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August 1999
Greetings, friends!
Here I am again in my husband's boyhood home: kilometer
48 on the road between Sarzanna and Parma, just this side
of Tuscany's northern border. Nothing's changed much since
last year. In fact, nothing's changed much since Napoleon
came marching through here in the late 18th century except
for the addition of indoor plumbing.
I had a friend visiting until last Tuesday. Georgia W. spent
her first trip abroad marvelling at how much the Italians
like to eat and enjoying the fact that they let you smoke
everywhere, including the subways and hospitals. She also
developed quite a fondness for grappa and for Mandarina Duck
leather goods (the Coach bags of Italy). Not wanting her to
think that all of Italy is as backwards as Pontremoli, the
whole family trucks down to Florence for a few days to visit
the center of Renaissance civilization. After gawking at Michelangelo's
magnificent "David" in the main hall of the Academia, Georgia
eavesdrops as I offer my 8 year-old son some quick-and-dirty
explanations of Catholicism represented in just about every
work of art in the city: "this is the angel Gabriel telling
Mary she's going to have a baby and boy is she surprised!
This is King Herod ordering the death of all the baby boys
in the land -- they didn't know anything about campaign reform
back then." Georgia is properly awed by both the paintings
and the religion lessons.
A shame she had to leave, but since she doesn't speak the
language I thought it best to accompany her back to Milan
to make sure she gets on the right bus to the airport. My
daughter, Adriana, who is just shy of sixteen, is starting
to feel the restlessness that I am all too familiar with and
so I invite her to join us on the overnight trip. For her
last day in Italy, Georgia wants to try to see Leonardo's
"Last Supper," which has been undergoing restoration for as
long as anybody can remember and is only open to the public
until the end of August. We had actually planned this earlier
but it was impossible to make a reservation -- the phone rang
busy all week -- so we decide to tough it out and stand on
line. We figure that right after lunch is best because the
Italian tourists will be sleeping off their noon meals. Of
course, the noon-day Milanese sun is terribly hot and we didn't
count on the group of 78 Polish tourists, also without reservations,
who arrive just before us and who don't seem to understand
the concept that movement creates more heat. They churn and
mingle and shove each other (we keep back a good distance)
and argue with the young Italian who is guarding the door
and permitting those lucky few with reservations in ahead
of everybody else. Not one of these Polish tourists, including
their guide, understands Italian so the guard tries to speak
to them in English, explaining that they will only be admitted
25 at a time. The tour guide tries to translate this and all
of a sudden all 78 of them are waving their passports around.
Georgia is fainting from the heat so I send her to sit on
a curb while Adriana and I wait in line. A young American
guy approaches me and asks about how long the wait is. I tell
him that we've been informed it's about two hours. He wants
to know why it's such a long wait. I explain they're only
admitting 25 at a time. He wants to know why. I guess that
it probably has to do with maintaining the humidity level
in the church. He wants to know why the Italian government
hasn't thought of a better place to display the work. I've
had it with his ugly-American questions and ask him sarcastically
if he knows a good method for moving a fresco.
Behind me a pair of young Japanese women are waiting patiently.
They are delighted by everything that is happening around
them. They smile and giggle and point at the windows and doors
of the apartment buildings across the streeet, at the Carabineri
that pass on horses, at Georgia's new Mandarina Duck handbag.
When a third Japanese girl joins them with three big scoops
of hazelnut gelato they actually break into song. They make
everybody around them happy.
After the long wait it's a pleasure to be standing in the
cool church hall with only 22 others, gaping at the amazing
dinner scene. Although Jesus is seated in the middle of the
table, your eye is drawn everywhere else but the center. His
apostles around him are divided into four groups of three:
this group arguing amongst themselves, this bunch one the
end straining to hear what's being said. Is it Thomas who
is asking "will it be me, Lord?" as they're all told that
one of them will betray Him later that evening? I can't remember
which apostle is which, but it's really something special
and I'm not even tempted to ruin the moment with my usual
blasphemous commentary. Fifteen minutes is all you're allotted;
the guard tells us our time is up and we trot out quietly,
in search of song-inspiring gelato.
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