A Domani, Italia

Good-bye Italy, for now.
I am sorry I don’t love you.

Mattia Barzaghi's vineyards, San Gimignano.

And after two summers in your grasp, I fear I may never develop that Frances Mayes, dewy-eyed romance with you.

Many of my friends yearn for your gold-dusted sunsets, your size 2 women in stilettos, your DOCG Chianti, blue-green Riviera shores, Etruscan artifacts, Limoncello, your David.

I am clear-eyed.

The way I see it, Italia is the Rivendell of the 21st century.

Back to Mediterranean Middle Earth in a moment.

But first, let me say there ARE many things I adore in Italia.
Chiefly – people.

Cristiano Papi, Florentine to the core.

For example, Cristiano - my partner in teaching travel and cultural reporting for Miami University in Firenze. Such a smart, funny and easy-going guy. He would be a friend anywhere.

Cristina, my landlord of two summers. Turn the air conditioning down so low it blows fuses across the 1500s-era building? “We fix this,” Cristina says, adjusting the remotes with a severe look, then sashaying out, waving her hands and laughing. Get stuck in the 4-by-4 elevator? “I was so worried, Aaaaaannie,” Cristina cries, her dark eyes showing that she means it.

Carlo, my Italian teaching colleague, who spent 8 long years earning at Ph.D. at Cornell in Ithaca, N.Y., where I also spent many years. “Too cold,” he says, shuddering and clutching his shoulders, then laughing loudly at his good fortune to be back in sunny Italy again.

Claudia, the Holland ex-pat living in Naples who can navigate a train strike like a pro. The courtly Lorenzo, unafraid to strike up conversations with middle-aged women outside churches, then invite them to coffee. Mattia and Cassandra, tending lives rich with art in San Gimignano. Jerry, the fashion photographer who came to Italy as an American college student 20 years ago and realized he’d been born in the wrong country.

These are some of the people who have touched me - an American living abroad without, shall we say, proper training.

And then there’s your beautiful countryside, Italia. Of that, I would never complain.

Wind surfers on Lago Iseo, Italia.

In fact, though I have found many quiet, green places in Firenze to get lost, I feel most comfortable in your rolling Tuscan hills, your Alps, your clear seas.

Your bella lingua. Your persistent recycling efforts.

Your love of art and word and symbolism. And the fact that you live relatively respectfully every day with rich heritage, millions of tourists. That you value quality and family and friends.

For these things, Italians are to be admired.

But my Mediterranean Rivendell, all the magically charismatic natives, vistas and envious tourists will not save you in a global economy that, for you, includes the long distrusting arm and currency of the EU.

Church at Castelvecchio ruins, San Gimignano

This is also what I also see after two summers with you...
You hate change.
Your higher education system is broken.
You often lack ambition.
Your justice system is often unfair and impractical.
Your trade unions dictate your economic landscape – at least those parts that the mafia or Silvio Berlusconi doesn’t control.
You are sometimes sneaky (especially the older women who jump lines everywhere).
You objectify women and futbol and food and immigrants... and tourists.

Sunset over Firenze, Italia.

The Rivendell-esque characteristics are everywhere.
Golden sunlight washing over crumbling buildings.
Boastful egos still reveling in Medici accomplishments of centuries ago.
Siestas in the middle of a work day.
Threadbare clothing worn with handmade leather shoes.

Songs of passion that cannot carry a future’s tune.

Arrivederci, Italia.
But also, perhaps, a domani.

You Say Tomato, I Say... Rat

First I see the dog.

Secluded riverbed path along the River Arno

It is frenetically running up and down the Arno River bank, barking incessantly, chasing some ghost.
Usually, you see unleashed dogs strolling in the evening with their human companions along the lower riverbed paths, away from the hustle and bustle of Italian city life. It’s a peaceful place, since the Arno is some 400 meters wide in central Florence, and it is still.
But there are no humans with this small, black dog.
And he is quite out of his mind.

As I draw closer I see them. In the water, swimming some 5 to 10 meters off shore, three overgrown…. rats. They look about a half-meter long, including tails that leave ripples behind them.
And there is an animal chasing them through the water – another small dog with a strong dog paddle stroke.
Clearly, his unnerved partner on shore wishes he were giving chase in the water, too. Hence the noise.
It is a futile effort. Every time the Michael Phelps of the Arno closes in on a rat, it dives underwater, ne’er to reappear.

About a week later, in the pre-twilight, I am walking along the Arno with some backpackers, one French, the other German. When I say walking with them, I mean we are strolling in a loose group, as we have already established they do not speak English well and I only took one semester of French in college. German, nein.
Then the French woman begins squealing and pointing.

A nutria dining on the River Arno

And there they are, those… rats.
“Not rats!” says the French Animal Lover, shaking her head vigorously, as the German man pulls out a long-lens camera.
“How you say… I no know word,” she continues as the German Photographer and I begin snapping images.
One rat is swimming about a meter offshore while the other is dining on some river greens. The French Animal Lover swears she sees a “be-be”, too.
The German Photographer shakes his head, struggling for the English word for these creatures, which – up close – look furry, benign and, well, cute.
“Not rat,” he manages.

Just up the river is the “beach party café,” where you can rent a riverside lounger and order a drink next to a dam that seems to attract every beer bottle and plastic container in Florence. Charming is not a word I’d use for this tourist trap.

Riverside Florence, with tourist sunbathing spot in foreground.

But the “rats” add another dimension that convinces me I’ll never patronize that joint.

I take my images home and turn to Google.
And the word that comes up in my searches to identify this creature is… nutria.
The South American native is a large, herbivorous, semi-aquatic rodent that some ecologists vilify because it eats the stems of plants, but not all the greenery.
Wasteful, in other words.
Brought to Europe and North America by farmers who wanted to grow it for fur, the nutria was set loose after the market cooled.

It’s an immigrant, a tourist of sorts.
Something scrambling to make sense of life in a foreign climate and culture, chased and maligned by natives that do not understand it.
And I, an American living temporarily in Italy, realized…
I can relate to that.

Leaning Tower of Debt - to History

It seemed like I would never meet an Italian who was entrepreneurial in a BIG way.

Seems like most everyone I come in contact with in my day-to-day life in Florence has a Small Business, Smallish Personal and Financial Goals, a Defeated Before I Try aura. Lots of excuses, or complaints, or arguments why things will never change.

Fatalistic even. This is life. I’m living, so things are fine.
“Come sta?” I ask one Florence card shop owner in rare confidence of my basic Italian. She looks up slowly from her book, and replies, “Bene, bene. È quasi tempo di siesta!” referring to the fast-approaching siesta hour, when most businesses close for two or three hours.

A few weeks ago, three friends and I stayed at an Umbrian B&B compound with luxury appointments and breakfast, noteworthy landscaping and a divine pool above Lake Trasimeno. The owner, Nadine, who grew up in Interlaken, Switzerland, clearly has a vision and passion.

But then she mentioned that her Italian husband, whom she met while a student at university in Perugia, worked during the week as a meter money collector, emptying coins from machines in towns near and far. “It is boring, but it is a job,” Nadine says, with a shrug.

This entrepreneurial inertia in Italy has been perplexing to me, the American. It reminds me of a conversation I had not long ago with a young Cincinnati, Ohio, CEO who was bewildered about why his brother – a business partner – wasn’t as passionate about their company as he was. The brother preferred 9-5 hours and responsibilities, so he could go home to his wife, dog, TV.

“Why doesn’t he want to work 24/7 on this company, like I do?,” the boyish ball of fire asked, frustrated. “I can barely contain my energy – we WILL succeed.”

An article in today’s New York Times cemented many of my perceptions about the Italian business climate and ethics. “Is Italy Too Italian?” the headline of Dave Segal’s article about Italy’s devastating debt and business challenges read.

“To understand why (the Carlo Berbera) factory, and so much of Italy, is stagnant or worse, requires a bit of geopolitical history and a look at the highly idiosyncratic business culture here,” Segal writes. “It is defined, to a large degree, by deep-seated mistrust — not just of the government, but of anyone who isn’t part of the immediate family — as well as a widespread aversion to risk and to growth that to American eyes looks almost quaint.”

Basilica di San Miniato, Firenze, Italia

After I read the article this morning, brow knitted, I took a power walk high above Florence to the Basilica di San Miniato, an renowned 1800s church I had never visited. I sat, stunned by both beauty and perfect acoustics, in its nave as the choir sang luminously and the organist did encores.

Afterward, in the shade outside, is when I meet Giuseppe, Super Italian Entrepreneur, who also was inspired by the Mass. Though he is his 70s, Giuseppe says he has no intention of retiring from his investing business. He whips out a Blackberry to show me buy/sell emails he’s just received from a Hong Kong advisor. He mentions that he had a firm in Chicago set up – via remote - his online trading system.

Guiseppe is bullish about green energy stocks, and he listens intently as I talk about recent energy reporting I’ve been doing. He makes a note of the New York Times article to read. He mentions that the homily just delivered by a San Miniato monk has got his wheels turning about a new business opportunity – but he’s Not Ready to Share It, he says with a wink.

As we talk, Giuseppe keeps glancing at the spectacular view of the entire Florence valley spread in front of us. People pant up the long flight of stone steps from far below.

When we part, he asks for my business card so he can send me tips – or maybe arrange a lunch meeting to discuss investing. I decide it is not a pickup line.

It is only as I am navigating the stone steps myself that I notice one other thing Giuseppe might have had in view just below as we talked. A late-model, two-seater red Lotus coupe.

I don’t have to turn to see if Giuseppe is following. He has a Lotus frame of mind.