Amy’s Blog

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

THE FIRST DAY, Lufthansa flight, JFK, NYC- Change planes in Frankfurt-Final destination Rome.
FLY ME TO THE MOON
I’m sitting on the plane, recovering from the take off, which is the part of air travel I hate the most. After many years of flying, my fear of it has dissipated very little. I’ve recently somehow, condensed my panic into a, two days before the flight freak out fest, but that’s the best I’ve been able to do. Now that we’re above the clouds and close to cruising altitude, I’m beginning to feel the knot in the pit of my stomach, subside. Now all I have to do is get through the next six hours on this plane and then another two on a plane from Frankfurt to Rome and…help me god. . Of course the stopover has to be in Frankfurt. The Frankfurt Airport is one of my least favorite ports of call; though, I thankfully, only have an hour and a half between flights. An hour and a half to wander aimlessly through its Kafka-esc maze, going up and down, and all around, but after that, I’m on to Rome. Ah Rome! Wait a minute, before I start waxing poetic about Rome, let me first state that now is now and now I am on this hateful plane. My legs are killing me, my head is throbbing, I’m totally dehydrated, and there is absolutely no room in these seats to accommodate the human anatomy. At least the Stewardesses, I mean “flight attendants” have been, pleasant, efficient and predominately, blonde. I wish I could say the same of the herd of unpleasant Midwestern adolescents that have taken over the economy class. (Well actually, some of them are blonde as well). These children are wrecking havoc upon the rest of us, with their raging hormones and the cliquish giggling. The little mousy waif next to me is reading something called Prom magazine. Is it possible that there is such a publication? I guess so… On the other side of me, is a pretty boy of about seventeen, he keeps saying to his pals (both boys and girls) “sit on my lap and tell me what comes up first.” I’m thinking, it would be all right with me, if the plane crashed, just to get rid of these morons, even though I know it would mean I’d have to go down with them. The good news is, I’ve been dutifully popping mood stabilizers since first arriving at JFK, so I’m beginning to feel no pain, thank god. As the drugs take affect, I close my eyes and try to conjure up my early memories of Italy. The first time I visited Italy, I was an overweight, pimply nineteen-year-old, -wanting to flee from the State University I had been forced to go to, by the fact that I had no money for the school I really wanted to attend. In my desperation to escape, I applied for a semester abroad and chose to go to Italy. I don’t exactly know why I decided on Italy, it must have been because I loved the sound of the language. Que. Bella-la lingua Italiana, for me it was like an ornate lullaby, it soothed my eternally frazzled soul.
Day Two; Fumicino Airport
July 31, 2001, Rome, Italy
9:30 A.M;
Landed at Fumicino airport in one piece, I’m now waiting at the Airport bar/café, for my traveling companion. She is due to arrive an hour and a half after me on British Airlines. I’ve already had my first cup of cappuccino, oh yes this is the real shit, no phony Starbucks imitation here. Hallelujah, I’ve finally reached Coffee Mecca. My traveling companion- we’ll call her Ethel, is an acquaintance from New York. She is going to do the first leg of her three-week trip in Europe, with me. We’re booked to stay in a pensione in Rome for three days, before traveling on to Calabria. I am supposed to have some gigs lined up down there, so says my Calabrese music connection, who has paid for my flight. His name is Euginio Gudio, otherwise known as J.J., but more about him later. Anyway, finally after two and half-hours, Ethel shows up, perky and ready to conquer Rome; she’s irritating me already. She’s like an over grown Girl Scout with her map and compass in hand. We decide to take a taxi to the Pensione. In the end the taxi will only be a few thousand more lira then taking a train…Of course we have to wait another hour for the cab to arrive and while waiting, I’ve already been hit on by two airport employees…I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore.
Taxi Ride to the Pensione
Our driver must be going at least 90. He is swerving in and out of traffic, tail gating huge trucks and taking on a cell phone to his mama. They are apparently arguing over what to have for dinner.” Non, mama io volio un po’de pasta shuta con pomadore e olio” As my husband David said before I left, ” If I were you, I’d worry more about staying alive through the cab ride to Rome, then about anything happening on the flight going over”. How right he was.
At The Pensione
Groovy, we’ve arrived. I can always count on my old friend Gaby to come through. She’s a dear friend who I’ve known for more than twenty years and for the past 18, she’s resided in Rome. Whenever I travel to Italy I make sure to see her. She always hooks me up with everything I need in this town. This time she’s booked me into a Pensione right downstairs from where she lives. The hotel manager tells me, that just a minute before; Gaby came by to see if I’d arrived. It feels good to set down in a foreign country and have a friend waiting there for you. Fumbling with the very large keys, the triple locks and our over stuffed bags, we fall into our room. It is little, clean, and Spartan, with two small beds, a fan, two reading lamps on nightstands and a white standing closet. We have our own bathroom, yea! Tomorrow the manager promises to move us upstairs to a room with a terrace, he’s says that’s what Gaby wanted for us. (Thanks Gaby). The price of the room is very cheap by American standards, 30$ a night per person. I drop everything and collapse onto my little bed and in seconds I’m out like a light. Moments later, I’m awakened out of a dreamless sleep by a familiar voice. “Hey girl”, It’s Gaby looking very “Puckish” with her short tussled chestnut colored hair, green horn rimmed glasses and Cheshire cat smile. I jump up and hug her. She tells me she’s planned a party tonight, in celebration of my arrival. “Great I can’t wait,” I say, thinking to myself, how the fuck am I going to stay awake for that. I’m such a pussy when it comes to jetlag, given a choice; I will always choose the path of least resistance; sleep! So I say to her,” Gaby; honey it’s so great to see you, let me get a few hours sleep and then I’ll be raring to go”. “Of course darling,” Gaby replies,” if you get hungry when you wake up, I’ll make you a delicious pronzo, ciao.” As she departs, I’m already on my way to dream land.
If I don’t make the hash brownies now, they’ll be absolutely no desserts.
July 31st 2001, Rome, Italy
Ethel and I arrive at Gaby’s apartment at around 8:00 P.M., she’s not home yet, but has left me the keys and told us to let ourselves in. We have been given instructions to start cutting vegetables for the party. The party is scheduled to begin five minutes after she’s due to return. I look through the clutter in her kitchen and find something that resembles a tool for peeling .I find the carrots in the bottom of a teeny weenie, typically Italian refrigerator and begin scraping and chopping. Ethel goes out on the terrace and looks at her maps.
Gaby’s apartment is a bohemian retreat; abstract paintings by Gaby, local artist and past lovers, fill the walls. The floors are strewn with large pillows, books, candles, scripts, and unfinished paperwork. Her two cats strut about as if they own the place… For the past five years Gaby has been the Founder and impresario of The English Theater of Rome. It is never easy to create and run a theater, but trying to do so, as an American woman in Italy, is like trying to climb Mount Everest. The amount of bullshit she has to go through to keep her theater going, dealing with the Italian Bureaucracy, the Catholic Church, sexism, and crazed expatriate, English speaking actors, is mind boggling. But somehow Gaby persists and revels in the battle.
From the kitchen, I hear the front door open. Gaby has arrived and like the General of an army she goes into action, “O.K. Girls, we have five minutes to get this party together. Amy, those carrots look terrible didn’t your mother teach you anything.” I answer simply, “no.” Ethel what are you doing out there, I’ve got to get the cous, cous cooking, get your butt in here”. Ethel wearily comes into the kitchen, obviously flustered by being put to work.” I’m sorry girls, but I need help. I’m running late, Amy could you please bring these bottles of wine out to the terrace and Ethel, here’s the box of cous, cous, make your self-useful, all you have to do is measure out the water”. Gaby continues preparing for the party and giving out orders, the doorbell rings. I think to myself,” I adore that woman”.
An hour or so later the party is in full swing, and as one of the guests remarks, “This party looks so West Hollywood”, and he’s right, a plethora of hip looking Italian and American gay men have arrived. Two or three strut through the party, top less; one beautiful boy’s upper body is tastefully covered in silver sparkles. The silver sparkled boy is an American, living in Rome and one of Gaby’s dearest friends. He rushes about; helping Gaby organize things, putting food out on the table, and making it all look pretty. All
Of a sudden he stops what he’s doing and says,” Oh my God, if I don’t start making the hash brownies now, there were will be absolutely no dessert.” He runs off to the kitchen in a panic. An eclectic group of artists, writers, actors, and the like, continue to arrive. Everyone brings a bottle of wine or some sort of liquor. Before partaking in the festivities, they kiss their hostess on both cheeks and introduce themselves to those who don’t know them. Since my first visit in this country I have always been struck by Italian gentility. Even those that reject the confines of mainstream society seem to comply with an ingrained sense of decorum, a measured way of behaving and although it’s refreshing to see people with manners, there’s something distancing about it…or maybe, it’s just that I’m an American slob.

Trouble in Paradise
August 1st 2001, Rome
Woke up early, Rome is in the midst of a heat wave and since only three percent of Italians own air conditioners, my wimpy American body is having a difficult time coping. It’s only nine A.M. and the temperature must already have hit 90 degrees. Gaby gave me instructions that during the day I should keep all the shutters closed but at night I must open all windows, to let whatever cool air there is, come in. Our poor little room fan is working overtime and I’ve been sweating profusely since I arrived in this town. Still I am very happy to be here. Although I’ve seen very little of the city since we arrived, Rome’s beauty and majesty is everywhere you look. I remember my first visit to Rome; a friend and I got wasted at a bar near to the Spanish steps. We stumbled through the city. In youthful glee we howled at the night sky, we thought we owned the place. Later we found ourselves in an out door bar/café right next to the coliseum. Everywhere we went huge slices of history stood before us. In those days all I wanted to do was to have some fun before I died that and to free myself from the clutches of my crazy mother. But being in the midst of those towering representatives of human history I was forced momentarily, to put my stupid little adolescent concerns into perspective. What a concept for a middle class American girl.
Anyway back to the present, Ethel is in the bathroom, preparing herself for her first full day of sight seeing. I have promised to go with her to see all the biggies, the Vatican, The forum, the coliseum etc…But now that the moment of truth has arrived, I want to renege on my offer. It’s fucking hot out there, I partied late last night, and I’m Jet lagged. To put it simply I want to stay in bed, in my little shuttered room with my little fan and sleep. When Ethel comes out of the bathroom I tell her just that. She’s disappointed but luckily last night we made arrangements with one of the many American’s living abroad, to give us a tour through the city. And guess what, he just happens to be a professional tour guide, and he’s willing to take us around for free, how fortuitous. I tell Ethel she’ll be in good hands and that I’ll meet her for Dinner at around seven. She appears to be O.k. with that; I think, and off she goes with her water bottle, map of the city, camera and Italian phrase book, in tow. I turn off all the lights; point the fan directly at my bed and go to sleep!

Dinner in Trastevere, let the games begin
“That’s like The Ham calling the Prosciutto a Pig.”
August 2nd, 2001
I wake up at around three P.M. and go upstairs to Gaby’s apartment. She’s moving kind of slow, which probably has something to do with the hash brownies and tequila she ingested the night before. I tell her that I tried to say goodnight when I left her party, but she was dancing with a pineapple on her head, and I didn’t want to disturb her, or it. We spend the rest of the day cleaning up and reminiscing. Before we know it, it’s seven o’clock and time to meet Ethel and the American tour guide whose name by the way is Tom. Tom, I find out, also happens to be an actor in Gaby’s company. As we start getting ourselves together to leave, Gaby’s phone rings and its Ethel, she tells Gaby that, they’re at a restaurant in Trastevere. Trastevere is Rome’s equivalent to N.Y.C’S west village. It’s a kind of hip tourist trap that was once considered cutting edge. Gaby gives me the phone and I tell Ethel that we’re running late and to start eating without us. Ethel is beginning to sound annoyed. Gaby and I both decide she’s an ungrateful bitch, and take our time leaving. After all Gaby threw a great party, of which Ethel wouldn’t have been invited if she hadn’t been with me. Gaby also found us a pensione without any trouble which is a small miracle during the summer months in Rome, she introduced Ethel to a professional tour guide, who volunteered his services, because of his relationship with Gaby, (Okay, maybe he also was hoping to get laid), but really what else does that woman want? I am beginning to get fed up with Ethel and Gaby has not been too keen on her, since she dragged her ass, about measuring out water for the cous, cous. The tension is building and I can smell trouble ahead. As we head towards the restaurant, it’s now about 8:30. Gaby feel’s that Ethel should at least pay for Tom’s dinner and I agree. At 9:15 when we finally arrive at the restaurant, Ethel and Tom look forlorn and hungry. They are in the midst of devouring crusty hunks of bread dipped in olive oil.” Hi guys” I say, taking a seat, “sorry we’re late.” You haven’t ordered yet?” “No,” Ethel replies “we were waiting for you.” “Oh,” I say, refusing to acknowledge the inferred admonishment, “listen Ethel, I think you and I should take Tom and Gaby out for Dinner, don’t you think?” I’m pushing it and I know it but I just can’t help myself. Ethel hesitates and actually doesn’t really answer; she just kind of bobs her head up, down and side to side. Well, this is the final straw for Gaby; who stares at Ethel with unblinking eyes. I know that look, I’ve seen it on Gaby’s face, through out the years; that look, tells me that all hell’s about to break loose. At the end of the meal Ethel is shamed into sharing the bill with me and quite clearly, is not happy about it. After dinner we go to another part of town to meet some friends of Gaby’s, for drinks. At the table Ethel is trying to ignore Gaby’s serious bad vibe action, while trying to freeload a stay at some old guys’ house in Nice. I make small talk and wait for the games to begin. I think to myself, Ethel deserves whatever she’s about to get. Suddenly Gaby turns to Ethel and says, “You know I don’t mind helping people when they come to Italy, but I expect them to at least acknowledge that I’ve done so. I guess you just expect to have your ass wiped for you. Oh and by the way, I’m sorry that I asked you to measure out the water for the cous, cous, what a burden that must have been for you, being jet lagged, and all. A spontaneous grin comes over my face, Ethel looks towards me for help, and I give her none. In the cab ride back to the pensione, Ethel breaks down in tears. “Why is Gaby so mean to me,” she asks. “What did I do?”
Ethel and I both wake up late. Today, Gaby is taking me to an out door jam session. Ethel tells me that she doesn’t want to be around Gaby and I agree that, that is probably a good idea. I am feeling slightly sorry for Ethel this morning, so I tell her that maybe today she could hang out with Tom and the old guy with the house in Niece. I go up to Gaby’s and she too is feeling a little guilty. We decide to call Tom and the old guy and ask them to babysit Ethel for the day. They both seem happy to do so (god knows why) and I go down to tell Ethel that she hooked up, saying,” I know this is an uncomfortable situation, but we’re leaving tomorrow for Calabria so you only have to get through today”. With those words of wisdom, I depart for a day on the town with Gaby.
I am on the back of Gaby’s motorino, zooming through the Roman Street. Almost everyone in Rome owns a motorino; they are like baby motorcycles and are the best way to get around this highly congested town. Riding on a motorino in Rome, I’m thinking, must be similar to being in the Indy 500. There is a fierce competition among the drivers to get the advantage on the road; it’s like a national sport, to see who can out maneuver whom. There seem to be no rules to the game and I’m not really sure what the objective is, but god knows it’s exhilarating.
We arrive at a beautiful villa on the outskirts of town. Gaby parks her motorino under a huge tree and we follow the sound of music. After a few minutes of walking, we discover an out door stage nestled within the villa’s romantically overgrown, grounds. On the stage, there is a group of funky, disheveled looking musicians using lots of “top shelf’ equipment. Through my many year of working with them, I have noticed that Italian musicians (and yes, I’m generalizing here) love equipment and they love it to be the very, very, very best and most expensive. It often seems more important to them to have the highest quality of “whatever,” then to actually know how to play they’re instruments. Am I being mean? Unfortunately my past observations seem to hold true at this jam. Okay, It’s not that they can’t play, but they are indulging in what they must think is a high form of creative expression, but to me, sounds more like very loud musical masturbation. There are no women musicians among this group and when I get up to sing it’s like deja vu all over again…. It’s as if there’s a universal, oath amongst male musicians to defend there obviously weak egos by scowling, condescending and using their instrument as extensions of and in compensation for, their perhaps, very small penises. Boy musicians, the world over, have a hard time giving us girls an inch (sort to speak). I’m forced to try and sing to a totally unstructured, improvisatory composition, because it appears, that it is beneath these musicians to play an actual song. Any way after I finish “singing,” I get off the stage and Gaby and I commiserate on what children these men are. Soon, the Padrone of the Villa appears and goes up to the stage. He is obviously agitated and tells the guys that they have to stop playing because they are too loud. A heated argument ensues, which includes a lot of hand gestures and finally the musicians are forced to break down. As the musician’s pack up their gear, a lone guitarist comes on to the stage. He begins to play what I guess, to be a traditional Italian folk song. He plays very beautifully with a gentle, simple passion and I am so entranced, so moved, that at that moment I decide to grant these macho, bad-boy, asshole musicians a short reprieve. They shall be allowed to live for one more day, so say I-Caesar!
LATE THAT NIGHT
It is now 3:00 A.M. Gaby and I have just left a party, given, this time by “the silver sparkled boy,” from the other night. Like the one at Gaby’s, tonight’s soirée has been dominated by intellectuals, pretty boy homosexuals, and artist of various disciplines and sexual preferences. Naturally, the festivities have taken place at the host of the evening’s apartment, which is decorated, in an, incongruous mix of over the top and tasteful antiques. Gaby and I are the last ones to leave and both of us are slightly inebriated as we stumble out onto an empty Piazza. After I get onto the back of Gaby’s motorino and after she steps on the gas, it occurs to me that it is not a “given” that we will make it home in one piece. My trepidation, however, diminishes when it appears to me that Gaby is driving with care and without effort. I hold on to her shoulders as we glide through the silent ancient city, the wind is at our back and Rome is at our feet. As dawn rises, I experience a kind of epiphany, I realize, that I’m in the throws of feeling…of feeling, what I believe, is called, happiness.
You go your way and I’ll go mine.
Rome, August 3rd, 2001
It’s 10:00 AM and Ethel and I are preparing to check out of the pensione. Today we are supposedly going on to Calabria together, but I find out quickly enough that Ethel has other plans. “What would you think if I didn’t go with you to Calabria”? She asks in a squeaky little voice. Immediately I want to beat her senseless, “Well, Ethel”, I reply, “That would be fine with me except that you asked me to reserve a room for you at Adriana’s bed and breakfast. I mean I told Adriana that you were going to pay for a five night stay and I think she’s counting on that.” “Well,” explains Ethel, I never actually spoke to her…” “Yes, but you asked me to call her from New York and book the room for you”. Listening to Ethel’s grating, whiney voice, I think to myself, if I had a gun, I’d shoot this bitch where she stands.” “The thing is Amy, I can stay at that house in Niece for free, and I really shouldn’t pass that up, right? It’s a great opportunity, I mean…” I stop her right there, and explode: “listen, you’re going do what ever the fuck you’re going to do. Obviously it doesn’t matter to you that I gave my word to Adriana, who happens to be a very close friend of mine and the person that got me started performing here in Italy, so just go”. “Well” Ethel says, “It’s just the timing, see the house in Niece is being rented out in ten days, otherwise I’d go with you first and then go to Niece”. “Forget it,” I scream,” have yourself a grand time, but I never want to see you again, you’re just a fucking opportunist. It’s no wonder you have no friends.” “Well, if you were my friend, you’d have stood up for me, when Gaby started attacking me.” I can see that Ethel has a point, and I’m forced to admit to myself that I’ve never liked Ethel really and I’d be happier continuing on without her. With that realization, I stop my screaming, pick up my bags, and walk out of the room, hopefully never to see Ethel again. And it’s only day three of my trip.
I decide to spend one more night in Rome before taking the train to Calabria. Gaby, the true friend that she is, puts me up for the night and we spend a comparatively quiet evening, doing yoga and dissing Ethel.
On The train from Rome to Cosenza in Calabria
August 4th, 2001
As I enter the train to Cosenza, I am pushed into a timeless universe. The smell of cigarettes and espresso, the vinyl of the seats, the sweat of the passengers in the hot overcrowded train, babies crying, old women gossiping, impeccably dressed men starring at sexy dark eyed girls; all of this is as it was three, five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. I’ve been coming to Italy for more than half my life now. I was a troubled teenager when I first visited this exquisitely beautiful Mediterranean country and now I am what is too often referred to as an “older woman.” Yet, what has really changed, not me? I’m still the moody, often depressed, audacious creature that I always was. I don’t feel like an adult, unless that means that I now have a slight comprehension of the long-term consequences of my actions and that I am not anymore, as willing to pay the price for the ones made unconsciously. I guess you could say that, “I’ve been there and done that.” And I’m too burnt out, to do “that” again and again. My shrink would probably say something like, “Amy, if that’s not “change”, what do you think is”? And I would probably reply “…well, whatever.”
Okay, okay, I’m willing to concede that through the years there have been some modifications in my character and outlook. Take my relationship to Italy; since this diary is to be an account of my time here, I guess that, that would be a logical place to start.
Twenty-three years ago, when I first arrived in Siena, a glorious town in Tuscany that is most famous for it’s extravagant horse race, called the Paulo; the beauty of the city overwhelmed me. This was my first time in Italy and, I would call Siena my home for the next six months. Well, to me the place seemed like an exotic wonderland, a perfect forum to indulge in adolescent longings and fantasies. In my narcissism, I only saw what I wanted to see. To me the native’s didn’t suffer the way I did, they all seemed happy eating their pasta, wearing fine clothe and going to ornate churches. I was so flattered by the constant attention of the Italian boys. In my density, I really thought that they were paying me special attention. It was only much, much later that I came to comprehend that for the men of Italy, flirting is a national past time. Oh! The Italian family I was staying with seemed so quaint and fun. They waved their hands and argued, just like I’d seen in Hollywood Mafia movies. Even when they fought, it was in such a beautiful singsong language, that how could I take their anger seriously? And although the mother told me that her oldest boy suffered from anorexia and refused to leave the house, I couldn’t allow that piece of information to disrupt my idyllic vision of my surrogate Italian family.
After so many years of coming to this country, I think or I hope that I’ve gotten a more realistic, less one-dimensional comprehension of Italy and its people. I have at last come to appreciate that their struggles are as deep and difficult as mine are. It’s just hard to conceive of this at times, because the country is so beautiful, the food is so good, and the people appear to be so alive, so spontaneous, so open, and nurturing. The Italians though, when you scratch the surface, can actually be rather rigidly set in their ways. As I’ve said before, there is a definite mode of behavior, and conformity to it is more the rule then the exception. Also, although externally the people seem incredibly passionate and emotional, they can be extremely resistant and closed down when it comes to exploring their deeper emotional terrain. This can be very frustrating and alienating for a girl who was breast-fed on psychotherapy.
Anyway, to change the subject slightly, what I want personally this time from my trip here is a lot different from what I was looking to get when I was nineteen. Then I was mostly interested in getting into as much trouble as I could in a foreign land, now I want to spend my time with my friend Adriana. I want to write, read, and commune with the nature that resides on her spectacular mountain property… I guess I have changed, or is it that I’m just getting old?
I’ve now been on this train for five hours; in around two more I should arrive in Cosenza. It will be about 11:30 P.M. by then. Hopefully J.J. will be waiting to whisk me off to Adriana’s, where I can retreat into a quiet room and fall asleep listening to Italian crickets.
Cosenza
Sunday, August 5th, 2001
Its early afternoon and I’ve just woken up. I’m in a sun filled room at Adriana’s estate. Wafting in through the window is one of my all time favorite aromatherapy treatments, the smell of Italian food cooking. I’m very happy to be here! I arrived in Cosenza last night, much later then scheduled. Poor J.J. had to hang out until 1:00 A.M. in a deserted station for my train to arrive. Luckily, unlike the stressed out New Yorker that I am, J.J., along with most of his fellow countrymen, lives by what I’ve come to refer to as “Italian time” (a, how shall I say- fluid sense of time). Spontaneous schedule changes are to be taken for granted in this Land of “domani,” therefore, my guilt over having him wait for me is somewhat diminished.
Last night, as I emerged from the late, cigarette smoke filled train; I was greeted by the mellifluous sound of “Ciao Bella.” It was J.J, who immediately kissed me on both cheeks and grabbed my bags and told me, in that disarming Italian way, that I hadn’t changed a bit in the three and a half years since he’d last seen me. After exchanging more pleasantries we started out for Adriana’s. As J.J. drove, I looked out of the car window at the southern Italian landscape. There, before me, stood Cosenza just as I’d remembered it; the night sky held the Sila Mountain in its dark embrace, the lights of the houses sparkled on the mountainside, like stars. In broken Italian, I asked J.J. how his life had been in the last years. He sighed deeply and said “many problems” and in broken English, he continued talking. He told me that he, along with most of his friends had gotten divorced within the past few years. I thought to myself “I guess the Catholic Church must be losing a little of its grip.” Even here in Calabria, “the times, they are changing.”
Enzo Fillipelli and Adriana Toman
The last time I was in Cosenza, Enzo Fillipelli was still alive. Enzo, the late ex-husband of Adriana Toman, was the original reason for my coming to this part of Italy. Twelve years ago when I was touring with the Hot Peaches, an Italian agent arranged for our troupe to do a one-night stand in Cosenza. Cosenza, not being known as a cultural or historic hotspot, wasn’t a place that I was too excited to be going to. That all changed when I met Adriana and Enzo.
After arriving in Cosenza and performing our very “east village” show in an ancient piazza, the Hot Peaches were invited to a dinner hosted by the city counsel of Cosenza. As is usual in Italy, the food, the wine, and ambiance were incredible, and our motley crew began to relax after weeks of touring through Europe in a broken down Van. I was busy drinking the local wine, when this gorgeous woman sat down next to me. In English she told me that her name was Adriana Toman, and explained that she was a member of the city counsel. She complimented me on my singing and told me that her boyfriend was a composer and that he’d also been impressed with my voice. She gestured to her boyfriend to come over. She introduced us to each other; saying ” Amy Coleman may I present you to Enzo Fillipelli.” There stood in front of me a dark, thin, elegantly dressed man. Enzo sat down next to Adriana and let her do the talking. She explained that they were looking for a vocalist to record some of Enzo’s songs and would I be interested in listening to some of them? I said “of course” and she handed me a tape. We exchanged telephone numbers and that was the last I thought I’d hear from her. Three weeks later while the Hot Peaches were performing in Capri, Adriana, and Enzo showed up and took me out for dinner. Adriana treated me like royalty; we ate at a lovely restaurant with an exquisite view of the Mediterranean Sea. She asked me if I would come back to Cosenza after my tour was finished, to record and perform with Enzo. She said, “of course we’ll take care of for your flight, your expenses and give you a salary.” That meeting was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
For the next seven or eight years Adriana arranged numerous projects for Enzo and I. These projects included concerts, recording, radio and TV appearances in both Italy and New York. Adriana, Enzo, and I also co wrote a number of songs together. From the beginning, I had a much stronger relationship with Adriana then with Enzo. She was the power behind the operation, the one to make things happen. I had, and have, enormous respect for her ability to get things done. She always wanted the best for both Enzo and I and she often got it. So when Enzo and Adriana divorced, my loyalty was with her. I did come back to Cosenza to perform with Enzo after they split, but it was not the same. Sadly, Enzo died two years ago from some form of leukemia. He was only forty-one years old.
Now in this August of 2001, I’ve returned to Cosenza to do a few gigs with J.J. and his band The Blind Pilots. I originally met J.J. about five years ago when he was in Enzo’s final band. This time, J.J. has brought me across the Atlantic to be part of a very small and very last minute “tour.” Before I came, I knew that when I got to Calabria, there was only one person I wanted to stay with and that was Adriana. Adriana, as usual, was so very gracious and made room for me to stay with her on her amazing property, Foresta Sottana. God do I owe that woman! Foresta Sottana is what they call in Italy an “Azienda agriuristica.” It’s basically a combination Bed and Breakfast, farm, and mountain retreat. Adriana has spent the last ten years busting her ass to make this place happen. She’s begged, borrowed, labored both physically and mentally to bring to fruition what she envisioned for her beloved land. And as is her fashion, she’s done what she set out to do. Her land is nestled in the mountains of Dipignano, a part of Cosenza, where she grows organic vegetables, fruits, and herbs. These items are all served at her restaurant and are cooked by her sister Maria Christina, who is Foresta Sottana’s resident Chef. Also residing on her land are six horses, nine dogs, two ducks, a swan, and many exotic birds. She can sleep ten people in the farmhouses that she has restored to be in keeping with their original architecture. On her property there are all kinds of herbs and fruits growing wild, such as figs, apples, pears, oregano, anise, fennel, blueberries and blackberries. She allows her horses and dogs to roam free; they usually behave themselves, and keep to their own private worlds, although every now and then the horses decide to take a stroll of their own volition. Actually, this occurred about an hour ago. I was taking a little walk, when who should I encounter but Adriana’ horse, Bombaletto, and two of his friends. They stampeded past the front lawn and heading for the main road. Behind the horses was a young man franticly running to catch up to them, to no avail. Eventually after the horses had created a traffic jam by trotting nonchalantly in the middle of the road, they were apprehended. Let me tell you, there is never a dull moment at Foresta Sottana.
Foresta Sottana
Monday, August 6th 2001,
Today J.J. picked me up at Adriana’s and we went to the first band rehearsal. We drove to a small comfortable studio in Cosenza proper. The studio actually contained something that felt like air conditioning, turned down to its very, very, very lowest speed. I must say though, I was still impressed by the brave attempt to boldly go where few Italians dare to go and install an air conditioner, no matter how feebly it functioned. Bravo! Anyway, back to the subject at hand. This time around, my Italian band consists of Carlo Mercuri on sax, Piero Cusato on Keyboards, J.J. on bass, J.J.’s seventeen-year-old son Ricardo on Guitar and Massimo Barone on Drums. The guys sound good; it’s the closest I’ve heard Italians come to playing real Blues since Zucchero (a famous Italian recording artist). I’ve played with three of the guys before; J.J., Carlo and Piero but the surprise was J.J.’s son. The last time I saw him, he was a chubby, awkward kid. Now he’s a handsome young man, and he can play. He’s still rather timid on his instrument, but it’s refreshing to actually have to tell a guitar player to “turn up.” During rehearsal I was still a little beat up from traveling and I couldn’t remember the words to the songs I’d written and performed with Sweet Potata, but otherwise things went well. It’s nice when musicians show us chic singers some respect and these guys did their best to do so, that’s all we can hope for. Tonight I’m staying at the Foresta and just hanging. Adriana has an evening rehearsal for a play she’s opening in tomorrow, so I’ll spend some time alone tonight, writing in this Diary.
Volevo Conoscerti Meglio
Tuesday, August 7th, 2001
I am in the piazza comunale in a small town near Cosenza. I’m sitting on a white plastic seat with many examples of antiquity surrounding me. I’m waiting for the play that Adriana’s starring in, entitled Volevo Conoscerti Melgio, (I wished I’d known you better), to begin. Oh, it’s a lovely cool evening. Mostly families fill this piazza. Mamas, papas children, brothers, sisters, and grandmas, grandpas, all sorts of extended family members have come to spend the evening together, to watch theater in the open-air. Adriana’s boyfriend, Salvatore, has brought his Video Camera, a present from Adriana for his 30th Birthday. He is looking for a good position in which to video the play. At this moment I am feeling surprisingly content; I say “surprisingly” because as a rule, my nature doesn’t gravitate towards contentment. But as the Janis Joplin song says, “get it while you can,” so I’ll try just a little bit harder, to let myself enjoy this feeling for as long as possible. Bells are ringing somewhere within the Piazza, their sound vibrates through the summer air. I believe this means the show’s about to begin. The bambini are excited to be out late and to be treated like adults, they dance and run through the piazza, until their parents yell “vieni qui”(come here). As I wait for the show to begin, I think back on my day. I arose early this morning and took a walk up into the mountain. The sky was a sparkling blue and a cool wind was blowing. I passed one of Adriana’s horses grazing; a hefty brown and white paint horse named Bombaletto, who lifted his head and stared at me as if to say ” this is my turf, go find your own grass”. As I continued on my walk, up from behind trotted Achilles, a sweet faced, floppy eared dog that Adriana refers to as “the boss.” He seemed very proud to show me his territory as he took the lead from me. When we reached a plateau in the mountain, the beauty of the vista almost blinded me. As far as the eye could see, mountains rose up, one after another. The wildness of the landscape tamed only by a smattering of farms and farmhouses dotting the mountainside. The sound of dogs barking, a rooster crowing, birds singing, insects buzzing, the clanging of bells around a sheep’s neck, played together like a symphony. In awe and wonder I fell into a trance, a reverie, and was only awakened from it, by Achilles. He nudged me with his cool nose and said in dog language, “Let’s go back down and eat something”.
Another bell sounds in the Piazza, maybe the show is really about to begin? When in Italy, it’s anybody’s guess when things will begin or end. But one can either surrender to Italian time or be in a constant state of frustration. On this Trip I’m choosing the former. Wish me luck.

Cosenza
Wednesday, August 8th, 2001
Adriana was wonderful in the play last night. Unbelievably, it’s the first time I’ve seen her act in all the years that I’ve known her. Of course, the play was in Italian, so before seeing it, Adriana explained the plot and premise to me so with that, I was basically able to follow it. God, you’d think after twenty odd years of coming to this country and four years of studying the language in college, I’d have a better grasp. Oh well. Anyway, Adriana gave a superbly nuanced performance, and I liked the play, written and directed by Calabrian playwright Viencenzo Ziccarelli. Volevo Conoscerti Meglio is a kind of modern day Italian version of the Dollhouse. It’s impressive and slightly shocking, that Ziccarelli (a sixty-five year old Calabrian male) seems to have some understanding and sympathy for the conundrum that Italian women face in their relationships with Italian men. For me to discuss in detail, the male/female dynamic in this country, would take an eternity, let’s just say that, in general, men in southern Italy are encouraged to live out their lives as infantile kings. It does appear to me, and is also suggested in Ziccarelli’s play, that women here are beginning to get fed up with participating in this symbiotic endgame. Only time, (and probably a lot of it), will tell, if the rash of divorce and the discontentment that’s finally surfacing between men and women in this ancient land will bring about significant changes for the better.
Cosenza
Thursday, August 9th, 2001
Tonight we performed our first concert, and, of course, we started very late. There were problems finding enough electrical current to turn on the stage lights. It was all very dramatic, lots of running around in circle as stagehands tried to figure out what to do. Eventually after a two-hour delay we started to play. It was difficult for me to hear myself or to hear the band on the out door stage, but I was told that the sound was pretty good out in the audience. We had a lively, attentive crowed. Particularly engaged were a group of adolescent boys who loved it when I sang directly to them. They talked to me from the audience, practicing their schoolbook English and correcting my Italian when I tried to introduce songs in their mother tongue. Adriana, her sister Maria Christina, and Salvatore were in the audience and I sang one for Adriana entitled. Something Real. After the show, a representative from the town took the band out for an abundant meal that didn’t start until 12:30 A.M. People here do tend to eat cena (dinner) much later then us Americans, especially in the summer months. Tomorrow (or should I say later today) Adriana, Salvatore and I are taking a trip to Sicily, so I guess I should get some sleep. Buona Notte!
Taormina, Sicily
Friday, August 10th, 2001
Taormina is spectacular! Every time I think I’ve witnessed beauty unparalleled, Italy begs to differ. I literally cried when we first walked through the “Corso Umberto,” the main street in Taormina. Its beauty knocked me off my feet. It was as if I was walking through a living museum exhibition entitled, Glorious Architecture through the Ages. I wish I knew something about history because I’m sure I could appreciate all this, on an even deeper level. The hotel that we are staying at is built on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Its panorama includes a glorious view of the Isola beach, the mountains of Calabria, and miles and miles of blue, blue sea. No wonder I keep coming back this country.
Forest Sottana
Saturday, AUGUST 11TH, 2001
This morning we went to look at an ancient theater, but it was so hot that we could only stay for a few minutes without melting. But the biggest thrill today was seeing the top of Mount Etna; I actually saw its smoke billowing out into the sky. That’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to a real life volcano. How cool is that? Now I’m back at Adriana’s-I’m in complete sensory overload and tomorrow we’re going rafting, which will also be a first for me. When will the fun ever end?
The River Loa
Sunday, August 12th, 2001
Being taught the rules of rafting in Italian is an experience all of itself. Having never been rafting before, it was slightly daunting to try and figure out what the hell was being said to me in a language that, at my most lucid, I only slightly comprehend. Somehow though, the instructor was able to convey the fundamentals, which are as follows,: Take the paddle and row, if the shit hits the fan, hold on tight to the sides of the raft and if you fall in, try not to be swept away by the river’s current. Adriana, Salvatore, their friend Eugenio, and I shared a raft with a very engaging, capable instructor who obviously loves his job. As we moved down the river, he called out commands in Italian “sinistra (left) destra (right), at first I forgot which word meant what, and that caused a few problems. Once or twice as our raft headed straight towards a huge rock, Adriana had to yell to me, “no Amy…the left… a sinistra. He said left, paddle to the left.” There were also a few exhilarating “white water moments,” filled with the drama of almost capsizing, but righting our raft at the very last moment. All through the afternoon I watched as the sun danced upon the river, and when we stopped to swim, I plunged my body into the swift current of its crystal clear water and basked there in childish delight. Before heading back we found a place on the riverside that had a wide expanse of unencumbered land and stopped there to gorge ourselves on Prosciutto, formaggio, pane and of course vino. All and all it was another glorious day spent in the Calabrian countryside.

The Festival of the Pasta
Monday, August 13th, 2001
Tonight Adriana took me to the Festival of the pasta. Did you know that in this country there are festivals for all types’ pasta’s, as well as for other foods, such as, Meatballs and Zucchini? Well there are. Adriana informed me that this particular festival was honoring Cannaruzzieddu, a short type of pasta that has a hole in the middle. Along with sampling the honored food product and drinking glasses of local vino, we were entertained by an excellent band .The bandleader; Enzo Rufello sang with gusto and played a mean accordion. His material consisted of traditional Calabrian folks songs, which included all types of Tarantellas. The last one he played entitled the Farchioria has a rather interesting history. Adriana tells me that it used to be played in the old days during orgiastic rituals in which farm workers would have sex with their bosses, goats, and sheep. They would do this in front of one of his male sheep who had been put there to symbolize the boss himself. Having sex with the female animals was the workers way of showing the boss who was really the boss. Well, as John Lennon said, “what ever gets you through the night”…
Horseback riding
Tuesday, August 14th, 2001
This evening I went for a horse back ride. At first I was given a sleek Arabian Stallion, what a beauty he was. But after nearly being thrown a number of times, it became apparent that he was a little too much horse for me, so I settled for a comparatively gentle Mare. Aldo, a rugged Calabrian cowboy, was my guide. He is a neighbor of Adriana’s and is training Iron, Adriana’s two-year-old stallion to be a competitive show horse. We set out for a two-hour ride, stopping momentarily to gaze, as the sun began its languid descent behind the mountains. We galloped up rocky terrain, through thick foliage and onto long stretches of open field. My horse, although fairly even tempered, would, at times take off without warning and with abandon, leaving me breathless but thrilled that I had managed to stay in the saddle. As we neared the end of our journey we began a descent down a steep hill laden with boulders and tree stumps. Although feeling slightly uneasy as my horse and I maneuvered down the precipitous incline, all seemed to be going well, until suddenly I found my self, tumbling, seemingly for an eternity, over the top of my horses head. As I crashed to the earth, my horse thankfully, choose not to crush my skull but rather to wait patiently for me to pick myself off the ground, enjoying, I’m sure, my utter humiliation. Aldo helped me back on to my horse and asked if I thought I’d broken anything? At least I think that’s what he was asking, not being sure what the Italian word for “broken” is. Given the circumstances’ I assumed that that’s what he probably wanted to know, so I answered “no. I think I’m O.K.” then in an attempt to regain a bit of my dignity I grabbed my horses reigns and” fearlessly” cantered back to the stables… I think I’ll sleep well tonight and I know I’ll be sore tomorrow.

The ascension of the Madonna
Wednesday, August 15th, 2001
Today there is a much, much, much activity going on at Foresta Sottana. August 15th is a major holiday in Italy, second only to Christmas and Easter. This is the day when the Madonna ascended into the heavens, or so they say. It’s also traditionally a time for families to spend a day together outdoors, taking advantage of the waning summer days. Adriana’s restaurant is completely overbooked and she’s had to hire extra help. They are frantically running around with steaming bowls of pasta, baskets of bread, trays of antipasti, bottles of wine and a myriad of other delectable goodies. Children scamper about playing with the dogs, adults gather at tables ready to settle down to a long relaxing afternoon meal. It is another beautiful day here in Dipiginano, not too hot, not too cold, but just right. Adriana and her sister are on full alert. They both run in and out of the kitchen, up and down stairs, check on tables to see that everyone has everything they need, somehow maintaining a gracious demeanor through it all. I’m sitting under a shady tree hanging out with a dog or two, watching the entire goings on from a safe distance and wondering when I’ll get to eat.
Foresta Sottana
Thursday, August 16th, 2001
I’m sitting on the front porch at Foresta Sottana with Achilles who has been very sick. Adraina’s mother has been giving him a special diet of Risotto and lean meat but so far he has barely touched it. His usually inquisitive and playful nature has been subdued by sickness, although, at the moment he seems to have perked up a little. I believe that is because the universal forces have at this very moment sent a comforting breeze with special orders to blow aside all Achilles trouble and pain, right, my sweet little doggy? What a trip this has been. I was brought here ostensibly to sing, and I’ve done only a little of that. My time though has been exceptionally well spent. I’ve had three whole weeks to devour the spellbinding beauty of this country, what more can a girl ask for, for god sake? Adriana has been an angel sent from heaven. She has opened up her heart, her home and made time for me in her incredibly busy schedule. Friends like her don’t grow on trees. All I can do in the hope of repaying her kindness and generosity is to convince her to come to New York, so I can try to be half as good to her on my turf as she has been to me on hers. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, that I will miss and long for this extraordinary and unknowable country, as I have so many times before. It disappoints me so that I can’t take what I cherish most about Italy and wrap it up and bring it home with me. I mean, shit they can send a man to the moon you’d think they’d be able to come up with a way to bottle the essence of Italy- hey not a bad name for a perfume. Anyway, I guess I’ll have to make do with a few bottles of olive oil and vino that I’ll stow in my carry on and pray that they don’t break on the plane flight home.

Forestta Sottana
August 17th, 2001
“Everyday I have the blues-I’m gonna pack my bags and move on down the line ain’t nobody worryin’ about me-ain’t nobody cryin”
With a few days left before I depart, I can feel myself detaching from the place that I’ve called home for these past few weeks. I’ve already started making lists of the things I have to do and the people I have to call when I get home and, oh yes, the familiar anxieties of my New York existence have begun their descent upon me. It’s amazing how quickly the body and mind ready themselves for their return to the battlefield called everyday life. Of course I miss my husband, my cat, my friends and Filenes basement, but if I could just keep a little of the peace of mind that I’ve felt during my stay here, I’d be a satisfied woman. Well, that’s probably not true-but you see the point that I’m trying to make. The good new is, I can leave here resting in the knowledge that Achilles is on the mend. This morning, Adriana’s mother fixed him a special bowl of pasta and he ate every bit of it. He even took me for a walk to my favorite place on the mountain, which is something he hasn’t been up for, in days. Hallelujah, The Capo de tutti Capi of the dogs is back. Bark, Bark!
Foresta Sottana
August 18th, 2001
I’ve just returned from my last gig in Italy for this go ’round. I performed at the outdoor Festivale Della Cultura Di Montagna, in the village of Potame. The band sounded real good and the service that supplied the lights and sound was “on it like a bonnet” as my friend Lori says. They even came equipped with a smoke machine. I must admit the contraption choked me a few times with its abundant vaporous out pouring, but it was the thought that counted and I’m sure it looked fabulous. It was rather cold as we played on a stage, set in the center of a huge soccer field. Potame is pretty high up in the mountains, others complained about the cold, but I enjoyed the bracing air and was entranced by the black night sky that was adorned with so many stars. After the performance I said good bye to the musicians and gave them all a Flame On baseball cap, which they immediately put on. The guys asked me to join them for dinner, but I just wanted to get back to Adriana’s so I could meditate on the long journey that lay before me.
As we started back to Foresta Sottana, Salvatore soared down the narrow winding mountain roads, taking the many sharp curves in his stride. We slowed down to watch a family of little foxes make their way across the road. Adriana saw a porcupine and asked Salvador to stop so she could show the creature to me but he was already gone. We stopped again to drink from an ancient water fountain that seemed to be built directly out of the mountain side. In the magic of the August night, I wanted always to stay enfolded in the Calabrian countryside, never to return to the world of concrete and skyscrapers. As we approached Adriana’s driveway all nine of her dogs rushed up to greet us.In a wild atonal chorus they welcomed us home.
Rome
August 19th, 2001
Guess what? I’m back at the Silver sparkled boy’s abode. Gaby’s apartment is being rented out for the month so we are both crashing here. The train ride from Cosenza to Roma was surprisingly fast. It only took about five hours, thank god. The train was completely packed, filled with cigarette smoke, unbearably hot, and every time I was about to fall asleep somebody’s cell phone rang. I heard a lot of food products mentioned along with words like cena, pronzo and mama, so I figured most of the adult passengers were getting calls from their mothers asking them if they’d eaten.
When my train arrived at Roma termini I immediately took a taxi to meet Gaby. The cab Driver charged me double because, he said it was Sunday. What ever the hell that was supposed to mean? But I was too tired to try and argue in a foreign language, so I let him scam me.
Earlier tonight, Gaby, I, and two of her expatriate friends, spent a relatively quiet evening together. We had dinner at a lovely restaurant in the center of the city. We discussed all the usual fare. We talked about the pros and cons of being an American living in Rome; we talked about the glorious history of Rome and its magnificent architecture, etc. Then we transported ourselves by motorino to the silver sparkled boys’ home. Upon arrival I headed directly for a lovely 1930’s divan, where at the present moment I continue to happily languish. Gaby and the silver sparkled boy are in his room talking about theater and men, their voices like a frenetic lullaby rock me towards slumber.
Fumicino airport, Rome
August 20th, 2001
Well this is it; I’m on my way home. I’ve downed my mood stabilizers, I’ve spent my last lira on bottles of olive oil, I’ve prayed to every one and everything to keep my plane in the air. Now I just want to take a few more minutes to bask in the luxurious sound of the Italian language. Because, sadly, once I’m on that Lufthansa flight I will be serenaded by the much less lilting tones of German and English. Oh god, they’ve started boarding my plane, so I guess I must depart from this achingly beautiful complex country. I hope to be lured back soon to this extraordinary Mediterranean land. That is, assuming I’ll make home without the plane crashing, arrivaderci.