The first in a series of blog posts about how Italy lied to me



 When you’re in Italy, you must eat pasta, drink wine, get fat, relax, enjoy life to its fullest. That’s what they say at Olive Garden, at least.  The colors are brighter, the food more natural and delicious, and the people so warm and approachable that one day you’re an intern, next, you’re  running a prostitution ring from the Prime Minister’s office.

Outside of Italy, we’ve been getting Italian cultural hype for hundreds of years.  Sir Walter Scott wrote anxiously in the early 19th century, “Methinks I will not die quite happy without having seen something of that Rome of which I have read so much.” 

This is because Italy has been luring gawkers continuously. Forster. Gogol. Twain. Lawrence.  at Pray Love chick. Everyone and their mom has been to Italy.  Certainly, Mr. B and his mom had, ten or so years ago, in an unfortunate Russian bus trip Mr. B would rather forget because the tour guide, a Teutonized Russian Jew living in Germany, refused to stop for most meals and old people.

The complete proliferation of la dolce vita in both American culture, caused by the strong dynastic pride of Italian Americans  and among Russians, who all secretly want to be Italian, left me with high hopes and firm expectations for our trip a couple weeks ago.

For Mr. B, it was a redo, a chance to wipe out memories of traumatizing vacations past. For me, it was a chance to fill in my travel knowledge, like Sir Walter Scott. Most importantly, it was a chance to be lazy. I spent all winter and spring working, writing, and studying, and I didn’t have it in me to plan an extravagant itinerary. Since Italy is the fifth-most visited country in the world, I knew there had to be tons already out there that I could easily take from. And even if we didn’t end up seeing anything, no big deal.  We were going to do a couple days in Rome, one in Naples, and the rest of the time relaxing on the Amalfi Coast, low-key,  Italian-style.

In last year’s funny and cute To Rome With Love, Woody Allen is on a Alitalia flight to meet his daughter’s new Italian fiance when turbulence occurs. As is typical of Woody Allen, he starts panicking, and his wife, played by pragmatic Judy Davis, suggests he “unclench.”  “I can’t unclench when there’s turbulence,” Woody replies, “You know I’m an atheist.”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t unclench in Italy, either, and the trip turned out differently than I had anticipated. The first reason was that I’m an 80-year-old Jewish man. The second is that everyone that, because there are so many blog posts, books, movies, and third-rate American restaurant chains about Italy, I came into the country with extremely high expectations, which were immediately busted by a combination of my Russian pessimism and the fact that Italy is not what it seems.

The rest of this blog posts will be spent exploring how anal-retentive I am and all of the ways the Western literary canon lied to me about Italy. Ciao!



Mr. B and I arrived at Fiumicino on a Friday morning on U.S. Airways. Flying this airline is a great way to punish your worst enemies, especially if they hate legroom and wine that comes in cardboard juice containers. By the time we arrived at the gate, our hair was matted to our heads, or maybe falling out slowly from plane-food related stress, we were going on three hours of sleep, and our necks didn’t turn the whole way.

This is how Italian travel is supposed to be:


This is how Italian travel really is:


We were staying at someone’s apartment through AirBnB, so I needed to call him and tell him we were on our way so he could meet us there. We had rented a cell phone through the same company I’d used in Israel.

Unfortunately, the cell phone thought it was still in its ancestral homeland, and refused to work. As Jack Donaghy notes, there are no rules in Italian airports, so we spent half an hour jostling through crowds of Russians in sweatsuits trying to look like crowds of Italians in sweat suits yelling at Americans in yoga pantsp,trying to get some information out of anyone about how we could get a SIM card or a phone. We finally bought an Italy-compatible phone and I connected with the host.

“Ciao, Vick-i. Where are you,” he asked.

“At the airport,” I said. “We’re about to get a taxi…we should be there in 30 minutes.”

“Okay. See you in an hour.”  We got in a shared taxi, filled with vaguely European tourists and  other Americans going to hotels.  The driver blasted Radio Deejay, whose motto is, “One Nation, One Station” (sic.)  Macklemore announced that he was pumped because he just bought some shit from the thrift shop.

I looked around the landscape. Central Italy is almost virtually indistinguishable from the States, except that there are hundreds of umbrella pines dotting the landscape, like so:

Screen Shot 2013-06-16 at 5.40.57 PM

and, also, it doesn’t censor American rap music.  The taxi driver’s phone rang. His ringtone was Get Lucky. It is impossible to escape American culture.

Twenty minutes later, we were standing still in Roman traffic. The driver turned apologetically to us. “There’s a strike,” he said. “On the public transportation.” “Also everyone leaves the city, the Friday,” he explained further. Italy’s public transportation services have strikes so often that Trenitalia has a helpful tab on its home page labeled ‘In Case of Strike.’ “Some services will still be operating maybe,” it says reassuringly.

Our driver swore, navigated, and gestured his way around the Vespas, Fiat Puntos, and endless crowds of Asians wearing fanny packs. Every lane merge was a personal affront to him, every Do Not Enter a suggestion, to the point where I’d begun to wonder if he was playing up being Italian just for us.

We had promised the apartment owner we’d be there in thirty minutes. We were pushing an hour and a half. Another half hour later, we arrived on a narrow, charming street in Trastevere, and I called our host, feeling terrible that we were late.

“We’re here,” I said.

“Okay, I park the car. I’ll be there soon! ” We waited outside for another twenty minutes, watching women in impossibly tall high heels walk impossibly small dogs down the street, smoking (the women, not the dogs,) and older couples holding bags full of groceries, before he came to let us into his beautiful , modern apartment. The apartment was up four flights of stairs

This incident began my understanding of Italian  Italian time. Italian time is different from American time. Every culture I know has the joke that they’re on X Standard Time, but I have yet to meet a culture that treats time with such elasticity as Italians.  Most that deal with anal-retentive Americans are on time. Everyone else is, come se dice, suggerimento.  Cafes open around 8 or 9, maybe, farmers’ markets, also, maybe 10, or whenever they feel like it. Everyone closes down around 1:30 for lunch and doesn’t reopen until dinner, which can be at 7:30 or 10, depending on  how you feel and if Gli Azzuri won their match. If you have a heart attack between 12 and 1, well, try to have it later.


Breakfast at 9. Or 10. Ish. 

If you’re late to something you signed up for, you might get a frown or a shrug or nothing, depending. Asking for directions  could mean you’re driving “around 30 minutes” or “a couple streets.” Sitting down for a tiny cappuccino can mean 45 minutes, or however long you want to sit.

On the outside, this is charming. It means Italians have resisted the pull of modernity that keeps us all glued to the screen and at the grindstone. To someone with an absolute view of time, Italy is extremely stressful. I’m punctual  and view anyone who isn’t as a child-eating monster.  If you ask me to be somewhere at 2:34, I will do everything in my power to be there at 2:33:50, because it’s important to you.

I am a  list-maker, a horological stickler, and unbearable pedant. Mr. B has more flexible views about time, and the first three years or our relationship consisted of me writing tearful emails to him saying that I was breaking up with him because he didn’t respect my time and to please give back the mix CD I made him. But even for him, to be in a country where some people took time very literally, but most didn’t, and it really depended on the situation and the weather, was hugely annoying.

But Italy has nowhere to hurry, and this was obvious from the very beginning in Rome. In a recent essay about Italian soccer racism, Wright Thompson wrote, about Liga Nord, the Northern Italian political racist party that popped up in the 80s and wants to split Northern Italy from the South and send everyone south of Rome back to Africa, that, “Yesterday is familiar. Everything else makes them afraid.”

This is all of Italy. It’s accomplished enormous amounts of creative throughput in the last couple centuries. Dante. Fermi. Garibaldi. Nero. Caesar.  Vivaldi. Machiavelli. Augustus.  Benigni.  It’s in no hurry to prove itself like America is. Italy’s done with the marathon and relaxing with a coffee and a cigarette on the sideline.  America is still young and uppity, trying to constantly prove itself, failing, tripping over its shoes, getting back up and at it.  America’s still only (I hope) on mile 3 of 26.”That’s fine, kid,” Italy says. “I’ve done it all. I’ve done the 12 gods thing and the monotheism thing. I’ve made the most famous penis sculpture in marble. I’ve combined tomatoes and cheese. I’ve given hipsters centurion sandals.   You can take it from here. I’m on strike. ”


For the next three days, we started to understand more about this culture as we walked Rome ragged. Russian vacations are never-say-die vacations, as I’ve written about before, and despite the fact that even up to two days before we left I didn’t have an itinerary, we walked the entire city.

We walked an average of 7 miles a day, and we walked ceaselessly, trying to get into every nook and cranny.


Too many people have written about Rome for me to write anything meaningful. People have been writing about Rome for centuries. Mark Twain wrote, in the second half of the 19th century in Innocents Abroad,

What is there in Rome for me to see that others have not seen before me? What is there for me to touch that others have not touched? What is there for me to feel, to learn, to hear, to know, that shall thrill me before it pass to others? What can I discover? — Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. One charm of travel dies here.

There is nothing we saw in Rome that’s any different than millions of people have over the centuries.  We walked around the Forum, down the Spanish Steps to the gelato shop next door, down Via Cavour, across the Tiber, near the Castel Santangelo, ate at a tourist trap restaurant the first day, then got better at finding local places in Trastevere where the waiter plied us with wine and grappa. Holy shit is grappa terrible. But great for being drunk. And Rome is a great city to be drunk in.

The air in the spring is warm and Mediterranean and salty and full of umbrella pines, and no one goes to bed until 12, even on school nights. We stumbled across a tiny street where a kids’ birthday party was still going on at 9 PM on a Sunday. There were a couple kids running around with balloons.  But it was mostly  more adults, standing, smoking, discussing the meaning of life, and how to get their kids to smoke, probably.

We watched Il Grande Gatsby with Italian subtitles in a theater full of locals.

We watched hordes of Russian tourists go right past the historical sites and to the Prada and Gucci stores with signs strategically in Russian. We ate bruschetta every night. We went to creepy-ass ossuaries and crypts. We went far, far below the city, to a darkened room that was probably a highway in Roman times, and somewhere deep in the room, a spring trickled ceaslessly, like it had for millennia, and it made us shiver.

This probably all sounds super-glamorous. But it was not.

It probably reads like this:

But it was more like this:



Because by the time we were done walking, we got home, limping, having skipped lunch, and ate salami straight from the supermarket packaging, Italian cookies with tea, olives, and fresh bread, and waited for dinner. We skipped lunch most days because we didn’t have time. We were sight-seeing. By the time we limped back to the apartment, I was ready to die at the doorstep.  The other fun part was that the apartment was four flights of stairs up.

There was an elevator, but since it was an old, charming Roman building, the elevator was built into the architecture, meaning it was the side and height of a middle school locker. Just myself in the elevator was fine. Just Mr. B in the elevator was also fine. But having both of us in there was a potential safety hazard. You also had to get in, close the elevator door from the outside, then close the inside one, before it would go anywhere.

So we crawled up the stairs.

We took embarrassing pictures with gladiators. These pictures cost 5 euros and 5 dollars.


 We saw too much large marble genetalia. Some of us were immature enough to take pictures.


In all of that, in all the constant walking and the monument-seeing and the gelato-eating, we were never sure whether we were having genuine experiences, whether we understood the real Rome.  Rome is a city that has been washed over for hundreds of years, and, as such, is designed to put on a show. It has a thin veneer that it coats for tourists, near the bridges, near the castle, near the Typewriter, and near everything that makes tourists want to visit.

We were never sure if Rome was merely putting on a show for us, or if it was working the way it always did, the way it always had, and we were merely viewers. Did the waitress who said ‘Mamma mia!’ in exclamation as she swept of a dirty table cloth really mean it, or was she playing up to a stereotype? Was the waiter that gave us grappa just hoping for an extra tip?  Nothing felt sacred or genuine in Rome .Everything felt worked over by groups of tourists and people who were trying to make money off of them. None of the churches had a soul anymore. Everything was optimized for people who have minimal time to see the city, as we did. Pre-packaged is the right word.

There was one glimpse of the real Rome. We went to the Jewish Quarter, to the synagogue, that was the most beautiful synagogue I’ve ever seen, aside from the Spanish Synagogue in Prague. An older woman named Laura, one of the members of the Jewish community, gave a very thorough tour, talking about living in the city during Fascist rule, about how the Jewish community in Rome went back, back before Sfaradim and Ashkenazi rites, back in time, moving with the vagaries of the city, and I felt something, a piece of the truth. But then we were outside the gates of the Jewish Museum and it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Trying to see the true Rome is like looking in a thousand mirrors for the true reflection, and I’m sad to say we didn’t find it, no matter how far we walked. And we walked really, really far.  We were exhausted and overloaded with ancient stuff and Roman stereotypes.


Somehow I knew that the Amalfi Coast held the truth, the true vacation, the true relaxation, if only I could live until then.

The reward for the fact that my blisters had blisters was that the next morning, we got on the train to Ostia, Rome’s ancient port city, to pick up our rental car and drive to Naples. This was my first glimpse of the real Rome, the city beneath the dazzling facades, at real Italians.  The train was dirty and looked like it hadn’t been washed for several Berlusconi administrations.

Foreign workers held onto grimy Nokia phones and slept on the way to work. Women with shopping bags full of bread talked loudly. People read the paper. The day became hot.  I sat and watched stations go by, trying to reconcile this mundane scene with the Rome of yesterday.

At Ostia, a very helpful man in a tiny un-air-conditioned office gave us the keys and asked us twice if we wanted insurance. We had seen Roman driving. We said yes, yes, and again, yes, per piacere.

The car was conveniently parked in a roundabout.  Mr. B had to back up into oncoming traffic while an older Italian woman impatiently motioned for him to move from the space, lightly hitting our car with her palm at to guide the way. Vespas and Puntos zoomed by within inches of the bumper.  Baptized by fire, Mr. B entered the ranks of Italian drivers and my feet entered a previously-unknown rest state.


Small data


The way we make decisions is really messy. But understanding why humans decide to do things is one of the great drivers of the current big data movement, so there are a bunch of algorithms trying to solve this puzzle for the benefit of $ociety.



Book Review: Turkmeniscam

I don’t know about you, but I always love a good story about how the U.S. government screws over its constituents. Turkmeniscam by Ken Silverstein (journalist and fellow Jew) promises such a story and delivers with style. The subtitle, “How Washington Lobbyists Fought to Flack for a Stalinist Dictatorship,” says it all.


The amount of corruption that Silverstein uncovers in the United States government is alarming.  He starts with the background of the fallout against Jack Abramoff and other lobbyists in the fall of 2006, and goes on to explore the ultrashady relationship between, specifically, international lobbyists willing to shill dictatorships for large amounts of money.

He writes,

When one flips through the pages of the [U.S. government’s annual survey of global human rights in March 2007], it becomes apparent that many of the countries most severly criticized for human rights abuses had fon from the Bush administration foreign aid, military assistance, adn expanded trade opportunities.  A number of leaders from these countries have also won coveted White House visits, and accompanying photo ops with Bush or other senior officials.

This reaches back much further than the Bush administration, however, and lobbyists and legislators have become inextricably intertwined in government, bonded together by billions of dollars and mutual owed favors.

Silverstein offers several things from his book:  1) An explanation of how lobbying firms work and how they curry favor with the government 2) A history of how such activities come to be and, most fascinating, 3)an expose.  He infiltrates two very prestigious Washington, D.C. international lobbying firms, pretending to be a shadowy proxy company, The Maldon Group, which has geopolitical interests in Turkmenistan, a government renowned for its brutality. His goal is to get the groups to lobby and create favor for positive trade relations between Turkmenistan and the United States, without having the groups ask too many questions.

Some of my favorite descriptions of Turkmenistan by Silverstein, who clearly has done meticulous research in planning this book, are those of its past psycho dictator, Sapurmarat Niyazov:

When he was crowned as President-for-Life, Niyazov was presented with a white robe and a palm staff, traditional symbols of the Prophet Mohammed.  Not long afterward, he declared himself a “national prophet…

To spread his own pearls of personal and spiritual wsdom, Niyazov penned the Ruhnama, which was described on its official website as being “on par with the Bible and the Koran.”  Ruhnama is the veil of the Turkmen people’s face and soul, wrote Niyazov in the first chapter…..September was renamed Ruhnama under the Turkmenbashi, and Saturday was renamed the Day of the Mind, and henceforth was devoted to reading his masterwork.

What’s worse is that, aside from these comic incidents, Niyazov pretty much killed a bunch of people and made his personality cult worse than anything Stalin could have concocted.

Silverstein goes on to say that he would be able to pay $10 million, which gets him not only enormous exposure to Congressmen, who, plied by lobbying firm favors, would be more willing to also promote Turkmenistan, but to think tanks and jorunalists who might promote Turkmenistan in favorable, clearly-biased articles, purchased by money that goes around and around in government.

I’ll ruin the end for you and say that two lobbying firms agreed to represent him in his mission to bring Turkmenistan into a positive light, but the process of going through to research firms and how they prop up rouge governments is what is most important in this book. It’s a book that, like Confessions of an Economic Hitman, really opened my eyes to the way international wheeling and dealing, and the fact that those who lobby for dictatorial regimes justify their actions by saying they are no worse than lawyers who represent clients that may be guilty.


Ivri Lider in Washington, DC: On Wanting to Be Israeli

For those of you who live on another planet (or possibly not in Jewlandia in which case you are hereby pardoned,) Ivri Lider is a very popular Israeli musician.  Not only has he had more hits than Micahel Tyson, he has also publicly come out as gay and still remained successful and popular, which  is a tremendous accomplishment in the fickle world of showbusiness.


Thanks to the kind generosity of 16th Street JCC in DC, I scored two tickets to go see Ivri Lider at 9:30 Club.   Tanya went as my date, because you can never have too many Russian girls at an Ivri Lider concert. Also, we were outnumbered by Israelis. How do you know there are Israelis at any given concert? When the flyers outside specifically state that the artists requests you don’t take any pictures or video and as soon as the lights go off, you hear the sound of 10 Sony D-120s turn on and snap away. It was comforting to be in the presence of so many people blatantly breaking laws and social boundaries and strangers talking loudly into my ear. I felt like my internship in Tel Aviv all over again.


If you’ve read my Jewlicious post on Ivri, you’ll see the first two paragraphs regurgitated. Because I’m lazy.   What I really wanted to talk about here is the feeling I got when I went to concert.

Every day, I work, live, and play in America.  It’s hectic here, people are sometimes unfriendly, and the barista is under enormous pressure to get your order out in three seconds or be scolded.  America is a great place for opportunities, but cold, and at times, leaves you burnt out.   When you are at work,  your mind is constantly on deadlines, on brisk English, and on power lunches.

When you come to a concert for an Israeli artist,  something changes.  The mood softens, time slows down, and you see lots and lots of Israelis. And suddenly, you don’t feel like you’re in the United States anymore.  You feel like you’re on the Frishman beach, on a July night, and it’s sunset.  The music is far away, coming from a bar on the beach, and you are sitting in the sand with a hookah in one hand and a slice of watermelon in the other while techno pipes in from far away over the melting sun.  The tension fades away. People start talking in Hebrew and checking their cell phones, but it’s not a check for work email. A check to see that it’s 11:00 and it’s a summer night and their friends are just coming down to get the party started.

You are far away, floating on the Mediterranean, smelling the flowers, the salt by the tayelet, the hot, salty foods of the street vendors.  You are standing next to people who are a million miles away and a thousand times more relaxed, and you suddenly feel shy to practice the Hebrew you’ve been dying to use since three summers ago.

You forget for a moment all the issues you had in Israel, and you just viscerally feel the connection that you established to Israel the first time you went.  It’s like the connection you have with your husband.  You can’t really define it.  It’s just always there, enveloping you, a source of strength.

Then, the concert ends, and you are back to reality.   You feel a distinct sense of homesickness that you always feel when you think of Israel even though you’ve never lived there longer than two months, and, at the same time, the pain of guilt.  You’re not Israeli, you didn’t serve in the Army.  How can you love and visit Israel but, for long periods of time, support it from afar? You’re a hypocrite, an armchair Zionist. You struggle with these thoughts every day.  How can you be proud of the fact that you don’t do anything physical for Israel? You are always embarrassed to talk to Israelis who ask you how you know Hebrew.  “Oh, I interned in Israel for two months,” seems equivalent to “Oh, I gave food to hungry Africans by clicking on a website button.” You remain undecided, just like you do every day.

But then Ivri starts singing Kos HaKhula, and, for a moment, you forget about your monumental struggle  and you are back in the music.

Apologies for the sentimental musing.  I ran fresh out of sarcasm.  Come tomorrow for some more, please.