Back in the U.S.A.

It's not unusual to return from a trip with souvenirs, and mine include hand-painted ceramic wine corks, bottles of grappa and vin santo, and a curious rash that has invaded my legs and torso. My first thought was that this came from the garden - perhaps poison ivy. The rash first appeared in Italy, then vanished for a day or two before re-emerging on my second or third day back in New York. An emergency dermatologist visit had my doctor prescribing an anti-itch creme and some medication to help me sleep. Among other things, this afflication has reminded me of the potential hazards that lurk in any garden, and the need to protect oneself, even while blissfuly surveying the extraordinary landscape view from an Italian garden.

Back in New York I am a junkie for the Italian experience. The newspaper never fails to provide a brief fix. There is always some fresh story of the buffoonish president Berlusconi, today having shrugged his shoulders (in that quintessential Italian fashion) when accused of palling around with prostitutes. "I'm no saint", he says, and the Italians love him for it. Earlier this week, a new (at least to me) strain of crime family, the 'ndrangheta, described as "a mob organization based in Italy's southern Calabria region" was identified as owners of a cafe on the Via Veneto, scene of the Fellini film "La Dolce Vita".

Another story features a group of convincted criminals in a maximum-security prison in Volterra who have formed a theatrical company called "Compagnia dela Fortezza, named after the fortress that houses the jail where the convicts are imprisoned. Right now they are doing Alice in Wonderland. The article is accompanied by a photograph of the inmates in heavy commedia make-up, elaborate wigs and tutus. Turns out more than half of Italy's prisons have theater programs; I am surprised that it's only half of them. There is no more theatrical personality than the Italian, inventors of opera, commedia dell'arte and Anna Magnani. I love these stories; they remind me that while the rest of the world goes global Italy remains provincial. That is its charm.

Ralph prepares a dinner of fresh bufalo mozzarella from Agata and Valentina (the very best in New York, and believe me, we've tried them all), sliced vine ripened tomatoes, grilled asparagus and a crisp Pinot Grigio, followed by chilled, sliced peaches and strawberries which we splash with Vin Santo brought back from my trip. We slice up some crusty Italian bread and dip it in Umbrian olive oil. After dinner we watch the Italian news channel, even though neither of us knows the language well enough to understand the rapid fire speech of the on air reporters. The newscasters are much sexier than their American counterparts - the women especially are provacatively dressed and bejewelled, and deliver the news in an almost defiant manner - how can I describe it? It's like listening to a dominatrix.