Voluntary Ironing in Tuscany

I wrote this a few weeks ago but forgot to post ...

Tonight, I came home from a great day that started with Bob (Marley) and ended with Aretha (Franklin), and actually had the thought – stop the presses – to iron the sheets (!), something I have never done in my entire life … in America, land of the free and of the most technologically advanced home appliances, we have dryers which when used properly, with softeners and dryer sheets, leave linens virtually pressed, if removed from the machine when they are still hot.

In Europe, land of the old and beautiful, they are not so appliance-happy, and one makes do, and appreciates the finer things in life, including of course ironing and long lines at the post office to – heavens to Betsy – pay phone bills.

Yes, they have the internet, but some still things are still done ‘vecchio stampa’ (the traditional way). Hey, you can’t have the village festival and all that culture without a trade-off here and there. Conformity may be restricting, but it comes from the sheer fact of community, togetherness, customs, and ‘around here, this is how we do things’.

I of course am a bit fan of Europe, and specifically Italy, and hence have found myself for the better part of the past decade on this continent, across the pond as it were, on both Anglo shores (merry England) as well as the landmass better known politically as EU, sharing for the most part a currency, a parliament, and I would gather before long a foreign policy (let us hope, to battle the bossy, war-happy Americans). I can say that of course as a passport-carrying Yank. I will find it hard to bite my tongue if I hear a European spouting expletives against my home country, of which I am proud, of course.

Here I am, at Il Borro, the Ferragamo-owned, Tuscan countryside wine-making paradise, serving my month-long internship, and aside from the digression, I actually conjured up the idea to take all the shirts I haven’t worn so far, as they are wrinkled, down to the pillowcases, and straighten them out once and for all. For me. Because I’m worth it.

There’s something about being in a place this beautiful, and having the Libran respect for all beauty, wanting to keep it that way, and making more of an effort. I even bought mascara at the pharmacy, their own brand, which guarantees more than 100% lash growth if used every day for one month. I am on day two. Stay tuned. I’m not sure how I could actually tell, unless I take a before and after picture of my lashes, a close-up shot, that to arrange on a weekly basis with my digital camera would be a contortionists’ work at best … never mind, it’s the effort that counts. I’ve never suffered from having short lashes, but there would be no problem if they were longer.

I like the idea of making the effort, and here, I am going full-force. There’s something about the change in energy, the beautiful wood beamed ceilings in the apartment, being at a vineyard, in a place that has a thousand years of history, in Tuscany which has always been my dream, that is turning over a new leaf.

From health to exercise – mental note – after I write this, I will do my 120 abdominal exercises, not smoking or nearly not smoking at least, it is doing wonders for me, and it’s only been one week!

In Colorno, I seriously let myself go, not just nails and hair, the outside stuff, but also my routine, it was all in a bit of disarray. Part of it was that I was living with teenagers, three out of my four roommates were 19, and although I adore each and every one of them, they were a bit like children, leaving things everywhere, and as that is my natural tendency, the lazy kid in me felt right at home, on every level.

I didn’t study all that much, but to be fair I didn’t really have a quiet place, and I fell into the petty dramas of being in an isolated place with the same faces every day, a bit of a soap opera as such. And perhaps a throwback to younger days, when everything was a much bigger deal. Not that I didn’t enjoy every minute of it. Well, not every minute, but overall, a wonderful experience. I learned a great deal, got my passion for wine ignited to its fullest, and it brought me here to Il Borro.

Gioia and I went to Arezzo for an aperitif with her friend Pasquale, a Tuscan cardiologist who was looking for a gift for his boss along with thousands of other people on this second to last Sunday before Christmas. The historic center was literally flooded with people, families, couples, groups of teenagers, small dogs with chic little winter dog coats, and of course in Italian style, gorgeous shoes and bags. I picked up the most beautiful beige wool cloche, very 60s Jackie O, just big enough to make a statement but nothing too Twiggy or Swinging London.

This year the puffed coats with visibly stitched seam checks have self-tie belts, in either fabric or silver. For me, they are just another version of the walking comforters that Italians have been sporting for the past ten years. Nice for them, but I don’t want any part of my bedroom parading with me on the street. Even if the newer ones don’t at all resemble the sleeping bags that people used to wear in Rome. For me, it’s the same shtick.

I prefer my 99 Euro Benetton navy blue, minimalist three-quarter length wool coat, thank you very much. With a colorful scarf, and now my fabulous hat. Funny how a great accessory can change your llife for a few days. I am so happy to be a woman, and to have these sensations, frivolous as they may be, wonderful just the same.

Fashion aside, I did get some work done on my Cerasuolo di Vittoria DOCG thesis, three pages to be exact, in the spa lounge this morning. Three pages if one counts two that are maps of the area, but still, it counts, and the first page was single-spaced information about the geology of the wine’s terrain. In Italian, no less.

It’s taken me the better part of a decade to become confident in my Italian writing style, and save for a few subjunctive conjugation mistakes, ‘me la cavo abbastanza bene’ (I do alright). I am also working in a Word Document format, as opposed to a PowerPoint, and so every page that I write counts for at least three. Proud. Of. Myself. Mental strength is everything. How much we are able to harness our willpower, to better our lives, and be the best we can be, to be happy and content, is the measure of a good life. For me, at least.

In my ‘piccolo’ (small way), I am doing what I can, where I am, with what I have. I think Churchill said that, although I’m not sure. An Italian friend of mine in New York quoted that on his Facebook page. We are truly living in 2010, judging from that statement, I am quite aware. From globalization (an Italian in New York) to social networking … and thank God for that. I wouldn’t want to live in any other time. Because this is my time. This is your time, dear reader. So rock on. December 2010. Feel it. I’m feeling it in Tuscany, in a dreamscape.

Life is good. La vita e’ bella. Maybe that’s why I have chosen to think about voluntary ironing. Which by the way I didn’t actually get to accomplish, precisely because it is 2010. The apartment has an ironing board, and an iron, but the country has since changed outlets and the plug doesn’t fit into any of the sockets. Oh well. It’s the thought that counts. I’ll get a different iron from reception tomorrow. Buona notte a tutti.