Taking Tuscany (2 page)

… to the Tuscan hills of Italy

Letters from Tuscany

May 10, 1972

Dear Dorie,

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write. In response to your letter: Yes, I know I've only sent you picture postcards for the past three years. I was waiting until I had something good to say! What can I tell you? We are definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

You asked how I like school … I can hardly wait for summer. Changing schools two weeks before the school year ends ranks right up there with bashing my head against the rocks on Indian Lake. For starters, Annalisa Tartini, the queen bee of Macchiavelli, has already declared war on me for asking her friend Bianca where the art room is. She broke away from the group to show me, and has been snubbed by them ever since. Annalisa even came up with a special nickname for me. I'm so tired of being called a Yankee I could scream! As if I didn't stand out enough already. In cookie terms it's like being a vanilla wafer in a box of chocolate biscotti.

To add to the fun, I have to use my formal name at school, so when I'm not being called a Yankee, I'm Angelina—oh, joy. No one knows me as A. J. except for my family. In Italian that's “Aya Jaya.” I don't know what's worse—Aya Jaya or Angelina. Just to clarify, this entire move has been a disaster.

I tried to warn everyone (before Mama talked Daddy into uprooting our happy American family and transplanting us onto foreign soil eighty million miles from home) that, according to the experts, these would be the most traumatic years of my entire life. In light of cultural differences alone, it was clearly not the best time to move a child like me halfway around the world—especially without my dog. Did anyone listen to me? All I got out of my sympathetic mother was, “A. J., cut the drama and get on the plane.”

No one else in my family seems to have noticed we've moved. At least they look Italian—especially Adriana. She is the reason I had to go to a girls' school. She always drew so much attention from the male species, Daddy decided to send us both to Saint Dominique's. A lot of good that did. The boy's school was right across the campus from us, and the boys were forever sneaking over to spy on her. She was the campus goddess—an Italian-American beauty queen. They all went mad over her. And all the Italian girls hated her for it and wanted to run her out of town.

To help us both out of our misery, I secretly sent a box of her photographs off to a modeling agency, and the next thing we knew, an agent from Models of Milan showed up on our doorstep. Adriana moved to Milan as soon as she graduated. At least this way, she'll get paid to get gawked at.

As for me, they're not hiring blonde, freckle-faced midgets right now, so it looks like I'll just be hanging out all summer at our crumbling castle on the hill with the cracked swimming pool.

Wish you were here,

A. J.

May 15, 1972

Dear Danny,

How's Sailor? Here's what's new since my last letter—well, nothing's really new in this medieval town, but as of last week, I am no longer attending the Catholic girls' school. It has something to do with being accused of nearly burning down Saint Dominique's Academy of Perpetual Holiness. I now attend Scuola Media Superiore Macchiavelli—the Italian version of high school. I was already a year ahead of the Italian school system for starting kindergarten a year earlier than they start in Italy. On top of that Daddy had me take the upper education exam when he pulled me out of Saint Dominique's. He was convinced I'd learned enough in private schooling to start the public high school early. I miraculously passed, hallelujah! For once in my life I'm ahead of my time! I plan to be out of here and back on the island the day I turn eighteen. Can't wait to see Sailor!

The sudden switch in schools was due to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was in the girls' loo last week when Daniela and Francesca were in the next stall over smoking a cigar. When the smoke hit Sister Giovanni's nostrils, I was the only one left in the restroom. By the time I convinced them it wasn't me, it was too late.

Daniela made up a big lie about Daddy sending me to school with a box of cigars to sell to kids so we could afford to attend private school. She said they only bought the cigar from me because they felt sorry for our family. Of course, they also said they lit it but didn't really smoke it—which is why it was still burning when it caught the trash can on fire.

Daddy decided it was a good time to pull us out when the head schoolmaster called and asked if the cigar story was true. He said if the faculty was really that dense, he had to question their teaching ability.

Little do parents realize the impact their actions have on the life of a child. Mine, in particular. Picture my life as a snow globe; inside you'll find a girl, a school, a few friends, enemies, teachers, and lunch tables—all moveable pieces.

After the shake-up of 1968, it took nearly two years to learn the Italian language, make a few friends, and establish my place in the lunchroom. Just when it seemed the blizzard was beginning to settle, that giant hand reached down again and shook that globe to kingdom come. Now picture the girl swirling around, upside down; new school, new friends, new enemies, new lunchroom status … round and round and round she goes, where she'll land, nobody knows. Just when I was getting used to being “the new weird kid” at St. Dominique's, now I'm “the new weird kid” all over again. I thought Daniela was stuck up … you should meet Annalisa.

So how's life on the island?

Wish I was there,

A. J.

P.S. I've completely lost my Southern accent since moving here, but my Italian ain't half bad.

1

All Greek to Me

“A. J., come over here and tell me something.”

“What, Mama?” I make my way over to the big picture window in Mama's new guest villa.

“What is the first thing you notice when you look out this window?”

“A blue villa.”

Mama grabs my arm and escorts me into the bedroom. “And this window?”

“A blue villa.”

She grabs my arm again and pulls me into the bathroom. “And this window?”

“A blue villa.”

“Exactly!”
This time, instead of my arm, she grabs the peach guest towels off the rack and hurls them at the window. Then she runs into the bedroom and throws the new guest pillows at the bedroom window. Out on the horizon Uncle Nick's blue villa is basking in the sunset over Tuscany.

“How am I supposed to act gracious at Aunt Genevieve's birthday party, knowing the opening of my guest villa will be undermined by that blue monstrosity on the hill?”

“Oh, Mama, I wouldn't take it personally. Uncle Nick just likes the color blue.”

Mama looks at me like I have lost my marbles. “Just likes the color blue? A. J., nobody in his right mind
paints
his villa blue. That is the charm of Italy—rustic,
natural
stone structures on hilltops. You don't take a beautiful historic monastery and paint it putrid blue.”

“Maybe your guests won't notice it.”

“Won't notice it? How could anyone
not
notice?
”

I turn my gaze back out the window and cock my head in every angle possible. “Maybe they'll notice the poppies instead.”

Mama gives me the exaggerated eye roll. “Poppies, schmoppies. Sorry, little Miss Pollyanna, but from my perspective, the only thing out there is one big ugly blue villa …”

Daddy walks into the room, looks at Mama, then glances at the pillows and towels lying on the floor. He looks back at Mama with a hopeful smile. “Does this mean we get to stay home?”

I'm sure Daddy would like nothing better than to skip the whole encounter with the relatives. Sometimes Uncle Nick is just too much for him. Unfortunately Uncle Nick is married to Mama's sister, Genevieve, who is turning forty-five tonight.

“No, it does not mean we get to skip the birthday party,” Mama says. “I haven't had the chance to play Sofia Loren for the Greek relatives yet. The Italians sure fell for it at Adriana's photo shoot in Rome last month.
Miss Loren
was born in Rome, you know.”

Daddy and I look at each other.
“We know,”
we say in unison. She's only told us that five hundred times since we moved here.

Mama marches out of her guest villa back to
Bel Castello
, our rustic, run-down
natural
stone castle, to get ready for the party. It's not a good sign that Mama is on her way to a party in her present frame of mind. The good news is Grandma Juliana—who insists we call her
Nonna
now that we're in Italy—won't be joining us tonight. She is still under the illusion that Uncle Nick is Italian, and would not be happy to discover the truth. She has something against marrying outside of “our rich Italian heritage.” She also has a problem with Greeks. At the moment, she's not the only one. Mama thought Uncle Nick was joking when he mentioned his plans to paint his villa blue. But … apparently not.

After slipping into my mandated
outfit and looking in the mirror, I head straight to Mama's room to try to talk her into letting me wear my denim overalls instead. As expected, the answer is no.

Mama is making her Miss Loren debut in a poppy red pantsuit and is sporting the latest Sofia Loren signature haircut. There's usually a movie-star buff in every crowd. We're all counting on one to notice Mama tonight so she can play her Sofia/Sophia autograph game. That's all it will take to shake her foul mood.

One thing Mama has going for her—she looks more like Sofia Loren than the real deal. People notice her almost everywhere she goes. And when they don't, she still looks great. Her sister, Genevieve, looks good
most
of the time but has these hips that won't quit. Sometimes they look like they need to quit growing.

“Mama, how is it that you and Aunt Genevieve are sisters, but she's always gaining and losing weight, and you just stay the same size?” She changes every time I see her.

“A. J., let me put it to you like this; inside every skinny woman, there is a chubby one fighting to come out. There's one main reason my sister battles weight. She likes to cook. Let that be a lesson to you. The more you can stay out of the kitchen, the better you'll look.”

“But how do you find a husband who doesn't want someone who likes to cook?”

Mama smiles. “Watch this.” She calls to Daddy in the bathroom, where he's getting dressed. “Hey, Sonny?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you rather have a great big wife who likes to cook for you all the time, or a slender bombshell who can't cook?”

“A slender bombshell who
can
cook.”

“That's not an option. How about a slender bombshell who cooks occasionally?”

“That's you, baby. I'll take it.”

Mama looks at me. “See that? He thinks he got a good deal—we both win. A good marriage is about making compromises you can both live with.”

Daddy comes out of the bathroom wearing a Don Ho–style V-necked shirt and black slacks. He wanted to wear his old park-ranger pants from his days at Indian Lake State Park, so he could at least be comfortable. But Mama handed him the Don Ho outfit instead.

“So, Mama, where's the compromise on what Daddy's wearing tonight?”

Mama looks at the park-ranger outfit lying on the bed. “Some things are nonnegotiable.”

We arrive on the marble staircase of the blue villa at sundown. Since Mama wouldn't let me wear my overalls to the party, I'm stuck in this gauzy getup that looks more like a gunnysack than a dress. Another nonnegotiable. If they decide to hold potato-sack races tonight, I'm all set. According to Adriana it's the latest fashion.
Adriana is presently driving back from Milan and planning to make an appearance later tonight. That's one thing about Adriana; she never just shows up—she
makes an appearance.

Ever since I turned thirteen last summer, Adriana and Mama have been running a conspiracy to turn me into a lady. I already have to wear a hideous blue and green plaid uniform three-fourths of the year, so with school finally out, I feel perfectly justified wearing nothing but overalls all summer long. Mama keeps threatening to burn them, but I have a backup pair just in case. One fashion model and a Hollywood-movie-star imposter is enough in one family. Someone needs to bring some normalcy into this picture.

Mama pulls her Hollywood sunglasses from her purse and slips them on. My Don Ho daddy ascends the marble staircase singing “Tiny Bubbles,” with the twins singing backup. In case I didn't feel different enough as the only blonde amidst my
famiglia dei bronzo,
I can only imagine how I'll blend in with the Greek side of the family.

Daddy stops singing the minute he reaches the top step, which lands us directly in front of the white stone pillars lining the entrance to this Grecian palace. “Hmm, perhaps I should have worn my toga,” Daddy says. We've been to Uncle Nick's villa a number of times before, but not since he turned it into a blue and white replica of Aphrodite's palace. You almost expect to be greeted by a set of palace guards, followed by Aphrodite herself.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Uncle Nick bellows, with his thick booming accent. Uncle Nick is a hairy version of Hercules; a handsome Greek face on the body of a grizzly. He gives Daddy a hearty whack on the back, followed by his dreaded holy kiss on the cheek and a bear hug.

Mama skirts around Daddy and makes her way to her sister. I'm next in line for the traditional greeting. After having the air squeezed out of me by Uncle Nick, I get to endure Aunt Genevieve's Rigatoni Red lipstick all over my cheeks.
“Principessa,”
she says, squeezing my face between her hands until I resemble a clown fish rather than a princess.

“Come meet the rest of the family!” Uncle Nick slaps Daddy on the back again and herds us all inside.

Oh, whoa.
Apparently they've imported a few more relatives since the last gathering. We may be the
only
Italian family here. Before I know what's happening, someone grabs my hand and pulls me into this circle of loud, dipping, kicking Greeks dancing the
kalamatianos
. I have watched my cousins dance the
kalamatianos
at holidays, but I have never joined in—and now I have no idea what I'm doing. At the moment, I'm just keeping my feet moving to avoid being dragged to death. As I'm pulled along, Dino grabs Daddy's camera. “A. J., smile!”

A flash goes off as I'm yelling, “I'm gonna ream ya!”

He laughs and takes another shot.

Just what I need—another means to further my already botched reputation in this town.
Round and round and round we go …

My eyes catch a glimpse of Adriana as I whirl by the grand entrance. She is
making her appearance
in a shimmering silver and gold getup. All eyes are on her, as usual. This is one of those times I'm really happy to see her. “Adriana! Over here!”

The guy who's holding my hand looks at me.

“My sister!” I yell, wondering if he understands English. The next thing I know, every guy in the place is yelling, “Adriana! Over here!”

She finally spots me and cuts in line beside me. Not one to miss a beat, Adriana starts kicking her legs up, doing the cancan. “C'mon A. J., even you know this one.”

We both start kicking our legs in sync with each other. Before you know it, the guy next to Adriana starts to join in, and so on down the line, until we have the entire circle dancing the cancan.

Finally the music comes to an end, and the feast is announced. I feel like a Gumby doll whose arms and legs have been stretched beyond normal limits. Wobbling my way out of the crowd to the patio, I'm faced with the horrific sight of a skinned lamb, rotating on a spit.
Oh, lovely.
I happen to be an avid animal lover—especially of
live
animals with their skins on
.
Buon appetito!

Someone in the crowd finally notices “Sofia.” He yells something in Greek and I hear the words
Sofia Loren,
and suddenly all eyes shift to Mama. Me and Daddy and Adriana make our escape to one of the balcony tables—a good distance from the sizzling carcass. As soon as Dino and Benji show up, we send them around as scouts to bring us food. I make them recite the order back to me before sending them off.

“Little spinach-and-cheese triangles, baklava, and olives,” Dino repeats.

“No lamb, no hummus, no mint jelly,” Benji adds.

We've been through this before and have learned by experience what to eat and what not to eat at these functions.

Daddy asks Adriana how she liked her trip to Rome. She and Mama went together for Adriana's first photo shoot.

“Rome was great—right up until Mama went off on her Sofia Loren tangent. She insisted on signing her name for every autograph nut who came along. I must have heard ‘I can't let my fans down' a hundred times.”

Sounds like Mama.

Then Adriana says she loves the runway work, even though some of the designers are a little on the unusual side.

Speaking of unusual, Cousin Nicky stops by our table long enough to brag about his latest hot rod. “Hey, did you guys happen to notice the little red Lamborghini parked out front? That's my new baby.” He rolls up his tailored shirtsleeves, most likely to reveal the glitzy gold watch on his scrawny arm.

“I thought you had an Alfa Romeo?” Heard all about it on his sixteenth birthday.

“Yeah, well, I totaled that baby. Just as well. My dad's going to let me start racing at the track with the 'Ghini.”

Spiffy.
Behind his tailored clothes and hot car, he's still your basic dweeb. But Cousin Stacy has lost a ton of weight and looks great. Says she won some awards for her poetry at L' Università di Firenze
.
I may be a tinge jealous—I'm pretty sure she's telling us the truth this time. She did go through a lying spell—for about ten years—but at age twenty, I think she may have finally outgrown the big fib phase.

The scout twins finally return with plates loaded up with food. Some of this stuff we've never seen before.

“Dare you to go first,” Benji says to Dino.

“Double dare you,” Dino shoots back.

As usual Benji falls for being the guinea pig. He dives right in …

“
Ewww
.” He immediately leans over the balcony and spits it out.