Un bellissimo articolo di Mary Scipioni, architetto statunitense, innamorata dell’Italia
People love reading about Italy. There is a whole mythology around the Bel Paese. It is the land of wine, and pasta, and mandolins; of Cary Grant driving Audrey Hepburn around Rome on a scooter.
It’s tempting for a writer to skim such impressions off the surface, like the foam on a capucchino. We have Eat, Pray, Love and Under the Tuscan Sun as evidence. I think any title with Tuscany in it is bound for glory.
What I understand is that it is not so understandable. Sure, pleasure is probably the word that would describe the expectation that most of us have about Italy, whether it is food, wine, or romance. But the art, well, it’s so ubiquitous that you get tired of entering yet another church to look at the frescoes. Not to mention how tiresome Roman ruins can be on a hot summer afternoon. (Have you wondered why none of the locals are out wandering around?) Venice smells bad. The lines are long everywhere. (Oh, wait, these people don’t know what a line is.)