When the Iron Curtain fell in the late 1980s, Italy was seized with excitement about the rediscovery of “Mitteleuropa.” Mitteleuropa is the part of central Europe that once formed the backbone of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It enjoyed short-lived post-World War I autonomy before falling under Soviet control. After 1989, Czechs, Hungarians, Poles, Romanians, Slovenians and northern Italians awoke to lost ties and a shared cultural … Continue reading Into Mediterranea

I started out with other ideas for this column. One was how aimless my days have become since the death of my dog, whose routine structured my life. Another was that the arrival of spring means no more hats and gloves, two under-appreciated fashion accessories I love. Instead, my brain was hijacked by a letter I intend to write to the IRS after its call … Continue reading The FATCA Follies

I’ve become obsessed with World War I. I can’t seem to escape it. I have written about it before. I’m now reading Ernest Hemingway’s “A Farewell to Arms” and watching Indy Neidell’s wonderful “Great War” You Tube Channel. There is also the 1964 BBC documentary narrated by Michael Redgrave, when veterans were still alive to remember. But when names and places associated with Italy began … Continue reading The Home Front

In recalling his long friendship with Gore Vidal, novelist and author Michael Mewshaw provides all the guilty pleasures of a Vanity Fair article plus one other: greater length. Mewshaw’s book is a 195-page portrait of the American author, unrequited politician and ageless enfant terrible whose heroic output of mostly historical novels (including “Burr” and “Lincoln”), essays, screenplays and plays was overshadowed by appetites for drink, sex and … Continue reading Sympathy for the Devil: Four Decades of Friendship with Gore Vidal

Mrs. Towle made the best chocolate chip cookies (with black walnuts). She said the secret of good cooking was to use butter even when the recipe called for shortening and to substitute cream for milk. Mrs. Ball had a hat made entirely of peacock feathers. Every year she created her own Christmas card with a delightful drawing and a pun. Alice always wore pearls; Elizabeth … Continue reading Chocolate Chip

Three decades ago I was the college girl who craved the sort of male attention that went with the idea of being more grown up, the kind of attention often linked to the bad outcomes now inevitably labeled as rape or sexual assault. One such encounter, though it occurred in the Dark Ages of my late 1970s college years, probably did qualify as an assault. … Continue reading Thoughts on Rape

Like so many stories, this one begins with a trunk. For years the trunk sat with several others in a dark corner of the former billiard room over my family’s garage, where it had been shoved in 1965 after my grandfather’s death. Occasionally we children interrupted our ping-pong games and tried opening them. But the clouds of dust and locks that had foiled foreign thieves … Continue reading The Trunk

I have always sympathized with the French fuss over “La Rentrée,” that moment when the country returns to the city and school and work life is revived after the communal August vacation. For me, still a student at heart, the smell of new school supplies and Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September” say “It begins again” better than champagne bubbles. Though Italy runs off for its … Continue reading La Rentrée

When I moved to Italy in the late 1980s, the differences between my new home and America were many and often distinct. In general, “Italian” meant slow, entrenched, anti-competitive and protectionist while “American” meant fast, flexible and vigorous. America was the home of a culture built from innovation and competition. But things have changed. These days, Italy is often more American than America. Starting with … Continue reading Dead-End Clichés

By all accounts, my grandfather was a terrifying man. When my father and his siblings squabbled in the back seat of the car, he would — without stopping the car — turn around and slap each of the five children. “I don’t care who started it,” he’d say. “You’re all brats.” My father’s touch was milder. When my brother and I scrapped, he’d send both … Continue reading No Dinner in Gaza