A Search for All Things Beautiful

(First draft of a piece I wrote for my Travel Writing class)

It’s impossible. You can’t live in Italy for four months and ignore the way that life is different from America. For me, a first-time-over-the-ocean traveler, I was absolutely struck by the way that Italians of all ages express and appreciate beauty. It took me a while to put my finger on just what it is that is so beautiful. In the beginning, I was sure it had to be the way that Italians look at each other as though they are seeing Roman gods and goddesses in human form…

We call it the shark tank. Where two or more Italian men are gathered, you will be checked out. And I’m not just talking about a quick glance, overtly hidden and disguised as, “Oh, I’m just looking for my friend.” It’s a full on stop, a look- up, down, then back up again, some low murmurs amidst the men, and then usually a chorus of, “Buona serras,” “Ciao Beautiful,” or “Hello, are you American?” Occasionally there’s some whistles in there, and maybe even a few suggestive clicks or meows thrown in the mix. It’s the strangest thing.
As American study abroad students, we’ve somehow learned to ignore it over the course of three months, but it’s still surprising how forward these men can be. Generally speaking, it seems harmless, but it’s always off-putting when a middle-aged man and his eight-year-old son walking beside him turn around and give you the eyes. It’s also a bit exhilarating to walk down the Corso on a Thursday evening, passing at least thirty young hungry sharks in small clusters who quietly stop, turn, watch you swim through. Trying your best to keep your balance in high heels on the cobble stone, you attempt to avoid the attention that is inevitable.

I start to wonder if we as Americans are sending off vibes that we want this direct, sexual, obvious attention. But then this morning, sitting outside Bar San Paolo, eating a fresh, warm croissant, I see a group of four young ladies who sit sharing cappuccinos. They are dressed in their best, wearing various shades of this season’s popular purple, and they look ready to head off to tend their shops or do some of their own shopping. For every small group of men that walk by me while I try my best to ignore, these women sit up a little more straight, sticking their chests out, and fixing their hair. It’s like they have an extra sense to tell them that some men might come by any second and they have to be ready. As I watch one woman with straight brown hair pulled back on her head, sunglasses perched on top, I finally see it. Oh my god, these women expect the attention. It’s affirmation that they’ve grown up receiving, and it’s fun for them to respond to a whistle by tossing an approving glance backwards at the shark-men. When men don’t prowl, “Ciao,” or gawk, these Italian “bellas” are actually offended. I guess it is all about appreciating beauty in this country.

But that can’t be it. I move out of the shark tank and into the Piazza del Popolo to continue my search for what makes Italian life so beautiful. A woman in a turquoise blue dress, buttoned and pressed, catches my attention. Her soft white hair delicately frames her face, and blue earrings that match her dress glisten and play with the light of the new day sun. She is at the flower stand at the morning market. I watch her, in front of small pots that have tiny purple flowers spilling out of them like fragrant waterfalls. She tenderly lifts up a pot to take in its scent. She must be thinking to herself, “This is the one.” Yet still she holds it in her left hand, examining and comparing to others still on the table. She pulls out a leather wallet and pays with perfect change. Next, on to the bakery, where she purchases fresh croissants and a loaf of warm bread to take home and share with her sisters, and maybe her four sweet grandchildren. A cucumber. Less picky about this than her flowers, she knows what a perfect vegetable should look like. It will make a refreshing snack on a hot May afternoon like today, sliced to be eaten on her balcony, surely covered in ivy and wisteria. She moves gracefully towards the house wares, eyeing the cheap silver pans and baskets for sale. She is easy to find in the crowd of market-goers this morning in Orvieto. Not just because of her bright-colored dress, but because of the simple elegance and age-old beauty she carries with her. Because of the way she slowly moves through the market with experience- she knows what she wants and where to find these items. While her purchases are simple- her favorite shampoo, a cucumber, soft bread- she also takes pleasure in the short conversations with old friends, smelling a peach, touching the fabric on display, smiling at a small child holding a pastry. I envy the way she takes in the splendor of this Thursday morning with such ease and simplicity.

Yet I cannot deny the compelling beauty of the way Italians treat their families and guests with such love. I’ve had the pleasure of coming to know one particular family during my four month stay here, and it happens to be the family of the unofficial mayor of Orvieto. Alessandro is a young man with dark hair, Italian brown eyes, and a smile that is contagious. His two young children are amidst the seventh generation of Lardanis to inhabit this hilltop town of Orvieto. This in itself is a literally foreign concept to me. I can hardly imagine staying in the same town as my parents when I raise my own children, let alone live in a place that knows my history better than I do.

But Alessandro thrives here. He is a member of the Charismatic Catholic Church, where he also leads a very unique and moving worship group. His work in helping achieve connections and citizenship for foreigners gives him associations all over the region. Walking down the streets with him, I can see that he is a friend of practically everyone in Orvieto. He is a futbal player and enthusiast, and most importantly a family man, as son, brother, husband, uncle, and father. He invites me to join his whole family for dinner, and I am able to witness first hand an example of love lived out loud by Alessandro and his family.

With hours of preparation, his parents have opened their home to me for much more than just a meal. We spend an hour talking while slicing salami and formaggio, deep into a discussion of music, faith, art, and finding where we fit into God’s plan. We contemplate what we are supposed to do with our lives over a salad of pear and parmagian. We pour wine over rich conversation. The table is not only a place of opening up our minds, but a place of beautiful chaos. With Alessandro the only other person here who can speak English, I sit back in my comfortable wooden chair several times and just listen to the Italian flowing out of the mouths of these people who love each other so vividly. Gestures sweep, music flows in the most romantic language I’ve ever heard, and bread is broken. Alessandro’s wife Manuela knows that I can’t speak Italian and I know that she can’t speak English, but we smile all the way through broken sentences with lots of nodding and signaling. We laugh at ourselves. The grandchildren run around playing with toys, chasing each other, jumping on their “nona’s” lap, eating a little bit here and there. About halfway through the drawn-out meal, grandfather Jiacomo jokes that it is now time to add another member of the family to the table as he turns on the television set. A futbol game commences while conversation grows livelier each time that Jiacomo announces an important play. Nona, Manuela and Elisa (Alessandro’s mother, wife and sister) head to the kitchen, producing delicious smells of dessert to come and joyous laughter that permeates beyond the kitchen walls.

I leave after an extra piece of homemade cake and the protests to stay even longer from the Lardani family. My stomach is full and my head light with red wine; the smile reaching across my face is a clear indication of my contentment. I have found this evening what it is that makes Italy such a beautiful place. It is the appreciation of physical beauty, both in others and the never-ending landscapes beyond the hilltop towns like Orvieto. It is taking in the smells of the morning market or reveling in an afternoon. It is the love of a family, grounded in this place as much as the structures carved into the tufa rock cliff. It is all of these things.