Eat Pray Love: Take Two

Count me among the over six million people to buy Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love. And count me among the many who didn’t finish the  New York Times bestseller. My gold Oleg Cassini bookmark is right where I left it three years ago. On page 72.

It would seem that I, of all people, would be able to relate to Liz’s story for I too had moved to Italy on a quest. But unlike Liz, who embarked on a “search for everything” after her marriage failed, I went to eat, drink and pray for love. And she, unlike me, had a finite number of days she wanted to spend in the boot-shaped country before moving on to more serene pastures in India and Bali. I went in 2003 with the notion that I’d never leave Italy, which I ended up calling home for just two years due to the weak dollar and failure to find a Count worth marrying. Still, I was eager to read about her soul-searching journey and saved the book until a three-week sojourn to China in spring 2007. During a brief solo stay at the desolate Red Capital Ranch, where I hiked alone along a crumbling and non-restored Great Wall, I struggled to get into the book. Although I dog-eared some pages and put stars next to passages that resonated with me, it wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as I had hoped. Finally I gave up.

I thought it was just me who couldn’t get through the book but over the past few years oodles of people, mostly writers, have confessed that they didn’t finish it either. Just before the theater lights dimmed at last night’s screening, a colleague seated nearby told me that neither she nor her boss cared for the book either. (I’m sure Liz doesn’t care any more than, say John Grisham or Dan Brown, two commendable storytellers whose prose don’t match up to their book sales.) My failure to connect with Liz’s words didn’t stop me from wanting to see Julia Roberts, whom I adore, portray the author on the big screen for in the end it is the subject that fascinates me most.

Rarely is a movie better than the book on which it was based but even those who couldn’t stomach reading Eat Pray Love should enjoy the flick. I know I did. With my recent month-long stay in Tropea and few days in Rome still fresh in my mind, I salivated at the Italian scenes. The days of dolce far niente (the sweetness of doing nothing) and outings with female ex-pats and local men were reminiscent of my time in Firenze and Positano when lengthy dinners like the one in the photo above taken in Positano were common. Brava to Julia for nailing the Italian accent and the filmmakers for capturing the essence of my adopted country. (Although I’ve never seen such chaos in trying to order a cup of coffee anywhere in Italy.) Most of the dialogue isn’t memorable and another round of editing is needed. But the acting, characters, colors and cinematography captured my attention — and made me want to book a flight abroad.

Outside of my visits to several spas, I didn’t fall in love with Bali when I visited in 2000 but maybe that’s because I didn’t meet anyone as sexy as Javier Bardem.

I’m willing to give Indonesia another try. And despite having a visa for India in my passport, I never took the trip. I’m sure I’ll get there. Some day.

And maybe one day I’ll finish reading Eat Pray Love. I promised myself I would and now that I’ve seen the movie, I’m more inclined to do so. It says something that I moved the book from my Upper East Side apartment to Harlem then to L.A. If I didn’t want it, I would have tossed it when packing my belongings for each move. When I opened the book last night after returning from the screening I found the Oleg bookmark with the words, “To be well dressed is a little like being in love.”

Two people who can attest to that are Liz Gilbert and Felipe.

Attraversiamo.

Next time I’ll ignore the little man

I’m minding my business, wearing a pink Betty Boop tank top, Levis jean mini-skirt and Target flip-flops, waiting for my take-out lunch at Viva Fresh, anxious for my first Mexican food and Bud Light Lime in several weeks due to my travels to Italy, France and Monaco. A short white man, 60ish I suppose, approaches me and says, “You’re so tall and I’m so short. How tall are you, 6-foot-2?”

“No, 6-foot-1.”

I stare down on his pink scalp and make the mistake of asking him how tall he is as I try to pass the time while waiting for my food and the U.S. World Cup team to score against Ghana.

“5-foot-4,” he says, obviously pleased that I didn’t tell him to go f&^* himself.  “I used to be 5-foot-7 but you shrink as you get older.”

“So I guess I’ll end up 5-foot-10 at some point,” I say with a laugh.

Then he tells me that he dates a sister and that she’s out of town. I remind him of her, he says.

“Oh, is she 6-foot-1?” I ask.

“No, but she’s a sista,” he says.

As if I hadn’t heard him the first time. Now it was time to ignore him and turn away, as I should have done in the first place.

I’m sure the Black girlfriend does not exist. It was the little man’s way of letting me know he’s available and open to Black women should I decide to step down to his level.  Or am I just jumping to conclusions?

How I (Never) Met Your Mother

I know some of you envy me for being able to enjoy a six-week holiday in Europe but at times it was torture. It’s like finding the ideal mate and knowing you only have a limited amount of time together. When I told friends I was going to Italy for a month, they wondered if I’d return. Well, sadly I did. I’m back in L.A., though more determined than ever to find a way to become an ex-pat once again.

Walking down cobblestone streets in Rome’s Trastevere section or through Tropea’s narrow streets and gazing at the bluish/green sea while lounging on the beach in Tropea stirred my desire to once again become a resident of the boot-shaped country. Not that the yearning ever left me after returning in 2005. I’m so fond of Italy’s small towns that I envision myself teaching English in a medieval village while continuing to write. I even brought up the topic with a couple of residents of Tropea, where I was welcomed like a local but don’t think is the place for me, and was encouraged by their responses. I realize money is tight in small southern towns like Tropea so while parents may wish for their children speak English, being able to hire someone to teach them is another matter.

Spending my last night in Italy with five ex-pats and one hopeful at a charming enoteca near the Colosseo, or Colosseum, was the ideal way to end my sojourn. Perhaps through osmosis, the will, courage and spirit of these fantastic women (as well as my other ex-pats friends like Layne and Elizabeth, who couldn’t make the girls’ night out, ex-pat gathering) will inspire me to get my butt in gear. The euro is a bit kinder to the dollar than in 2005 when I was forced to pack my bags after 26 months in Italy. However, one still takes quite a beating earning in U.S. dollars and spending in euro, which is why I need to focus on making euros. A report released by Manpower Inc. the other day listed Italy among four countries with a negative employment outlook. (Greece, Ireland and Spain are the others.) But I can’t let depressing statistics, or reality, deter me. Layne, whom I met when we both lived in Florence in 2003, recently landed a job as an international attorney at Fendi. So there!

Plus, the women I hung out with Tuesday night, some new acquaintances and others old friends, are positive examples of how ex-pats can make it work even if they don’t have a major fashion house signing their paycheck. I had invited the other ex-pat hopeful Lynne, whom I had met the previous night through Layne. Over bottles of Nero d’Avola, the ex-pats told me they would help me in any way they could should I decide to return. As the group dispersed (not me because I was staying for more vino and a real meal since I hadn’t eaten yet), we met a woman from Chicago and her Italian husband. This couple was a hoot and what fun I had chatting with the two of them. But it wasn’t just the laughs we shared but the seriousness of our conversation as well.

The husband told me and Lynne, who had stayed on to keep me company, how he encouraged his Caucasian wife to introduce herself to us when he saw our group, which consisted of six women of color and one Caucasian, because he had never laid eyes on a collection of beautiful, sophisticated black women in Italy.

Sadly, too often the image of women of color in Italy is of us as a puntana, or prostitute, in Naples. We offer nothing except sex. And it’s constantly reinforced. On Layne’s seven-hour bus ride from Tropea to Rome, she was appalled by a movie about a Senegalese family that moves to Italy. The African wife/mother begins an affair with a married Italian man. She’s shown nude, moaning and screaming during their multiple sexcapades. And this was shown on an early morning bus ride with about 15 senior citizens, who were riveted. When the Italian wife learns of the affair, her family tells that for African women, “sex is like water. They need it to live.”

It’s these kinds of stereotypes that the women I hung with last night are able to break down. And it’s not just in Italy. Four years ago I traveled solo through Croatia and met a local on the island of Hvar who told me how much my presence in his country was doing to educate Croatians about Black people for I showed that we can be intelligent, classy and professional. That country has such a bad reputation when it comes to racism that an editor of a black travel magazine wouldn’t give me an assignment about Croatia because he was reluctant to promote such a place. It turned out to be one of my best vacations.

But back to Italy and my oh-so-fab group of ex-pats that I want to join. There’s Bunmi, who is from the UK, married to a New Zealander and is the mother of two. Courtney, who is married to an Italian and approaching her second anniversary. Charmaine was divorced from an Italian when I met her several years ago but she wed another Italian about a year ago. I didn’t have a chance to ask Arlene, who moved to Italy in 2008, about her relationship status. Nancy, the lone Caucasian, dates John, an American sportswriter in Denver whom I have known since my days covering sports. Nancy and John had moved to Italy together and left due to finances shortly before I arrived in April 2003. Now she’s back and hoping John returns as planned. When living abroad is in your blood, it doesn’t leave. And there’s Lynne, who like me would like to live in Italy and is traveling solo on holiday. I wanted her to meet these women so invited her. Lynne, also like me, never can get a date and can’t figure out why.

That brings me to Paolo. Some of you have wondered what became of the Italian who fell madly in love with me on first sight and on our first date invited me to his house to meet his mother and called her on the mobile so I could speak to her. No, I didn’t meet mama but she did call me on my final night in Tropea to tell me what a pity it was that we didn’t get together and that she hopes that the next time I come to Italy that we meet. I told her that I was sorry that it didn’t happen either, even though I wanted very much to meet her.

Layne and I scream with laughter trying to figure out what happened with what looked like a promising start to something, although I wasn’t quite sure what. But something more than what I ever have going on in the States. Maybe it was my lead pencils, my vacation hair, my strong deodorant or writing “ciao amore” that put the brakes on Paolo’s fast-moving train.

Let me explain in detail:

CIAO AMORE
As you may recall Paolo, a single attorney with no kids and who I found out is 46, lives 120 kilometers from Tropea and came for a weekend to hang out with his brother and another friend, both of whom live in Rome. That’s when we met. Thanks to a mid-week holiday in Italy, Paolo returned to visit me a couple of days later.

Before he left his city he asked if he could stay overnight with me since it was a long drive back. I told him of course, but he had to sleep in the extra bedroom. He scoffed at this so I relented and told him he can sleep with me in my room but we are NOT having sex.  Once he arrived, my self-control didn’t stop me from wearing a revealing baby-doll nightie with a thong to bed because hey, a girl’s gotta feel sexy even if she has no plans to give it up on the second date. Being that he’s a man, and Italian at that, of course he brought up sex when we were in bed. (We always spoke in Italian but I’ll write in English.)

“I don’t know you well enough,” I said as to my reason why he wasn’t getting any.

“How long do I have to wait?” he replied.

“How long do you usually wait?” I asked, knowing that he had dumped his girlfriend of 10 years just three weeks prior.

No answer.

Anyway, the sex, or lack thereof, didn’t turn into an issue during his two-night stay. At least not then. Interestingly enough he brought it up after returning to his city. At his request, I emailed him photos of us and began the email “Ciao amore,” or “hello love.” He wrote me back and asked “how could I write ciao amore when nothing happened.”  For Christ’s sake! I say “ciao amore” to cute Italian babies on the street who I don’t know. Was it really that big of a deal?

And we had gotten along swimmingly during the two days together. I was thrilled to discover how health conscious he is: he works out at a gym three times a week and jogs — and I’ve taken up running because of him; we both drink soy milk and abhor cigarettes. And he’s clean. When he returned from our morning run, he washed his workout clothes in the sink and hung them out to dry. This was huge because I consider him a mammone, an Italian mama’s boy who lives at home and relies on his mother to do everything for him. He does live at home but he explained that it’s in a palazzo with five apartments on the bottom.  I can overlook this as it is not completely atypical in Italy. Plus he’s affectionate and thoughtful. We cuddled on the beach and when my iPod froze, he offered me half of his earphones so we could listen to his music while soaking up the rays.

We took in sunset from my terrace while drinking Martini Bianco, my favorite apertivo, he cooked dinner for me both nights, and when we walked Lucia at night we stopped for after dinner drinks.

In just two days my Italian improved exponentially because I took my dictionary and notepad everywhere, looked up words he used and jotted them down so I could remember them. I also looked up the word “rebound” and showed it to him as I figured he was on the rebound, which he denied since he was the one who called off the 10-year romance. During his visit, he called home to check in with his family and tell them how he cooked dinner for me. They were shocked because he NEVER cooks.

I talked to Paolo’s brother Dino (for the second time) as well as Dino’s girlfriend Gabriella. Everyone had seen my photos on my website and agreed that I was bella. Lucia was a little cautious of Paolo at first but she became his little buddy, curling up at his feet when he watched TV and staring at him as he shaved. We don’t get many men spending the night so this was an unusual activity for her.

LEAD PENCILS
When Paolo returned home, he told me his mother continued to ask when to expect me for dinner. I never received a formal invite and couldn’t take the train three hours and show up on my own. After he returned home, Paolo also repeatedly complained about the stress he was under at work and home but provided no details. While Skyping one day, he asked if I noticed how he didn’t sleep during his two-night stay with me. Sure I had, but I figured it was because of me.

My bed, which I had slept like a baby in until his arrival, squeaked with him in it. Every time he moved, it creaked. And he moved constantly because he hasn’t slept in a while. He periodically dozed off and when he did, he snored something fierce, which awakened me and pissed me off. So for two days I barely slept at night. (Earplugs don’t stay in my ears so are not an option.) Thankfully I slept fine on the beach and my ability to fall asleep anywhere on a moment’s notice became a running joke between us.

Because my bed, like most in Italy, was only a double, we slept VERY close. Okay, he wrapped his arms around me and our legs intertwined, if you need details. By the second night, he told me my legs were heavy. I pulled them away but stayed in his arms because when I rolled out of his grasp before, he asked if it was uncomfortable being in his arms. No, I like being in a headlock. No problem. Deal with my legs. Heavy, I thought to myself. My tooth pick legs? How can they be heavy? Now Layne and I jokingly call my legs the lead pencils.

STRONG DEODORANT
During another point in the middle of the night Paolo told me my perfume was strong. I was 99% asleep and therefore very proud of myself when, without thinking I need to speak in Italian, I replied, “Non ho usato perfuma.” (I didn’t use perfume.) He then made a comment about my deodorant being strong. Yeah, I wear Secret, which is strong enough for a man but made for a woman. But it’s powder-fresh scented. Strong as it may be, my underarms still smell fresh. Dude, be glad I don’t come to bed smelling like a goat.

VACATION HAIR
When Paolo initially called his mother to tell her about me, he told her that I am as tall as him and have curly hair. When he later checked out my website, he saw photos of me with longer, straight hair. He commented about the different hairstyle and said “piu bella,” telling me that I am more beautiful with long, straight hair. I replied that I agree but it’s shorter and curly now because this is my “vacation hair.” And I left it at that. I didn’t feel like explaining/couldn’t explain in Italian that I’m wearing a weave during this trip because I can’t deal with my natural hair while traveling for six weeks. I’d have to explain what happens to my natural hair when it gets wet, how I didn’t want to wear it in its natural state for six weeks because maintaining the spiral curls requires lugging around a lot of products,  define a hot comb and pressing, tell him about my aversion to creamy crack relaxers, convince him that I really do have thick, shoulder-length hair like my website shows but it is braided for now and I have some Indian chick’s hair attached to the braids. This is complicated enough to explain to a non-Black person in English, let alone an Italian in Italian.

Paolo sometimes caressed my hair and I’m sure he had to feel the tracks. But he never said anything so I adhered to the military’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Most black women who wear weaves impersonate a boxer by ducking and dodging when a man reaches for their hair. But not me. Go ahead, cowboy. Touch my weave. It’s not coming out and your hands aren’t going to get caught in the tracks. I am most positive Paolo never felt tracks before so he had no idea what he was feeling. Maybe he thought I had growths on my scalp and couldn’t bear to fall deeper in love with me and then lose me to some outlandish skin condition.

So it could have been the vacation hair, strong deodorant, lead pencils or “ciao amore” that kept me from meeting mama and prevented him from returning to visit me on the weekends, when I know he was free because we talked all the time. Maybe Paolo, whose is not without faults but is workable as no one is perfect, didn’t see the point of getting wrapped up in somebody who would soon depart (especially after breaking up with someone after 10 years) and doesn’t live in the moment enough like me to enjoy hanging out only for a few weeks. Although we stayed in contact daily through Skype and SMS while I was in Tropea, I was thrown for a loop when his mother got on Skype my final day.

So although I didn’t meet the mama, I return with fantastic memories of new experiences and having fallen in love – all over again with Italy. Baci!

Is it time to meet his mama?

Just as Layne and I were complaining vehemently about Tropea men not knowing how to properly treat women, we go out Saturday night and meet due fratelli (two brothers) who show us a good time and can teach these men around here a thing or two.
 
We met them at a restaurant when Paolo fell innamorato (in love) with me at first sight. Seriously. He couldn’t take his eyes off of me the entire time. Eventually his group, which included his fun brother Giampiero and a quieter friend, Carlo, joined me and Layne at our table. I followed as much of the conversation in Italian as I could and had Layne translate every so often. Giampiero wanted to practice his English but I said no. I need to practice my Italian more so let me tough it out. We drank wine and grappa and danced (my friends know that I do NOT dance so this was huge), at one point joining arms and jumping up and down in a circle. If only I had a photo of that!

And we cheered on Paolo when he took the mic to sing.

When I went to the toilet, Paolo told Layne that he was in love with me. It was quite apparent.

 Then we hit another spot for more wine and conversation. I learned to make sure I enunciate well after accidentally dropping the “d” when I said ho ordinato (I ordered) and it came out ho orinato, which means “I peed,” and caused both Giampiero and Paolo to quickly correct me in unison. I remembered years ago when I started studying Italian and I made a similar mistake in school when I tried to say to the class that every afternoon I take un pisolino (a nap) but instead I said every afternoon I take a little penis. I thought about sharing this with the guys but decided against it. Finally around 3:30 a .m., the trio walked Layne and I to our door. We made plans to get together the next morning.

The boys, who conveniently were staying at a bed and breakfast right across the street, were to come to our place to cook lunch before they returned to their respective cities. Giampiero, who boasted of his cooking skills, said he would buy the food and we didn’t have to worry about anything. Sounded easy enough. But nothing is ever easy in Italia.

Paolo showed up alone at the appointed time. I was still getting dressed and Layne said something about him going to get the other two and then we were going out for lunch, which was fine with us. Then all three return with a Nespresso machine in a box that had never been opened and we had espresso. Giampiero opened the kitchen cabinets to check out the cookware and deemed the pots and pans adequate enough for him to make us a meal. The next thing I know, we’re all leaving.  Layne and I weren’t really sure where we were going. Wasn’t somebody supposed to be cooking for us? Even Lucy was confused. She was in the kitchen with the five of us, hoping some food would drop on the floor. But there was nothing but espresso. The trio talked about getting tartufo (truffle) pizza and we said yes, great! There was more confusion on the street. Layne and I thought we were walking to a pizzeria in Tropea but then there was talk about whether I would fit in Paolo’s car. (My height was a never-ending joke which got on my nerves but I kept smiling.) Okay, this meant we were driving somewhere. Somehow the five of us crammed into the Audi and off we went. Where to? I didn’t have the slightest idea.

Our first stop was at a fruit and vegetable stand a few blocks away and only Giampiero exited the car. Huh? I’m thinking we could have walked here. I wondered if Layne was as clueless as me. After all, her Italian is great and I’m figuring she picked up on something that I didn’t so I was fine to go along for the ride. Paolo, who drove, and me, who rode shotgun, munched on delicious dried tomatoes and bananas that Giampiero bought, still not knowing where we were going. I just knew I needed food because I had skipped breakfast in order to get my beauty sleep. Giampiero, a true Alpha male with an engaging personality, was soooo much fun that it didn’t matter where we went. As long as we ate at some point. I was getting to know Paolo with my bad Italian and Giampiero entertained Layne, whose language skills I envy. Paolo learned English when he was in school but hasn’t spoken it in a long time. Giampiero is studying English again and loves practicing. For me, it’s frustrating having to concentrate so hard to speak. (Yeah, I guess I could go to school here and I MIGHT next week but I’m on vacanze!) I tuned out the conversation when Jay-Z’s and Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind came on in the car.

By the time we ended up in a crumbling yet charming town called Pizzo about 30 minutes away Layne was nauseous from sitting in the back seat scrunched between two grown men with little air. Windy roads, espresso on an empty stomach and a backseat apparently don’t work well for her. But once we got out of the car, her head cleared and she asked me what’s going on. Neither of us knew but we figured we would have lunch. She said she told the guys to leave us at the piazza after lunch (really so we could continue to drink wine without them knowing how much we drink) and take Carlo, who had an early flight, to the airport, then to come back and get us. And that way there would be more room in the car. But Paolo couldn’t bear to leave me. (Can you blame him???) Giampiero had made phone calls but we were still basically clueless as to the plan.

We climbed stairs, walked past apartments with laundry hanging from windows and flower boxes overflowing with colorful fiori before ending up in a piazza with a lookout point over a beautiful body of water.

A cousin came to the piazza and Paolo, introduced me as his fidanzata (girlfriend).  Layne and I assumed there was still tartufo pizza somewhere in the plans but we sat down at a gelateria, where I ate tartufo gelato, which was quite good.

Now we understood. The cousin was there to take Carlo to the airport. That left the four of us, who trudged back to Paolo’s car and discussed what we were going to do. I’m thinking finally we’re going to have the tartufo pizza they’ve been talking about. But no. Instead we feast on a delicious seafood meal and drink wine on the terrace of a restaurant overlooking blue and green waters.

 
I had filled up on the big bowl of ice cream and the banana so for once in my life I wasn’t that hungry. I even begged off pasta after eating two seafood dishes first. And after I warned Paolo that I eat A LOT. (I think he was scared but better to prepare him first than shock him later.)

During lunch Paolo asked if I’d like to come home and meet his mama and of course me, playing along, replied si. (Mothers always love me. It’s the sons who don’t for some odd reason.) He called his mama from his mobile and told her about me, that I’m as tall as he is and have curly hair. That’s as much as I picked up though I’m sure he must have used the word bella. Suddenly he handed me the phone for me to talk to my soon-to-be mother-in-law. I quickly corrected myself when I spoke to her, going from the informal to the formal. I told her she has raised two fine sons, which she appreciated. She giggled like a schoolgirl (I think she was a teacher) as we try to communicated and then she passed the phone to her youngest son, Dino, whom I chatted with for a moment before I gave the phone back to Paolo. Now la famiglia knows about me – the father died last October – and by now I’m sweating from the sun beating down on us and my nervousness. We move out of the sun but still enjoy the view.

As it turned out, I didn’t go home with Paolo, an attorney with no kids or a girlfriend, to meet his mother Sunday night. He drove back to Tropea, dropped me and Layne off, then took his brother Giampiero, who lives in Rome, to the airport.

By the next day, it seemed like every man in Tropea knew we hung out with other men. One of Layne’s more athletic admirers was quite hurt and questioned Layne as to why she would rather go out with a big guy than him while another seemed relieved to hear that it was Paolo who was innamorato with me. (Both Layne and I absolutely adore Giampiero, who too bad for Layne is married because they both live in Rome, and we would take him and his extra pounds over a chiseled sex-starved jerk any day. For the record, Giampiero was a perfect gentleman.)

Meanwhile, Paolo, also a perfect gentleman who lives 120 kilometers away from Tropea, said his mother asked how come I didn’t come for dinner and when will she meet me. We chatted on Skype and I told him I had just talked to my brother. He wanted to know if I had told Kevin about him yet. Well, not just yet, I said. Will I go home with him and meet la mama? We’ll see. If I do, I have to make sure I know the word “nap” from “little penis” and “order” from “pee.”

Eat, Drink, Pray for Love

While Layne went off with Corrado, an Italian hottie who says “Call me Coco,” I was left on the beach with a toothless Moroccan who peddles towels (I bought one from him yesterday) asking me how much I’m paying for my apartment for the month and if I’m married. I told him he was maleducato (rude) and my marital status is non importante.

We’re into Day 5 in Tropea, in the southern part of Italy, and it’s official: the entire town of 7,000 knows we’re here and knows our every move. After all, it’s not every day that a 6-foot-1 African-American with an eight-pound Chihuahua and blonde Swedish-American vacation here together.

It is impossible for us to blend in so we’ve been the talk of the town. While walking Lucia the other morning, I came across a construction worker who stopped working to play with her and stated that he knew I was renting an apartment and that an avvocato bionda (blonde attorney) was staying with me. Later that night, while walking to dinner with Francesco, owner of an Italian language school here, we were introduced to two men, one of whom who said he knew that we were on a boat earlier in the afternoon.

For the record, Layne and I were only on a boat briefly after a bird pooped on the front of her yellow dress as we walked to the port. We went aboard a boat so Layne could find water to wash off the merda (shit). I told her it was good luck to have a bird poop on you (I learned this by watching Under the Tuscan Sun) and every Italian said the same thing to Layne yesterday. Yet she still was grossed out by the whole experience.

We should be drinking apertivi with Francesco right now but once again, Layne is standing someone up in this town. Actually she’s standing up two men tonight (we’re supposed to have dinner at the restaurant where hottie Coco works), which brings the number to four so far. Luckily she’s leaving on Tuesday because every man in town would be pissed with her if she stayed for another week.

Francesco (we call him “Joe Cool”, see photo below) tried to put the moves on Layne the other night although he owns the language school where she is studying and where I am trying to talk myself into going for a week next week or the following week.

During dinner at Il Pinturicchio the other night, Francesco explained the protocol he must follow because he can’t date his students. A school that I must add draws 80% percent female students. Tropea makes no bones about what it offers foreign women. Francesco said that a television ad airing in Austria shows an older German woman enjoying wine at sunset with an Italian man half her age. Can you say cougar?  So you can imagine the number of foreign women who flock here seeking fun in the sun with un ragazzo.

But Francesco must maintain professionalism in his job and not prey on the foreign women seeking companionship. “Protocol” is the word he often used the other night. However, as the evening wore on, he forgot all about protocol. We hopped from Bar Max, a cool bar owned by a cutie named Max, to Il Pinturicchio for dinner (I had the delish pizza below!!) to another restaurant for grappa and limoncello then back to Bar Max for wine and to listen to a band.

 By the end of the evening, Francesco was putting the moves on Layne.

I can’t say I’m getting as much action. I thought Antonio (center below) was hot when we met in the dark on the way to a restaurant. But then I had second thoughts when I saw him in a well-lit restaurant a couple of hours later. I’m sure his wife, who has one middle tooth, breathed a sigh of relief.

I’m enjoying the town more, although I did find out there is an historical part, which is a lot more charming than where my apartment is located. I joke that we’re in the ghetto. It’s not that it’s bad but it’s not nearly as charming as the old town. But I like sitting in the piazza checking out the locals, as we did this evening after enjoying a day at the beach, where we met Davide, a police officer in a nearby town, and Pasquale, a professor. They made the mistake of asking us if we wanted anything to drink and suggested water, Tang or Coca-Cola. Layne, who never met a wine she didn’t like, later told me she was proud of me for saying, “Vino.” (As if we had not already had two carafes during lunch on the beach.)

That was after Layne came back her trip with the hottie Coco, whom said he was seated at the large table the other night when we stopped by a restaurant for after dinner drinks. I don’t remember him and think I would, considering his good looks. But then again, there were a lot of people gathered around the table and we didn’t meet everyone individually.

When Layne returned from her boat ride with Coco, she filled me in on the excursion. Less than a minute into it, he asked for a kiss and for the next hour he begged at least once a minute for un bacio. He tried to lure her into his web by saying things like, “I love you,” and “It’s because I’m ugly that you don’t want to kiss me. If I looked like George Clooney, you would kiss me.” When she told him that they had just met, he replied, “When the feeling are so strong you don’t think of logic.” I cracked up as I imagine these lines have worked on so many of the women from Austria who flock here. One look at him, and you can imagine he’s pretty successful with the ladies:

If it sounds like all we do is eat, drink and flirt, that’s not true. Layne goes to school for two hours every morning and I do whatever it is I do. Today I ate breakfast on the terrace and read The Help. The other morning I walked to “Big Shop,” the store where household goods are sold, and bought hangers (I have lots of clothes, although I shipped 10 pounds of hooker clothes home from St. Tropez to lighten my luggage), sapone liquido (liquid soap), CIF con ammoniaca vetri e  superfici brillanti (glass cleaner), transparente (plastic wrap), sacchetti ghiaccio (plastic bags to make ice cubes) and scozzesi tovaglioli doppiovelo (napkins), Woolite and other goods I’ll need for the next month.

I had already bought bubble bath the day before but I don’t think I’ll be taking many bubble baths. I let the water run for nearly an hour and the bath wasn’t even half full. After while the water was cold so I knew I’d have to take a half full warm bath or a cold full bath. I opted for the former. So showers it is.

I can deal with the hot water issue. What I cannot deal with is the Chinese women who interrupt me on the beach every five minutes to ask if I want a massage. At the end of day today I told two of them, “Look, I am here for a month. You will not ask me every 10 minutes for the next month if I want a massage. When I want one, I will let you know!” I hope they pass the word to their fellow countrywomen. An irate black woman on the beach will not be a pretty sight. I told Layne that I was going to buy a water gun and start squirting each one that approaches me from here on.

But it is interesting how these Chinese women – the two I spoke to the other day are from Shanghai — chose Tropea of all places to immigrate to. There’s also an African man who sells bracelets and of course the toothless Moroccan whom sells beach towels.

Makes me wonder what I could peddle if I moved to this beautiful place. Don’t even think about it.

Did Amanda Knox’s Italian beau work against her?

Today’s Oprah featured the parents of Amanda Knox defending their daughter who was sentenced to 26 years in prison for the death of her British roommate Meredith Kercher. I didn’t follow Amanda’s murder trial in Perugia, Italy closely enough to have an opinion on whether evidence proved her guilty of murdering her roommate. And as unsettling as it was to hear the guilty verdict last December, deep down I wasn’t surprised. I never thought she’d get off, even if she was innocent. As much as I love Italy — I’d move back in a heartbeat if I could afford it — the warm and fuzzy feelings aren’t always reciprocated toward foreign women.

When Americans are spending their money in Italy, the natives love us like one of their own. And when you chose to live in Italy rather than the United States as I did for two years, they say how “clever” you are, meaning intelligent. I have never met a race as ethnocentric as a whole as Italians (and I love them for this), who realize that while America may offer more conveniences, i.e. air conditioning and washing machines with brief cycles and dryers inside homes, their boot-shaped country really is the best in the world. Well, of course I would give it all up  to live in their antiquated country because what wise woman wouldn’t?

But let a foreign woman hook up with an Italian as Amanda did with her boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito, and, well, you see what can happen. I remember being at the home of an older Italian female, whom I got to know well through mutual friends. The lady invited another Italian woman over for dinner that night and it was clear that this other woman was not going to be my new BFF. She told me about an Italian saying that basically says, “Get your wife and your cow from your own village.” It’s  a way of saying stick to your own because you know what you’re getting. Or what this woman was telling me, Italian men should stick to their own women and leave the foreign women alone. I found Italian women to be skeptical of me and afraid I would take their man. I could tell stories here but I’m saving it for my book, Bellini for One.

While I was popular with the ragazzi (Italian men) in Italy, no surprise there, I only had a couple of Italian female friends and those handful had lived outside of Italy at some point in their life, thus giving them a broader view of the world. When an attractive, single woman moves to Italy, it is automatically assumed it is because she has an Italian lover or because she desires one. Italian men are legendary for pursuing any female with two legs and a pulse and having no regard for fidelity. Years ago, one American author wrote that Italian men treat a lone woman on the street like a dollar bill. In other words, you know he is going to try to pick her up.

Naturally, Amanda, being American, had an Italian beau. She was criticized for the above photo that shows the two kissing outside the house where her roommate lay dead. I wonder if she would have been viewed differently by the male and female jurors if she didn’t have an Italian boyfriend, who by the way was also found guilty and sentenced to 25 years. If she came off as just another foreigner living in Italy minding her own business and not depriving an Italian woman of Raffaele. This we’ll never know but I’ll always have my suspicions.

Let’s all enter Tiger rehab

For a former sportswriter, one-time “Insider” columnist for People and ex-gossip blogger for BET then Essence, I admit the Tiger Woods scandal held my attention for days. I felt like a crack addict as I clicked on the New York Post, The Daily Beast and even (gulp) TMZ to get my Tiger fix every morning. Thankfully my short attention span kicked in. I soon grew bored with the story and tuned out. During a weak moment (or hour), I watched Dateline’s The Secret Life of Tiger Woods last night.

Now that the game’s best player has decided to take an indefinite break from golf, can we too take  one from his life? Let’s all enter Tiger rehab, who is probably one PR step away from saying he’s a sex addict, and let him and Elin alone to work on their problems in privacy or on Privacy, the name of his yacht.

Instead of trying to uncover more dirt on this scoundrel, let’s look at our own lives. Some of you are cheating on your spouses. I know because you’ve hit on me or women I know. But don’t worry. I’m not going to expose you although you, like Tiger, have the brain of rocks and left electronic evidence.

I actually don’t know why so many people are shocked at Tiger’s behavior. He’s a professional athlete, for goodness sake. Did you really think he was faithful? Okay, so maybe you assumed he had a transgression here and there but not that he picked up Waffle House waitresses at every stop. Sorry guys, but I just assume 95% of you cheat. That’s what happens you spend as much time as I did on the road. I watched married NBA players scrutinize seat locations on comp tickets to make sure that their multiple hos at the game didn’t sit near each other before sending the tickets to will call via ball boys. I watched a player whose wife I considered my friend spend a couple of days on the road with a woman who could have passed for his wife’s twin. I told him, “At least you’re consistent.” I never said anything to his wife and not surprisingly that marriage didn’t last.

Covering the NBA means finishing work late at night. With hotel restaurants closed and 24-hour room service rarely an option back then, often times I would find myself in the bar enjoying a dinner of red wine, nuts and pretzels. I must have looked like easy prey for the countless businessmen who tried to pick me up. Don’t even get me started on the referees, assistant coaches and sportswriters.

But cheating is not limited to men with money who travel. Poor men who never leave their hometown cheat just as often as rich. The trips may be to the local motel instead of Australia and they are probably cheating with their wife’s sister or best friend. Married women cheat too but for some reason don’t seem to get caught up in the sex scandals that men do. There’s a school teacher here and there but I don’t even know if those women are even married. The Daily Beast ran a post on this topic and I have to read it. I think that’s allowed while I’m in Tiger rehab.

Am I an alphanista?

I know I should be working or coloring my hair but my mind keeps wandering back to an email my friend Carol sent me the other day. It read:

Are you on this distribution list. I think of you every time I read the blogs of other women… You are after all an alphanista! 🙂

I had never heard of the word “alphanista.” Self-explanatory as it was, I couldn’t help but click on alphanista.com to see just what it’s all about. As it turns out the site, dedicated to the alpha female perspective, is the brainchild of an author, Maryann Reid. On her about page, she writes:

Alphanista™ focuses on provocative content that you won’t normally find on other blogs.  Known as someone whose opinion differs from the masses, I wanted a site where people can come to and breathe.   Understand that they are not alone, that it is okay not to be perfect, or follow a set of etiquette rules for achieving success.  Topics covered include dating, relationships, sex, careers, food, news, and any little thing that can spark new thought or perspective.  So many times, what we read is about how to be perfect, how to change ourselves, when in reality life will always be a continuous process of change.  It won’t ever stop.  You can come here for fresh ideas on how to keep moving your life forward from where you are right now by focusing on the “alpha” or stronger self inside you.  You’ll also find stuff to make you angry and laugh at the same time.

Alphanista™ started as an idea when friends and I kept complaining about the same  ‘ole magazine articles and wanted something provocative.  How many times are you going to be told, “Make This Your Best Year Ever!” when you just really want to make it the best day ever.   I’ll take the best day because everything begins in the present.  I don’t want to delay my good.  I want it today.  Or what about “Become A New You!”?  What if you like “you” and you just want to know how to get along better with her?

Through research, I found out that other women were getting bored and uninspired, too. Just interviewing women, I learned that there was a crop of them who would never read those magazine articles because they’ve been there, done that.  They want more meat to chew on.  Yes, sometimes you sleep with the boss because you want to.  Grown folks do, what grown folks do.  Yes, sometimes you get pregnant by mistake.  Yes, sometimes you just want to be left alone.  Yes, sometimes you want to move to Italy, eat cheese and flirt with Italian men.  Yes, sometimes you’re in love with the wrong person.  Yes, sometimes, your mouth gets you into trouble.  Yes, sometimes you just don’t know anymore.  That when bad things happen, it doesn’t mean it’s the end, but the very beginning of something new.  Alphanista™ is about taking risks, walking the path less traveled, and defining life on your own terms making new rules all the way.

Let’s see now,  I’ve never slept with a boss but then again I’ve never worked for David Letterman or a politician. I’ve moved to Italy, eaten cheese and flirted with Italian men but where did that two-year stint get me? More entrenched in life as a singleton. Why didn’t I marry a Count? Ah yes, because one stood me up on my birthday. My mouth (or sometimes my fingers with email) have gotten me into trouble.  And there are a lot of times I just don’t know, although for many years it seemed like I knew everything. What happened?

So I guess I am an alphanista. Love the new term! Kind of like a fashionista with substance and control. Thanks Carol!

Lamar and Khloe’s wedding shamamony

After waking up to overcast skies, it appears that today is going to be another gorgeous day in L.A. The perfect kind of day for a wedding. But not for Lamar Odom and Khloe Kardashian!! Someone please stop these two from making perhaps the biggest mistake of their young lives.

It’s not that I don’t believe in love at first sight. I do. I know there are couples out there that have celebrated golden anniversaries although the husband and wife barely knew each other when they wed. But I am most positive the husband did not play in the NBA and the wife was not well, just what is it that Khloe does? Ah yes, she stars in a reality show with her sisters.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out what these two gain from this sham of a marriage. From what I understand, Lamar wants to get into entertainment. Okay, I get that. So did Rick Fox. That’s why he chose less money to come play for the Los Angeles Lakers and it probably had something to do with him marrying Vanessa Williams. I give it to Rick though. He married a woman who has something going on although it probably didn’t last because it’s just hard for pro athletes to resist the temptation surrounding them.

Khloe Kardashian? Lamar, what are you thinking? Lamar Odom? Khloe, what are you thinking? I’ve only chatted with Lamar once and we didn’t talk long enough for me to find out if he’s a bright guy but if he goes through with today’s vows then I’ll have my answer. I’ve never talked to Khloe. I ran into her in the bathroom at an event last year but didn’t chat with her. I completely ignored her while I fawned over her beautiful sister Kim. And maybe that’s the problem.

My neighbor Angela brought up a good point as we discussed the so-called happy couple as we walked home from the gym yesterday. Angela figures this marriage is a way for Khloe to step out of Kim’s oh-so-gorgeous shadow and finally capture some attention. Big sis Kourtney is knocked up so she’ll be in the news for a while. Kim, who already has been down the wedding aisle with record producer Damon Thomas, has firmly made a name for herself in the celeb world after dating Ray J and Reggie Bush. And then there’s Khloe, the least unattractive of the clan and who has been lost in the shuffle until now. Posing nude for a PETA ad didn’t give her enough attention.

I just figure there has to be a better way than jumping into a marriage with a guy, an NBA player at that, whom you hardly know. Even if he is a wealthy guy. Khloe is playing beat the clock since the Lakers’ training camp opens in a couple of days. I can understand not wanting to marry a guy while his season is in progress, but would it have been wrong to wait until AFTER the season? Maybe Lamar would have come to his senses by then or fallen in love with one of the many women chasing him around L.A. and on the road.  Has there even been time to draw up a proper prenup? Don’t ask Kobe Bryant, the best man at today’s shamamony. Kobe went against the wishes of his family and married Vanessa — and I think without a prenup. His stubbornness cost Kobe his immediate family for a while but Kobe and Vanessa are still going strong thanks in part to a $4.3 million, 8 ct. purple diamond ring he bought her as a guilt, er, gift, after his sexual assault scandal.

Lamar said he was more mature after tragically losing an infant son in 2006. Could have fooled me. Liza Morales, who gave birth to three children by Lamar, including the one who died of SIDS, said she and everybody is shocked by Lamar and Khloe tying the knot. He was always a commitment-phobe. Well, not anymore. Though I for one think he should have remained one.

Let’s just hope the soon-to-be newlyweds have the good sense not to bring a child into this world until they celebrate their three-year anniversary. How long will  you give this marriage?

There’s no need to slap my ass

I don’t mind if you appreciate me for my brains. I don’t need you to slap my ass to validate my beauty. That’s what I had to explain to a man the other night as I bid adieu to him and his girlfriend. I had struck up a conversation with the Russian couple while sitting at the bar at Caffe Roma in Beverly Hills.

The three of us, and sometimes just the man and I and sometimes just the woman and I, chatted about a variety of topics. I used the word  oligarch and brought up Roman Abramovich. As the evening wore on, it was clear that the man, Oleg, was surprised that a woman out alone could hold an intelligent conversation and wasn’t trying to get picked up.  On a whim, I had stopped by to celebrate the re-opening of the lounge/restaurant because I happen to adore the owner Agostino Sciandri, who has treated me almost like extended family since I met him 11 years ago, and I wanted to see if the restaurant would work for  an Italian cuisine segment on the weekly radio show I co-host on KTLK AM 1150.

As I prepared to leave, the Russian man said something about slapping my ass. I don’t remember his exact words but I politely questioned why he felt the need to do that. I may have had a couple of glasses of red wine and enjoyed a glass of their Veuve Clicquot but my brain was still working fine and questioning skewed logic as usual.  He said something to the effect that he wanted me to know that he appreciated my body and not just my intelligence.

Huh?

He was under the impression that if a man didn’t say something sexual to a woman or perform such an action, I guess like slapping the ass of a woman you’ve talked to for a few hours, that a female wouldn’t feel that she was attractive. He called himself doing me a favor. Hey, it wasn’t like I was ignored that evening. I had offers to dance, attention from Agostino and chatted with other Italian men whom I hadn’t seen in years. I was feeling pretty good, knowing I looked good also. Obviously that wasn’t enough for Oleg.  His girlfriend Lara (as in Dr. Zhivago‘s Lara) didn’t say a word as we discussed this slapping the ass thing. I’m not sure if she was left speechless or she figured she just better stay out of the conversation.

I left the restaurant shaking my head. I thought that all my years spent covering sports taught me a lot about men. But that evening I learned that I still have a ways to go.