Anonymous

This is a town full of those who wish to lose their anonymity. So when I say that being anonymous alternately pisses me off, frustrates me or even hurts, I’m not likely to get a lot of argument. Or notice for that matter. I wish this whole town knew me as a writer and celebrated me, of course, but that’s not even the kind of loss of anonymity I’m talking about.

At six feet tall, and a rather leonine personality, I’ve always thought of myself as someone who stands out in a crowd – someone you’re going to remember. Not necessarily just if we’ve been in the same room although my ego would like to assume even then, but if we’ve meet, talked, clicked over something or other I find it rather improbable that I’d be forgotten. Sure we’re not going to be remembered by every soul we meet just as we won’t remember every hand we shake. But being forgotten by those with whom you feel connected hurts.

I was at a meeting today and a woman I’ve meet several times, a woman I’ve complimented on her way with words and even been advised by, came up to where I was talking with a friend. The friend squealed a hello to her and turned to me “This is Heidi, do you guys know each other?” I smiled as the woman looked me over, her face blank. “No,” she stated, “nice to meet you.”

My ‘yes’ died in my throat. I shook her hand, wondering if I should correct her, remind her, and finally settled on a minorly defiant “nice to see you again.” I excused myself and walked away. Had my previous heartfelt compliments meant so little to her? Did she not see me as part of the community with which she met every week? Worst of all, was I really that forgettable?

In an instant I was back in high school. Or more accurately, a year after high school. I was home for my first college spring break. I made the usual pilgrimage back to my high school to visit my friends still there. I’d always seen past graduates return for triumphant visits, marveled at how mature and worldly they seemed, and been envious of the grand welcomes the teachers gave them, eager to hear what they were making of themselves out in the big world. I returned smiling and ready to be so lauded.

I walked onto campus, struck by how distant this world seemed from me now. How innocent and simple. Oh how grand I fancied myself after one year in another town. I went straight for the classroom of my favorite teacher. For four years she’d been a mentor and mother figure to me. She’d inspired me and helped set me on my university path. I couldn’t wait to see her light up, get a welcoming hug and regale her with tales of my freshman year.

“Michelle!” I called, striding into the room ready with any number of inside jokes.

She turned to me, a blank look on her face. Certainly nothing I would describe as lit up. “Hi?” she waited.

“It’s me! I’m. Visiting.” I faltered. This was not going according to celebratory plan.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

I stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Her phone rang. “It’s Heidi,” I murmured as she turned to answer it. I wandered out of the room. Had I made so little of an impression in four years? Did she really not care about me? Was I so forgettable?

In college, I’d bonded with my Italian teacher. Having traveled all over Europe, I had chosen my true love and it was Italy. I came into her class ready to learn. I picked up her accent, mannerisms and regional curse words. She became part of my Italian personality. Later, when I returned from my Junior Year Abroad in Italy, I couldn’t wait to visit her, share stories of my year, compare with her stories of growing up there. I marched into her classroom with an ebullient “Ciao, Bella!”

She swiveled to study me. “Do I know you?”

The air went out of me. Even as I haltingly explained that I’d been her student and I’d just returned from her homeland, she stared at me with a bland ‘if you say so’ look.

“The teacher always means more to the students than the students mean to the teacher,” my husband, a former Italian teacher, comforts me as I recall that disappointment.

Now as a teacher myself, I understand how hard it is to remember names. With each class, I must work to recall a slew of new names and faces. I usually retain the names for a little while after the class – several years for the students who stand out. I always retain the faces though. I know who I’ve taught. And I know the students I feel a stronger connection with. Sometimes they are the ones who reach out to me during class. Sometimes they are the ones in whom I see a reflection of my young self. I’m sad when they go on about their lives and for them I’m just another teacher they don’t have any longer. So I would argue that in some cases the students mean just as much to the teacher. I was sure I’d been just such a student.

As the woman from this morning’s meeting brought me back to those other disappointing moments of presumed connection it hit me just how much a sense of being known by one’s smaller community counts for more than the larger anonymity of show biz. A bit of a ‘duh’ moment, I’ll grant you. But it underscored for me that the woman’s feeling of connection or lack thereof was a key component to my own. How often had I gone out of my way to be there for Michelle in high school or chat with my Italian teacher in college? Aside from just taking in their lessons, how much had I acknowledged them for the contributions they were making to my life in the moment? Mattering to someone is what we all crave; being valued by those whom we value. Next week I’ll make a point of greeting that same woman so that she knows someone, no matter how inconsequential to her larger world, someone remembers her. For whatever it’s worth, she’s not anonymous.

After I Do

My new husband and I sat on the bed in the master bedroom of the ancient villa. We’d been married for about nine hours. The guests had gone save those who were staying in the villa with us. The frenzy of the day finally drifted off and we could breathe the fresh Tuscan night air.

More than anything I felt relief; relief that the event was over and that the day had gone, more or less, according to plan, relief that I had gotten here. I was not out there alone and searching for The One anymore. I had found One and we were legally and emotionally bound. We’d survived the drama and could now focus on building our lives together.

I petted the ivory satin of my grandmother’s 1940 dress that a talented friend had made over for the occasion. I looked out of the windows set in the thick stone walls of my favorite place on earth. I smiled at the presents we’d just opened and cataloged for thank-you notes. My husband hugged me and we sighed in agreement: we should have eloped.

In many ways I got my fairy tale wedding: a select group of friends and family in Italy, incredible food prepared by a local chef friend, a relaxed party that lasted all afternoon and into the evening. That morning, I’d walked down the cobble-stoned main street of my favorite Tuscan hill town escorted by family and my girlfriends. Tourists out for their morning cappuccinos Ooooed and snapped pictures of me. Some had clapped or shouted congratulations. It was surreal.

We’d climbed the steps of the stately stone palazzo on the main piazza where I’d seen countless other brides ascend in my years of visiting this place. We stepped into the city council room where weddings have been preformed since 1435. A town official in a sharp black suit and Italian flag sash presided over the ceremony that was all in Italian much to the consternation of my mono-glot family. In the end we signed the certificate and stepped out into the sun a married couple.

Our first act as marrieds was to head to the gelateria next door for a celebratory gelato despite the fact it was only noon. We strolled the town with our friends and photographers for some unique wedding shots. Then we trundled back to the villa for a country buffet at the villa’s forty-foot, pergola-shaded picnic table in the back yard. Eventually there was cake (heavenly tiramisu made by the villa’s motherly caretaker) and dancing as the party faded into the dark of a rural summer night filled with fireflies. All the elements had been what I wanted from the wedding favors of local honey to my bouquet picked from the villa’s grounds. I’m proud that by and large we truly managed to avoid the American wedding industrial complex and do an out-of-the-box event.

And yet. At the end of it all our prevailing feeling was that of disappointment. The year of planning was fraught with such dramas and other stressors we could have done without – both financial and emotional.

As women we are told that in being a bride we are queen for a day. As much as I tried to downplay that, there was still a latent expectation to be catered to and adulated. Playing the wedding/bride card didn’t get me anything. Every flight we had, at the car rental, every hotel or restaurant I made sure to mention that we were traveling to our wedding. Yes dammit, I expected some special treatment, upgrades, squeals of sisterly delight from the gate agents, something. In general I got blank ‘so what’ stares. One bitter, single flight attendant seemed to actually treat us worse. So much for queen for a day.

We know our choices upset many friends and family. Some perceived our destination wedding as a financial boast or a chance to exclude them. It was actually cheaper for us to do what we did than to plan a standard ballroom wedding here.

Still we knew we were asking a lot financially for folks to make the trip. We decided doing a unique celebration in a place we loved was worth the risk. As we’d planned the event, I’d pictured certain friends there with us, sharing in our joy. One by one the NO RSVPs came in. Many cherished friends and family couldn’t make the trip. Some had understandable financial reasons. Some didn’t care to travel or couldn’t get off work. In many cases they were friends whose weddings we’d gone out of our ways to be part of because we knew how much it would mean to them. We found ourselves struggling to hold on to our understanding as the wedding approached. At the end of the day the reasons didn’t seem to matter. All that will be remembered is that they weren’t there.

In an effort to entice friends and family to make the expenditure, we’d planned a week’s worth of activities for our guests so we could share our favorite place with them. “Make our wedding your vacation this year, it’s worth your while,” we crooned. The problem with that was that we got a bunch of lovely guests and family who expected a vacation. And with us as the knowledgeable ones, the ones who spoke the language and knew the area, they needed our help. Instead of us getting pampered and assisted in the final prep days, we ran around taking care of them and still needing to manage last-minute derailments and obstacles such as ice.

Though well-acquainted with the fact that ice is not a standard beverage feature as it is here, it hadn’t dawned on us that large quantities of ice were not readily available. The husband of the villa’s caretaker finally volunteered to take time out of his fields, cart a giant wine cask he had in his tiny, ancient truck to another hill town an hour away the morning of the wedding so we could have ice for the white wine and water to chill in. As something Italians just don’t do, it meant a lot to us that he would take his precious work day, break with community norms and do this heavy, tedious job for us crazy Americans.

It’s actions like that that make me feel like a cad in whinging at all. I had some amazing friends who stepped up and helped me with both last-minute details and keeping my sanity. They were willing to sacrifice their vacation recreation for my well-being and I can honestly say I wouldn’t have gotten through the week without them. But they were the exception.

Most of our families were either too sick to help or more interested in sight-seeing than in helping us with the preparations or bonding with their soon-to-be in-laws. We both grew angry and resentful as we herded our friends through their fun activity days. “I’m not having fun,” my husband-to-be growled. “This is my favorite place, I wanted to share it with them and I thought it would be fun. I’m not having fun.” I agreed with him. We were drained and stressed while many people found our planned activities too demanding or not interesting enough. Instead of “we’re here for you” the vibe seemed to be “we came all this way and paid all this money for you, now entertain us.” Not one person offered to buy our lunch or even a coffee on our group outings. We hadn’t really expected it, but when we noticed it never happened we were hurt.

No one at the villa ever broke through their jet-lag to join me on what I’d envisioned as family morning walks filled with laughter and wedding advice. I walked alone along my favorite country paths as the sun took the night’s chill away.

Having now felt the incredible mix of tiny disappointments and drama, pressure to be lovely and kind, plan everything perfectly, not to mention the emotional journey of the larger picture: giving up our single identities once and for all and actually getting married, I have every sympathy for the creature known as bridezilla. I never thought I would be that girl but one’s nerves gets pulled so tightly by so many forces going in different directions I don’t really see how it’s possible not to have at least one meltdown. I’m happy to say I only had one. It involved screaming at my father-in-law to-be at the rehearsal dinner which was nearly two hours late, had many of us including myself getting lost en route, and friends with kids begging off before dessert exhausted by the long day. I’m not proud of my meltdown, and I’m not saying it’s justified. But I defy a modern bride to get through without one. Thankfully my father-in-law was understanding. Despite his wounded pride that night, he waved away my apology on the palazzo steps the next morning with a hug and cheek kiss.

As what we thought would be our festive pre-week with our friends and family came to a drained and drama-filled end, all we could think was “this was a huge mistake, we should have eloped.” Too late to turn back now, we went to sleep way too late on the wedding eve.

All in all, the day itself went smoothly. All the things that went “wrong” were comical and somehow involved dessert. One friend waved a gelateria’s card in my face as we reached the bottom of the palazzo steps, post-ceremony. She insisted she knew where we had to go for gelato because they had her one favorite flavor – never mind that I may have put some thought into planning where we’ll go and for chrissake, I’m the bride, we’re going where I want to go. We led the wedding guests to our gelateria of choice, which was the same one our friend had wanted, thank goodness, and she boldly strode right in front of me up to the counter to order her scoop. I stopped, an incredulous “really?” dying in my throat. I looked back at my girlfriends in line behind the groom and I. “Really?” one grinned at me, her eyes twinkling. We laughed at the line-cutting friend still completely oblivious to her faux pas.

After the delicious lunch, we made our way to the dance floor and picked up the mike to thank our guests for making our dream of an Italian wedding come true. We we’re going to have the first dance and then cut the cake and here was the mike if anyone wanted to offer a toast. We looked over to see my father-in-law with a heaping plate of cake he was thoroughly enjoying.

“Dad! We haven’t cut the cake yet!” my husband moaned.

“What? It was out,” his dad reasoned. We laughed and helped ourselves too.

We laughed less when the evening wore down and no one toasted us. Not one person stepped up to the mike as I had imagined and said kind words about us, wished us well, told funny, heartwarming or embarrassing stories. No one. Had the language barrier intimidated people (half our guests were Italian and half American)? Was there nothing anyone wanted to say to honor us? We were deeply stung.

We sat on our bed that night, relieved it was over. Awash with contentment and love mixed with disappointment and hurt. I was sad that I’d never had the family bonding moments I’d so hoped would be part of this gathering. I’d wished for heart-to-hearts, advice, stories, quiet moments shared in this lovely setting. I had wanted to feel closer to everyone. I didn’t think those were unreasonable or selfish expectations. But it hadn’t turned out that way. Instead we were thrilled that with the dawn we could kick them all out of our beloved villa and hit the road for a few days on our own mini-moon.

It was the final coup de grace when our wedding photos finally arrived from the photographer. They were all vaguely blueish and cold-looking. None of the fizzy joy or radiant beauty I’d hope to have captured from the day. There were a few nice ones but I felt like so many photos showing connection and love were just missing. I guess that’s fitting and truthful in the end.

As the summer wore on, we took part in several other weddings. Often I saw examples of the selfless toiling of friends and family, shared sweet bonding opportunities, and pampered bride moments. I tried not to compare these to the absence of my own such moments but bitterness grew. In one instance I was the one who took off from work, traveled and did the toiling. I couldn’t help wondering “where was mine?”

I felt that in spite of all the lovely things my wedding was, there were many emotional things it wasn’t – things I hadn’t realized I’d expected from it. My husband and I compared notes and he felt the same way. We talked over our resentment and tried to let it go. We resolved that no matter what, we’d never do that again. One big lesson I took from it all: no one truly gives a crap about your wedding but you. I don’t say that to downplay the efforts of friends or family who stepped up during the year or took care of things at the event. We did see much generosity and love and for that we are grateful. In retrospect I just wish we could have channeled that generosity and love into something different; an event with less built-in expectation.

The funny thing is, several of the summer brides I’ve spoken to this year feel the same way. It was much ado about nothing and left them feeling empty and exhausted from hundreds of little dramas. So why do we as couples continue to subject ourselves to this costly, emotional, draining ritual?

As autumn approached, my husband and I realized something important was missing about the day. With the secular nature of our ceremony, there had never been an opportunity to exchange vows. Aside from agreeing to uphold the legal obligations of an Italian marriage, we hadn’t promised each other anything. We agreed that was an empty spot that needed filling. So we are writing our vows now. We are planning a short get-away where we can be by ourselves to exchange them and feel our commitment to each other become true for us. It will finally be like we ran away and eloped. I can’t think of a better way to connect.

Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?

When he finally popped the question I was thrilled. Finally, I would be a woman with a Partner. I would be forever saved from the disappointing, draining dating trenches and the treacherous eHarmonies and Match.coms of my past. I would be creating a life and family with someone who loved me.

After a few days of engagement euphoria, it hit me: we have a lot of planning to do. The first question after “can I see the ring?” is “have you set a date?” followed by “where are you going to do it?” I could see a wave of stress beginning to crest on the horizon. I set to work getting foundations of a plan in place. I copied my best friend’s wedding binder, recreated Martha Stewart’s planning spreadsheets and started researching details.

Thank goodness we are no longer in the age of a wedding being the place for a father to pay back his business partners and clients and for a mother to show off to her bridge group and country club set. Thank goodness we won’t be bound by traditions that don’t speak to us and are free to create an event that resonates with our tastes and interests. For the most part, the fiancée and I are flexible. There are not a lot of details we care about. Flowers? Whatever. Food? As long as it’s yummy. Attendants? Wear whatever you want. We both agree spending obscene amounts of money on one day is silly when that money could better be used in setting up a life together.

There is one detail, however, that we both agree we’re not willing to budge on. Italy. We were fixed up in the first place because of our mutual love of Italy and fluency in Italian. Italy got us through a rough patch, joined in our romance and was the backdrop of the proposal itself. Italy is important to our relationship. We feel it represents us and we want it to be part of our big day. Plus with who we know over there we are confident we can pull off a wedding far more economically that would could here. It’s a win-win and everyone will be thrilled with a fun destination wedding, right? Besides, our mantra all along has been “this is our wedding, it doesn’t have to make everyone happy, just us.”

As we start to share our ideas with family it turns out everyone is less than thrilled. With the recession it seems no one can afford to go and now if we chose to go anyway it will look like we did so deliberately to exclude them. Some parentals aren’t thrilled by being fish out of water in a place where they don’t speak the language. Other parentals whom we thought would favor the plan also think it’s silly and would put too many people out. “A wedding isn’t about you” they inform us, “it’s about the people who love you.”

It is? I thought that was the one day in my (our) life that was unequivocally about me (us) and what I (we) want. Am I so mistaken? Maybe. I remember another family member’s wedding we’d all been looking forward to for years and our promised various roles in it. When the day came, our relative and his bride made different, far-away plans that excluded us and broke my sister’s heart. I don’t want broken hearts. I don’t want to exclude. But I want Italy.

My fiancée and I agree we’d rather have no wedding than something generic, expensive and tasteless here like so many weddings we’ve been to. So then. We’re either in for a battle of wills, family drama and politics gone wild or major compromises that will make us unhappy. Because I care so little about so many other parts, I am confident I won’t be a bridezilla. I’ll go with the flow of the day. However, I may just turn into a fianzilla before all is said and done. So whose wedding is it anyway? I thought I knew.

Made In China

One of my favorite things about a trip to Italy is the shopping. OK, I can’t say favorite really. I’m not much of a shopper girl and my favorite things are more intangible:

Raindrops on Tuscan sunflowers and whiskers on…old men sitting in piazzas, bright copper coffee makers and warm welcome greetings. But that said I do like coming home with a few select items that are several years ahead of American fashion.

Back when I lived in Italy shopping was careless. I could pick up a dressy shirt for $6, a knit sweater for $15. The prices were decidedly Old Navy. In the years after when I would visit Italy, I’d always get my friend to take me to the Italian equivalent of Payless Shoes. I’d come home with five pairs of amazing, fashion forward, Italian leather shoes for $100.

Then one day a new plan for the future was revealed: the Euro. I heard the death knell of fabulous Italian shopping sprees. I was there for the 2001 change over and it wasn’t pretty. Prices went up overnight to compete with the rest of the continent.

And now, seven years later, I wistfully long for the days of separate currency and my beloved Lira the way my parents yearned for past realities like the roller-skate-waitress diner and afternoon stick-ball games. Golden times lost forever.

Still, the cache of bringing back those fashion-forward Italian goodies is strong. No one can dress like the impeccable Italians. No one can design like they can. So this trip I held fast to my boorish Euros and carefully bargain hunted.

Not finding anything within reach of my budget on my own, I asked my friend to take me to the Italian Payless again. Alas, even there, a mere pair of strappy sandals amounted to $140. There was no way. I was glad I’d shopped as much as I had before the Euro and the tanking of the dollar since it appears those sprees are lost to me forever. I am stuck with mere American clothes.

On our last day in Italy, I passed a purse kiosk in an American-style mall. There I found a fabulous turquoise bag. It was cute, a little audacious, pretty hip and best of all: very affordable. I brought it to the cashier as my one shopping conquest of the trip. Of course being a kiosk, the purse sure as heck wasn’t designer. I checked the label: Made in China. I hesitated. China is not exactly design cache capital of the world. Then I figured what the heck? I had no other wardrobe items to show for my trip and I decided the key was this: it may have been Made in China but my purse was Bought in Italy. Given the economy, that in itself is a fashion victory. Just like old times.

La Dolce Far' Niente

I am a blessed woman. I come from a family that values travel as the best education. One of my favorite bragging points about myself is that I’ve been to every country in Western Europe and about half of Eastern. But anyone who knows me, knows I have one true love: Italy. I knew there was something special between us when I came home from my first multi-country hop, walked into my high school English classroom and burst into sentimental tears at the sight of a Florentine Duomo poster.

Once again I am even more blessed. I got to spend July with my beloved. And my boyfriend too (an Italian, of course). We celebrated our year anniversary with a UCLA writing intensive. As always I never want to come home from that magical country and upon yet another tearful return, my BF asked me: what is it about Italy exactly that has such a hold on me? Not that he’d argue with my opinion but he’s pretty content here.

I could say the food, the people, the language, the history and all of the above are true love motivations for me. My BF argues it’s possible to get all that here: there are some (a teeny handful) of good Italian restaurants here. I have lots of Italian friends here. I can speak Italian with them or with the BF whenever I want. I have my kitchen geared for Espresso, not drip. But there is still a missing intangible that I love. The sum of Italian life is greater than the parts. The best I can come up with is: I love Italy for how I feel when I’m there.

To put it in context, it helps to understand that I was stressed out of my mind before our trip. Broken out worse than ever, trying to get distribution for one film, find financing for another, attach my favorite BSG star to a third, prep pitch materials for CAA for a fourth, AND struggle to turn a floundering company into a non-profit, AND work enough hours at that and several other freelance gigs to make a month’s income in ten days so as to pay my rent before leaving. I was pretty much stretched to the breaking point. But then, that’s nothing unusual for life in LA.

And then there’s Italy. Even there for a writing intensive and working from 8am to 8pm there was such joy. I stopped worrying about just when something got done and noticed it always got done just fine. I took pride in arranging breakfast and cleaning the kitchen after our troop of nine writers. Even the simple act of stringing up laundry to dry in the sun was enjoyable. It’s not just the air in Italy that makes me enjoy life there, it’s the breathing room. Nothing is done in fretta.

And then the weekend came and no matter how much work loomed before us, we hung up our weary laptops and went out and enjoyed. And didn’t feel guilty about it. This is a particularly American concept. Guilt about pleasure. Feeling that we have to earn happiness instead of just being entitled to it and blessed with it by nature. The Italians think we’re crazy for this, and they’re right. I took time to enjoy my life in Italy and I still came home with a great new script. (Hey CAA, dysfunctional family road movie?)

And that’s my missing intangible. I no longer believe in killing myself to get ahead. I renounce my devotion to the church of “the one who gets the most done wins.” I have discovered something truly remarkable in Italy: The weekend. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. I hadn’t seen one in real life in years, not all at once. And now I get them once a week. It’s amazing. You should try it.

I absolutely, categorically refuse to work on the weekends. I even hung up on a Red Cross Blood Drive guy: “Buddy, I’m happy to talk to you about giving my blood on Monday but today is Sunday.”

Since I’ve always been the uber-productive efficiency queen, my new ‘I get time for me’ policy is unsettling for those who always counted on me to get the job done no matter what. But that’s OK. No one ever died from waiting till Monday for a return email. OK, maybe in a medical emergency but I’m not a doctor and you can’t email me your pancreas. Nope, I am strictly enforcing my lowered productivity.

The funny thing is, my face has cleared up for the first time in years, I’m still getting stuff done on time, and I have more energy. I am actually enjoying life in LA again. Not pining for Italy quite as much as usual. In real world terms, I still get the work of two or three normal humans done in a week but for me that’s a big lazy shift from four or five.

There really is something sweet in the doing of nothing. And in allowing myself to see that as necessary rather than indulgent. Really, it’s acceptance that I’m in fact not a machine and an honoring of my humanity. Italy was trying to give that to me all along with the Baci and gelato and Illy Caffe and sunshine on medieval cobblestones and fireflies in the deepest Umbrian night and the good friends who bring half the town to welcome your visit and the slow mail and ridiculous bureaucracy and la bella figura and the roadside chapels and the little Italian cook who thinks you’re crazy for loving her homemade truffle lasagna like it was filet mignon and caviar at a five star restaurant because that’s what it is…Italy was gifting me this and I finally accepted. While I’ve always had Italy in my heart, I finally really got some of it in my life. Grazie, amore mio. It only took me twenty years to get it.

That's Amore

“A house like this? Oh, say two hundred thousand dollars. Less even.”

Francis Mayes of “Under the Tuscan Sun” authorship was pointing to a slide of a run down Italian farm house. I had gone to see her speak at my small mountain town bookstore. Me and all the other Italo-philes in town with dreams of someday getting our own slice of Tuscan sun.

I was in the midst of house hunting in the mountains but suddenly there was this possibility. Instead of making a practical real estate investment in the little property boom town where I actually lived, I could use that same money – less even – to buy a stone structure in another country where I did not live with no working plumbing, electricity and perhaps not even a road. I was beside myself with excitement.

Having spent junior year abroad many moons ago, I have always been obsessed with getting back to Italy. To live. I have taught Italian. I have compiled an intended coffee table book with my Italy photography and essays on Italian life. When I yell at other LA drivers, it’s in Italian. It just sounds better. Each screenplay I write has references to if not major story arcs in Italy. My weekend treat is to fix myself a latte with my Italian coffee maker and listen to CDs of some of the bands I befriended during my year there. (Amazing how far a smile and an “I’m a DJ from LA” will get you). In short, I’m obsessed and I have been since I was sixteen and first set foot in Italy.

What is it about Italy? Life. They value family and friends over possessions. Art and culture are part of everyday living. The food is amazing, the language is mellifluous, the landscape is breathtaking. Life seems to have more value and richness there.

Several years after that reading of Ms. Mayes’, I own no property in any town and rent a small apartment in the Hollywood hills. But I still think of Italy daily. Is it possible to feel intense homesickness for a place you are not from?

When I saw the KCRW drawing to win tickets to the “Cinema Italian Style” festival at the Egyptian theatre, I entered right away. And I won. I raced into the courtyard of the Egyptian that first night like a starving person to a banquet. Sure I’d get to see some movies, great. But I’d get to be around Italians. Lots of them. For two weeks running. Maybe I’d find a connection, a way back at last to my promised land.

Hearing Italian all around me I squealed and wandered the crowd with a goofy grin on my face. As hoped, the festival had drawn out all the local Italians and other American fools like me. My junior year was brought full circle to me when I ran into a friend who’d been in my dorm that year. He was actually Croatian but close enough. He’d been determined to marry a California girl and get here and so he had.

I’m learning that this town works on attitude and connections. If you pretend you know what you are doing, most people will buy it and if you know the right people, they’ll definitely buy it. When one of the biggest Italian film stars took the red carpet press line, a gasp went up from the girls. He was hot. Un gran bel figo. And married. But I figured it would be cool to meet him, make that connection. And I could, because he had been in a movie by the Big Deal Director. I kicked myself for not having a copy of my latest Italian script with me to hand him.

I marched through the fans right up to him with my hand out. I greeted him in Italian. His face registered “Please don’t hurt me, tall American” until I dropped The Director’s name. Suddenly, this Italian God’s eyes brightened, he grasped my hand and said it was lovely to meet me. We laughed about the Director. The God’s wife, who was equally lovely, told me they’d love to have dinner with him. Ever so usefully, I passed the Director’s number along to them. Here I was, in the middle of an international film power connection. I felt so damn smug.

Later, at the after-party, I chatted briefly with the God’s wife again. It was thrilling to just have access to fame simply because I had the right name to drop. I’d met several new Italian friends that night and saw them watch my apparently effortless ease in getting this access.

I found out later that the God and his wife never got around to calling the Director so he wouldn’t know I’d dropped his name. I was hoping they would. I wondered if he’d wonder about me and all the circulating I was doing. Then I realized, only someone who really doesn’t have carte blanche access to such strata of the business would wonder such a thing.

I have a great teacher here who says in the most satisfying stories, often when our protagonist lets go of what she wants, she gets what she needs. In the end, I got just what I needed out of the festival. I saw some truly fabulous new films (Romanzo Criminale, La Bestia nel Cuore, Quando Sei Nato Non Puoi Piu Nasconderti, Ma Quando Arrivano Le Ragazze?, La Vita Che Vorrei) And was reminded again that the nature of film storytelling doesn’t necessarily have to follow the rigid American Structure most of our films adhere to.

More importantly, I have embarked on some new friendships with Italians who share my film dreams. And better yet, they understand a different approach to life and movies that many of my American friends miss. Plus they appreciate my Italian coffee maker.

One of my new friends took me to a dinner last week with other Italians. Of course, they were all wonderful. One diminutive woman with a spunky joie de vivre informed me she knows my very favorite Italian rock star and can introduce me when he’s next in LA. Her husband, an American with an obvious love of all things Italian turned out to be a director. I told him about my latest Italian script idea. “Let’s see it when you’re done. I’d love to shoot something in Italy,” he said. You and me both, amico.

Though I am now further in terms of miles from the place I dream of living, I am feeling more and more that I am just where I need to be. Every night, as I walk my dog and take stock of my day, I greet the moon with a “Ciao, Luna.” I figure if the moon speaks anything, it’s probably Italian.