The Magi Live in Sarteano

May 14, 2009 mid-afternoon...I blink myself back to reality in time to hear one of the elderly women asking where we were from. “America,” I reply, smiling, and then thank them profusely as I turn back toward the car. She calls after me and asks if Italy is really as beautiful as foreigners say it is. I say yes, Italy is a paradise, and the people, the best. In fact, in many ways, Americans have much to learn from the Italian culture.

“But,” said the man, moving next to the women, “We’re poor.”

“Actually, no, you’re not. It’s the Americans who are poor. Italy knows secrets to life, and we need to come here often for lessons.”

“Lessons? Please do not patronize us,” he chides pleasantly.

“Believe me, I’m not. That’s the last thing I’m about. I’m completely sincere. I’m not saying that you should be happy to be poor. I’m not referring to economics, or politics, or stereotypes. I mean to say that in my own country, I see the values and trends that popular culture holds up as praiseworthy, good business, and entertaining. I see something skewed, storto. Work so hard you have no life outside of it. Hurry. Adopt stress as a virtue. Look for the quick answer, the low-hanging fruit. And then, to escape from it, worship athletes, actors and inane reality shows. It’s warped, like music played out of tune and rhythm, with no thought for composer or conductor. I know that here in Italy you’re surrounded by the same things; but, somehow, Italy as a whole, is still more in tune, connecting people to the world around them more authentically than what I experience in the States.”

“Give me an example,” he persists, placing a hand on my shoulder with friendly emphasis. One of the women nods eagerly, another puts down her bags. The third adjusts her sweater on her shoulders and smiles encouragingly.

“This conversation,” I want to say, and do, but only in my head. “You think nothing of entering into a philosophical discussion with a perfect stranger who just tumbled out of a car looking for directions along this quiet road. You don’t know my plans or my motives. What matters to you is that I’m here, and you are curious about me. I’m astonished, in the best sort of way. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re the Little Prince, all grown up.“

Aloud, I say to him, “Well, having lived here once for a few years, my small experience of Italy is that the division of a day into tight time schedules and itineraries is not a valued practice. Strict agendas are frowned on, in favor of savoring the moment, respecting the rhythm of the day and the company you keep. Am I right?”

“You are,” he nods, and pauses, gathering his thoughts. Then he takes my hand. I feel my shoulders relax. “The experience is what matters most, whether it’s business or a gathering of friends,” he explains. “The schedule obeys the experience, not the other way around. That’s why there are no quick goodbyes in Italy,” he says, and chuckles. The women nod in agreement, e si' , adjusting their grip on their shopping bags. He goes on, “This is not just the result of some socialized government policies, but of the long connection that Italy has to the land, to its resources, its creative spirit, and to family. And probably due to resilience in the face of the privations of war. And this is what you love about Italy?”

“Yes, absolutely.” I say. “With deep respect for the sum total of everything that makes Italy, Tuscany, Sarteano, you, precisely what you are today. That, and the natural beauty of every region of the country. If I die here, or say, in Umbria, no one need be concerned about bringing me back to America. I say, let everyone come here to honor my memory; stay a while. The trip will do them a world of good.” They smile at this. Davvero.

"Umbria is nice," the gentle man says, grinning now, "but forgive us if we advise in favor of Tuscany." We all laugh. I’m moved by the conversation, honored to be part of it.

Sadly too though, I'm overcome with fatigue, and feeling faintly light headed. I'm exhibiting early signs of Foreign Speaker's Aphasia. And, I've almost forgotten about the Ladies. They've been waiting, and probably think we have to head to Sicily and back for all the time it’s taken me to get directions.

Reluctantly, I tell these three wise women and man that I must leave. I thank them for being the ones to set the correct tempo for an Italian concerto. We embrace heartily, and our group drives off, eager to experience the masterwork of Italy, following its regional melodies, from the composer’s original score.