The Day I Fell In Love With Italy

Isn't it a strange culture we have, built on rules that keep everybody separated from their natural joy? And the great lubricator of the system of rules is fear. Keeps everybody worrying, keeps everybody down. Fear of not working hard enough, fear of not being clever enough, fear of not making enough money, fear of getting old, fear of doing something wrong, fear of anyone seeing what you're really feeling, fear of really feeling what you're really feeling, fear of looking like a fool, fear of actually being a fool, fear of - okay, okay, I'm going to stop now. No, one last one. Fear of not being cool, and fear of letting your washing be seen hanging on the line. The latter is a big taboo here in South Africa, amongst a certain class of people. Who coincidentally revere the Italians. They build villa-like houses with Italian marble everything, take Italian lessons, go to Italy for their expensive holidays. Most of all they love Italian fashion, and buy their clothes in Milan, which makes all their friends think so much the more of them.

Who could doubt it? When those clothes are dry, and on their bodies, they are the ultimate status statement. Yet when they're wet, and on the washing line, fear of not being cool gives way to terror of letting your Washing Be Seen. Even though we idolise Italians who hang their washing out to dry all over the place.

I wonder who made the rule up, who first decided it wasn't cool for your neighbours to see your wet clothes. It must have been one person, no? Or could a whole nation one day have woken up, sat up in bed in a fright, and said in unison:

'' NO WET CLOTHES IN PUBLIC !'.

Of course wetness doesn't apply to bathing costumes. Which is a relief. So they all sat up in bed and said their unison thing, paused when it struck them that bathing suits are made to be exhibited wet, and all said once again in unison " EXCEPT FOR BATHING SUITS! ". Then they paused again as they thought that one through " EXCEPT WHEN THEY'RE NOT ON OUR BODIES! ".

Some of the rules we live our lives by here are a bit absurd and meaningless. In fact, most of them are. We take them so seriously, though, even though they rob us blind of all our joy, our capacity to be creative, to experience the new, to be happy and love each other, to spread our wings and fly . And all the while we're following them we're dreaming about the good life, the free life, the untramelled life, the life we're going to have when we've made enough money.

Until one day we die in our rule-bound prisons. Oops. That didn't go so well, did it?

Well call me an outlaw, but I love washing hanging on a line. When I visited Italy I was entranced by sheets hanging out across streets or from window to window, nonchalantly billowing in the dappled breeze. I loved that about Italy. Although Armani came a close second, I'll admit.

I remember the first day I saw that washing, in Siena, late summer, the day I fell in love with Italy. I went to visit the Duomo, to feel the grandeur, and watch the old women in black who kneel for hours muttering imprecations to the Virgin Mary. " Madre, per favore, il mio sposo, mi ha fatto male per troppo tempo. Prendelo, prendelo, Le prego. Mi da qualche anni di liberta!" "Virgin mother, please, my husband, he's done me wrong for too long now. Take him away. Take him away. I beg you. Give me some years of liberty!"

Imagine: your husband dies and you wear black for the rest of your life. Actually, imagine your husband doesn't die and he drives you mad. Then eventually the Virgin Mary answers your prayers, takes him off your hands, and you can't even wear colorful clothes to celebrate. No wonder they mutter darkly those women. Before you accuse me of hating men, I don't, I love the nice ones. I do, I promise.

Well I steeped myself in grandeur and satiated my curiosity about old women praying, then it became somewhat oppressive . So I went outside, giving fervent thanks to the powers that be that I'd shuffled those Catholic rules off . To celebrate , I climbed the stairs which take you to the top of the part that was never finished, but which gives you the view anyway.

Italy does fill your heart in some unearthly way, I admit it. I stood for a while, drinking it in, Toscana in late summer. Bells rang for someone far across a valley.

With my heart full I descended the stairs to a small caf, with a couple of tables on the street. I sat down in the late summer sun, drinking my coffee, nobody else in sight . The air was still and it was very quiet, early afternoon; that time in Tuscany when everybody is doing whatever they do behind closed shutters. Sleeping off a hearty lunch of pasta, gnocchi di patate, pollo arrosto. Chianti. Pane. They eat more food in one meal than I do in a week , those Italians, no wonder they need to sleep it off.

A solitary person or two strolled by. A small slinky black cat with a paw that was half white, half ginger, came up to me and stroked itself against my leg. I knew better than to lean down to it, that makes them run away, so I just let it do its thing. Replete, I. And there across the street was somebody's washing, hanging out of the window, waving in the slight breeze.

My my.