Although Italy
has taught me to nurture a neurotic need for aesthetic perfection, I am not
much of a scenery girl. And, while I do prefer palaces to skyscrapers, I’m
seldom subject to the wide-eyed ‘wow’ that gives weak knees to those who marvel
at Tuscan hillsides and fifteenth-century cityscape. The fact that I was born
without a sense of direction probably contributes to my lack of landscape-based
enthusiasm. I can pass the same building three times in 10 minutes without realizing
that I’m retracing my steps. In fact, I can live in the same building
for three years and not know how to get there from the freeway exit.
For many, Italy’s
seductive powers lie in the physical beauty of her landscape, the curve of her
geography and the color of her frescos. My own infatuation for this country is
primarily auditory. The buzz of a crowded café, the sound of high heels on
cobblestone and even the screech of skidding Vespas somehow profoundly speak to
me. Italy’s language fills the air with a lightness and humor I have not found
elsewhere. Its supple flexibility, the versatility of its vocabulary and the
sheer variability of its dialects enchant me. In a word, I’m a word-geek and
Italy is the end-all and be-all.
This country has six
definite articles. Il-lo-la-i-gli-le. Even those who do not normally swoon at the sound
of syllables have to admit that people who invented six ways to say ‘the’ make
great conversation partners. To me, il-lo-la-i-gli-le works
like Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
It is mind-chocolate
that stimulates the ‘be-happy’ gene. First graders sing it on the bus and who
can help by hum along?
But show tunes
aside, definite articles are definitely worth their weight in gold. Earn
yourself one and you’ve got it made. To use an article when referring to a
friend or foe is a hard-won sign of belonging. It means you’re considered part
of the group-a state that is essential to survival in Italy. For men, the
article il always proceeds a nickname, and it is a banner to
familiarity; Matteo becomes il Teo, Leonardo is il Leo and
Niccolò is known as il Nico. Women, on the other hand, can be awarded a la without need to shorten their names. In the country that gave rise to leaders
like the Magnificent, the Elder and the Gouty, there is something slightly
dizzying about hearing yourself referred to as ‘The Linda.’ The principle is
simple: once they love you, your name becomes a superlative adjective. The
tallest, the fattest, the best, the worst, the most original. The most
unforgettable, irreparable you. On Saturday, we went to have lunch at the
Badiani house in the hills near Prato.
It was our company
party, because countryside soirees are exempt from party taxes. The sun was
setting and a few of us sat in a line on a stone wall overlooking the valley.
‘I don’t think I’ve
ever seen anything so beautiful’, I sighed.
Marco
nudged Giovanni, who was sitting on his other side. ‘She says that every time
she comes. When it comes to scenery, she is like a goldfish. No long-term
memory.’
‘He’s right’, I
admitted.
‘Well, you sure
remember every damn word I say. And you always make me look like the
village idiot.’
I moved to respond,
but Marco was faster. ‘Sorry for you, Giova, but La Linda writes non-fiction.’
We
all laughed together at his joke, but I was happiest. I had somehow earned a
definite article. Il-lo-la-i-gli-le.
Le-gli-i-lo-la-il. Yes, Tuscany is
beautiful-the hills at dusk, the dusty green of olive groves, high Sangiovese
vines and all that landscape jazz. Still-it’s the la that rings as real
music to me.
