In Love with France, At Home In Italy

In his autobiographical memoir, Speak, Memory, Vladimir Nabokov, (my obsession for whom predates my current one for Andre Aciman), says, " One is always at home in one's past...." Andre Aciman, in "Becket's Winter" (from his collection of essays, "False Papers") speaks about the lie of the memory: "... all we have in the end is ourself, our loneliness – not even our memories but how they've lied to us...." Earlier in that same piece, Aciman includes a 17-line single sentence worthy of Proust, but infinitely easier to follow. After seeing the film, "Becket," for the first time as a teenager in Alexandria, he viewed the film countless times, in three other countries and in my three favorite languages, French, English, and Italian. The last few words of the long sentence I mention state that, like King Henry in the movie, "... I, too, one day would have to learn to be alone again, but in the end the work of memory is

Dear Donna Leon, I can't believe it took me this long to find you. Nearly 68 years, to be somewhat precise. And now, having just finished the last of your available Brunetti novels, I have very mixed emotions. I never expected to be spending the first few months of leave from my academic appointment--my first significant period away from teaching--falling for Brunetti. I haven't read much in this genre since I was a teenager on the prowl for steamy scenes in Mickey Spillane. I was supposed to be spending this time off my Ivy League treadmill working on my own writing, instead of my usual work of helping others to write. But I could not stop myself.  You know how in Alice in Wonderland, the King said gravely that one is supposed to begin at the beginning "and go on till you come to the end: then stop"? Well, I started at the beginning of your oeuvre, and here I am. Here's how it happened. My 85-year-old writing partner who knew of my fascination with Montalbano o

Although I have previously written on the topic of "Taking My New Front Teeth For A Swim," https://franceoritaly.blogspot.com/2013/07/taking-my-new-front-teeth-for-swim.html   this time is different. First of all, those front teeth are not as new as they once were. Further, it's October 20, when most less nutty people consider the swimming season over. But on each of the past three days, I've swum 42 laps. Stubborn about giving up the so-called summer--which, at least here in Umbria, never quite arrived--I'd been holding out for a nice, sunny swimmable day, and these were the diems to carpe. I googled for tips on how to stay warm in cold water, and ended up wearing a funny-looking get-up of a stretched-out bathing suit topped by a tight-fitting French Los Olivades T-shirt with a snug Land's End bathing suit bottom over the whole bit. Although I have previously documented some of my what-Not-to-wear escapades (see "Update On What Not To Wear When Gardenin

My husband is getting nervous about his underwear.  I count 11 pairs in his underwear drawer, and even though all might not be entirely wearable (as he explained, "not all underwear is created equal"), I question whether this constitutes a true Underwear Emergency. But then again, Brinkmanship is my family's middle name. This type of difference of opinion and personal style gets played out in many various ways during the course of a long marriage. But ours has lasted 44+ years, so maybe that speaks for itself. In any case, tomorrow will be Laundry Day, so everyone will soon be able to heave a sigh of relief.

So what's all this? Read on and you'll see. The "tee-hee/boohoo" souvenir tissues from our Virgin Atlantic flight of many moons ago aptly describes my emotions during this painful rite-of-passage. Now who in her right mind would consider all this stuff inessential to everyday life and thus unworthy of taking up valuable real estate in her pocketbook? So many treasures here that are about to be exiled! Some people are "born" shoppers. They love the thrill of a new purchase. That would NOT be me. My favorite clothes--the soft, preowned, cozy ones I love to wear--all came from the recycling room at the Meredith, New Hampshire town dump. This was no ordinary dump. It was a state-of-the-art, model establishment of which even a summer resident could be proud. Way ahead of its time, the pristine Meredith dump had separate sections for each type of garbage. But for me, the highlight was the recycling room where the clothes bin had a special allure. It

There's nothing like the  50th class reunion of a small-town high school to bring out the envy factor. After turning in my "update" survey where I confessed that I live in a renovated Italian farmhouse and work the land, one friend said she was picturing a glamorous Merchant Ivory-ish Farmer Donatella, instead of the more Grant Wood-ish reality. Farmer D, dressed for working in a field of chest-high Umbrian flora.  (The mask is a good idea when combatting our  ubiquitous local herba della tossa, aka "the coughing plant." The Micky Mouse sweatshirt and pants discarded by son are perfect for all outdoor work. The once-chic hat has taken some hard knocks out here in the country. Ditto for the Madras cotton scarf from Guadeloupe that still offers good neck protection.) Merchant Ivory, huh?  While cleaning for the visit of our cousin and her friend, I stumbled on a perfect storm of an antidote to those misconceptions. As I was going outside to sweep away