slap it back’ than ‘casual chic.’ Frankly, after Italy, I don’t wish that anymore!

Thank God, for Italian women… OK not ALL Italian women are beautifully turned out- but wow- a lot are! God bless them, it doesn’t seem to matter a jot how far this or that side they are of the ‘five kilo’ barrier, their proximity to 20 or 70, or even what God gave them at birth. They sure make the best of it in a way that shouts, “I am a divine feminine creature unashamed of making the best of myself.” I love and appreciate them- never knowingly under bling-blinged, never knowingly under coiffed. They are great… and finally I found somewhere to blend in.

Thank God too, for Italian men… because it seems to me, that the effort is valued. Not in that furtive, I’ll quickly-look-away-before-you-notice-me-noticing-you way. But an overt ‘You-may-be-old-enough-to-have-born-me//young-enough-to-have-been-begot-by-me, but damn you look hot, and I appreciate it kind of way. On the daily evening ritual of passeggiata (slow stroll- heads and heels high) through centro-storico everywhere in Italy, there is a palpable, “I feel therefore I am,” sexy vibe in the air. It is contagious. (Most women I know will bare testimony to the fact that anything on the appropriately displayed lust-spectrum- from overt to surreptitious- is much more of an aphrodisiac that oysters or-God forbid- rhino horn)

As contradictory as it might sound, for me, there is something liberating about the underlying expectation to look good. It doesn’t matter what one has planned for the day- chopping back overgrown shrubs and planting rosmarino, or and throwing the kids in lake Trasimeno between the endless cook-wash-bed cycle of life- it’s OK to be bling! Never was this bought home more profoundly than when, while wrestling with wild-boys, balancing an enormous wisteria plant on my right shoulder, and a left-arm full of blooming plants, while stressed, tired and a head full of all the things that still need to be done… a local ol’ boy sitting at the bar- after wordlessly watching me pass sweating, mid-mother-madness for days finally looked up and said, (to the unanimous agreement of his card-buddies) “Che una bella donna con i fiori!” “What a beautiful woman with the flowers!” Apart from making me very glad that I had, like most days- especially in Italy, ‘made an effort’ the best thing that happened in that instant was that suddenly I was truly there- in the moment. I could see myself dressed in bright orange and pink, wisteria draped through my hair and bright yellow blossoms in my arms. My skin teased golden brown by the Italian summer, glistening, makeup assuredly running. The most beautiful thing about that moment is that I could let go of all the madness in my mind- and just be. Be happy to be alive, about to be digging in my little slice of Italy’s deliciously rich soil, living my dream. I learnt there, in that moment, that it doesn’t matter how much effort we put into accomplishing our dreams, keeping up, or doing what we have to do in order to feel loved- unless we actually stop for a moment every now and again to be present- to recognise ourselves- and others for efforts- the true beauty in life will be missed. I hope I never again forget to take time to smell the rosmarino!

DRIVING IN ITALY. A SCARDY-CAT DRIVER'S GUIDE.

I will admit it. Driving has never really been 'my thing.'

And strangely, looking back, there has always been someone close at hand, ready to dance with my doubts and fertilise my irrational fears. All male and all closely related by birth or marriage... and all with that same stricken look any time I suggested, "It's my turn to drive."

Not that I am deferring blame- not completely. There were those confidence-jarring early run-ins with the parked car, the hidden ditch and an unfortunate long-haired beau (he survived). And then there's the obvious question: would I rather drive... or be an 'active navigator'- observer of sweet rolling hills, eternal cities, and on fortuitous occasions, the odd high street shoe sale... the answer is obvious. Well- until children added a whole new dimension to my self-designated, and if I do say so myself, gifted-at-map-reading role when suddenly 'chief keeper-of-peace, locater-of-play areas and worse of all, dumping-ground-for-all-blame' was added to an already full job description. It was then that I first observed myself looking jealously at the wheel, longing for that swear-with-impunity-testoserone-freedom that only the open road can offer. Fear still had me in its debilitating grasp however...

Lucky then that finally there was no choice...

On the border of Umbria and Tuscany one is smack-bam in the middle of very best that divinity and humanity have conspired, over centuries, to offer. From tortellini to Toscanini, Signorelli to San Francesco- everything exists on ley-lines leading directly to the heart. There is no way to conveniently get around without a car, however. And as there is no fear on earth that should stand between anyone and their slice of Italia-time, it was time to cowgirl up and take the drivers seat, to rise up and meet the road... 

If you have to face a fear why not go the whole hog- no cheating with an automatic- in Italy they are 2-3 times more expensive to hire. No cruising down wide boulevards... some of those streets could make a toothpick feel fat. No slowly easing into speed- they drive fast... every time you look in the rear-view mirror there is someone waiting to take you from behind. Actually I didn't mind that bit so much.

Mantras helped a bit, "anydrongocandrive, anydrongocandrive," deep slow breathing helped even more, but the holy bondage of marriage was the least help of all. Helpful clenched-teeth tidbits such as, "In Italy- they drive on the right," and the odd near-miss bowel incident was the extent of it. The car wasn't overly obliging either- when I used to drive there was a handbrake... what sort of an idiot replaces the satisfactory pull and crunch with a pathetic button that requires a degree in lateral thinking to work out? Combine that with an unwillingness- that said spouse could never explain- to start whenever it happened to be me turning the ignition key, and you may begin to see the level of dedication required…

D day of solo-flight arrived just after midnight with the world’s worst anxiety attack. I was no more 'ready' than before my dubious lessons up and down Umbia's unused white roads.

With bleary-eyes and a dry mouth I dropped my husband at the station. How was I to negotiate the traffic lights on Chiusi’s vertiginous hill alone with a mere button between me and accident hell? Praying, affirming, sweating and breathing intentionally slow, I slowly turned the key. Niente. I pushed in the brake, pulled on the door, played with the gear, applied lip gloss- and still I got nothing.

Left with nothing but choices my mind was the only thing in overdrive. Should I?

A) Retrieve travel-anxious-and-thus-far-not-overly-helpful spouse?

B) Take a taxi and go and get a friend.

C) Throw myself on the mercy of a passing stranger.

Really option C was the only viable one. In times of crisis we cling to the slivers of hope that life often offers at such times. And there was mine in front of me- the bar, full of morning work-a-bee men knocking back their morning cappuccini.

Never knowingly under-cleavaged, bravely I entered the bustling bar. Eyelashes all aflutter I shimmied into a grammatically challenged explanation of my ridiculous predicament. Drama loving, my Italian male crowd stood captured, enraptured and completely silent. “There is nothing actually wrong with my rental car- but it will not start." I said, jiggling and wiggling to indicate my efforts with the key. As if frozen in disbelief, no one moved.  Finally honing in on one guy, spell broken, he trailed- the entire bar dutifully tagging behind. Soon my impotent engine was swarming with a mass of testosterone. A couple of passing cars even stopped to watch the show. It wasn’t until the bar owner, wondering what spaceship had abducted his clientele, came out and took charge that the mystery was finally solved… the clutch needed to be pressed down while turning the key (even with the gear in neutral). Patiently he showed me and even watched me while I started it on my own…

As time went by there were a few more lessons learned about driving in Italy: “Stop” signs mean 'slow down,' “No Parking” means 'park creatively,' and wonderfully (especially for a rusty driver) it is ‘brutta figura’ to use an angry horn. The best lesson of all was to remain my first: while driving in Italy it sure helps to be a woman wearing lipgloss!

I Need a Screw.

There is just a certain something about Italian.
It pours like a great pumping aorta- straight from the heart. It flows with an easy passion, so that words with meanings from 'mundanity' to 'madness,' glisten seductively like gloss on plump and pretty lips. Italian words drip with a seductive promise of pleasure, winking, "I just loooong to be spoken."

There is too, a certain something about Italians. They generally seem to be having such a great time speaking- that it is impossible not to feel left out. From the in-depth and mutually-relished questions and explanations of hungry-guest-and-proud-waiter, to villagers celebrating the fruits of their labours and the many blessings of nature at festas, to folk simply shooting the breeze, on benches, in piazzas, at ristorantes everywhere.

My first trip to Italy I stood outside alone. Pockets, deep but empty- the poor kid staring in the window of the candy store. Inside there were people who seemed unafraid to speak their mind- they seemed fearless with their emotions- as if anger, desire, love, pain were actually a valid part of the big human toffee apple. As if it was safe to be themselves.

How could I not knock at the door and ask to come in?

In my first attempts to join the party, I was greeted with what I like to call the 'lick-sip-suck.' Faces contorted and frozen at that exact moment when the lemon, salt and tequila combine, pulling all the living-daylights inwards. Faces knotted, not cruelly, but in a desperate attempt to understand...

So imagine my joy when finally, having groped around in the dark with diminishing brain cells and excessive verb structures, with all the finesse of a toddler, I could finally understand and be understood! It was a joy that lasted all of three days and decreased in direct relation to how much I couldn't comprehend.

The nail in the coffin of my my joy, some what appropriately occurred  at "Canada" the hardware store. "I need... I need..." I needed so much that I didn't have the names for! A drill (un trapano), paint (vernice), something for moss (muffa) and of course, a hammer and nails (un martello e i chiodi). Somehow we waded through the masculine waters of deep Umbrian hardware. Me in my heels and frills, Tony in his man-apron. It wasn't until I needed just one last thing- gesticulating furiously with fingers and thumbs, Tony's eyebrows widened. His cheeks turned red and he seemed to falter- "You don't," he said in perfect Canadian vernacular, "Speak English, by any chance do you?"

"OH YES! (Thanking God) And I really need a screw."