Living
abroad is an exercise in acceptance. When you stop craving chocolate-chip
cookies and consider Cantucci a satisfactory dessert instead of a jaw-breaking
stone-age fossil, you’re in.
When the memory of sales
tax becomes as faded as a tricolored flag left hanging since the last World
Cup, you’ve fully adapted. To get in touch with nature, you begin watering
balcony geraniums. ‘New’ buildings bear the weight of centuries and old palaces
with uneven floors are homes rather than museums. And suddenly, you cannot
remember if the first floor is at ground level or on the second story. Thus,
you simply press ‘Piano terra’ and hope the dubious elevator will descend
toward planet Earth without too much fuss. Dinner becomes something to count:
by primo you now mean ‘pasta,’
and you no longer worry about the way your secondo appears to still be
agonizing on the plate: in Toscana la carne si mangia cosI. Those things you
thought you’d never be able to live without-like clothes dryers and trustworthy
cross-walks-no longer exert a magnetic homeward pull.
Live in a country long
enough and you’ll start missing home-words rather than once-familiar scenarios.
I miss the word ‘convenience.’ And I miss the word ‘quest.’ And though it has
no real use in this world, I truly yearn for the term ‘wallflower.’ In Italian,
a ‘quest’ is una ricerca, which, in all honesty, is a poor and prissy substitute for
the grimy, gut-level undertaking that all true quests imply. Likewise, you’ll
find the word convenienza hovering in hallways, a false-friend sort of a fellow who
speaks of advantages and revels in affordability. He knows virtually nothing
about real convenience, the way we understand it in English.
My quest for the word
‘wallflower’ stems purely from personal folly, namely, having christened my
first book with the world’s worst title. ‘Italians Dance and I’m a
Wallflower,’ Italians usually frown: ‘Che strano…why are you a flower
in the wall?’ This choice, made nearly five years ago, still haunts me with
surprising frequency. Last week, for instance, I paid a visit to my taxman, who
usually spends our yearly meeting scrutinizing me with undisguised perplexity.
The feeling, of course, is mutual. The receipts I save are of no use to him and
the invoices he wants were never mailed to me. Not that I think he’s a bad
man-just a participant in a nationwide conspiracy. He eyed my book-rights ricevuta with dismay. ‘There
is a special tax on royalties,’ he said. ‘What does “wallflower” mean?’
I sighed. A special
tax and the title-two topics with no real solution. ‘It’s an expression that
means fare da
tappezzeria. Others dance and I act like wallpaper.’
He thought a moment,
‘or tapestries.’
‘Maybe,’ I nodded,
‘but that sounds even uglier. What kind of special tax are we talking about?’
‘It’s calculated as 45
percent of 75 percent of your earnings that apply to intellectual property that
cannot be considered a consumable resource. Why did you name your book that?’
Answering his question was not easy, but
it was a cinch compared to understanding his own explanation. ‘I was going for
the idea that in Italy, conversation is a dance.’
Unexpectedly, he
smiled. ‘Not just conversation. Everything is dance. C’e sempre qualcosa in
ballo.’
Right. The wallflower
and the taxman were suddenly having a useful exchange. In fact, we were even on
the same wavelength. Needless to say, his comment put a spring in my step.
The phrase essere in ballo, ‘to be in the
dance,’ usually means you’re wrapped up in something risky. Whether sidestep or
boogie-woogie, there’s no turning back-you’re involved and there’s something at
stake.
Tenere in ballo, ‘to keep something
in the dance,’ implies a slightly different stance: you’re sitting on a project
with no real intention to interrupt or conclude it. Surely it’s going to hatch
one day, but in the meantime there’s no hurry. Suspense or sheer stalling is
the cement that keeps the country together.
Tirare in ballo is all about dragging
someone onto the dance floor. Sooner or later, the victim will have to don his
blue suede shoes and fess up: the strobe light is aimed straight in his face.
Suffice it to say that
all these forms of ballo are preferred Italian pastimes-a perilous mix of
irresistible diversion and eye-catching performance. This country doesn’t need
the word ‘wallflower.’ To engulf, to smolder and to conquer-with concepts like
these hogging the ballroom, there’s no room for wall-huggers. Thus, it may be
best to cooperate. After all, living abroad is an exercise in acceptance. Let’s
face the music and dance.
