Dating, Italian-style

"Tell me about your most recent date," said my date last night, a blond, blue-eyed Mediterranean whose coloring, if not his sharp southern Italian esses, contrasts sharply with l'Artista's.

"D'accordo," I said, "although I have to warn you, it's not going to be a very interesting story. We met up for dinner last week after my sister's annual Christmas cookie-baking party. I brought along a few of the cookies we baked, so we had those for dessert. We talked a lot about New York since we both lived there for a long time. He was nice, but I wasn't feeling it."

I paused for a moment, then added, "How about you? Tell me about your most recent date."

"I haven't had any," he replied. "I hate dating, American-style. I know all the rules, and I hate them. But tell me, how come you didn't bring cookies on our date??"

"I'm sorry,"I told him, "I should have. But I do have a quiche in the car if you want some."

The date ended with us standing by my car, eating my half-frozen quiche, him pretending to enjoy it even though I had warned him it wasn't the most delicious thing I had ever made. And I thought, I sure do like Italians.

Lucio Battisti: one of many Italians I love.

Incontro in Toscana

Last Wednesday, I left the villa we were staying at in a tiny town in Tuscany and set out on foot. I veered right at the vineyard, down a steep hill, and up again into the old half of the town. The paved road petered out eventually into a rutted dirt road, then ended at a gated villa, and I continued on a path so narrow that brambles plucked threads from my dress and scratched my legs. Finally, I came out onto another road in the slightly-less-teeny town nearby (about 25 houses over our town's 8 or so), and in front of me, sitting at the only bar in town and drinking an espresso as though it were the most natural thing in the world, was my ex-boyfriend, l'Artista.

It had been close to six years since the last time I saw him, in the fall of 2005 in England. The first few hours were surreal, in part because of how normal it felt, as though no time had passed whatsoever. I wasn't sure if I wanted to throw my arms around him or run the other way, but as the time passed we began to feel more normal around each other. Eventually, we made our way back to the villa in his little Yaris, where he got over his initial embarrassment at seeing my family again, settled into a chair next to the pool with a slice of watermelon, and chatted with my aunt, uncle and immediate family.

I wasn't sure how much I'd want to see him, but it turned out to be a lot, to try to get used to our new relationship and learn how to interact with each other non-romantically. Not that he didn't try; I politely declined his suggestion that I leave with him that evening and spend the next few days in Florence. I did make my way there as planned on the weekend, though, and on Saturday was able to realize my dream of eating a home-cooked l'Artista meal (he continues to be the best cook I have ever met). Watching the way he moves in the kitchen, how he slices vegetables, pinches salt and times everything perfectly, is mesmerizing. Unfortunately, I was so tired from waking up at 3:45 a.m. to catch the train that after a plate of pasta and a small glass of wine I conked out on his couch and missed course #2.

Last night, I came home to a clean house, a vase of flowers, and a sweet little "welcome home!" sign that Dreamy made with Crayola markers. I told him about the past few days since we had last spoken, including the plate of pasta. "You know," he said sweetly, "I could be a great cook, too, if someone would teach me."

Based on the contents of the kitchen (Honey Bunches of Oats, Alfredo sauce, sardines, and spaghetti), he's got a ways to go. Nice that he wants to try, though.

Half a ticket to anywhere

When Dreamy and I first started talking about meeting in Europe next summer, it kinda seemed like everything would just fall effortlessly into place. Dreamy would be there for a work trip; my parents, amazingly, won a villa in Italy in a raffle, and the dates lined up perfectly. When his friend Brian suggested the three of us travel for a couple of days together before Brian left to attend a wedding in Tuscany, I agreed breezily.

We hit the first road bump when it turned out that Dreamy had run out of vacation time, and might not be able to spend a week at the villa after all. Luckily, he was able to get an extra week by extending the end date of his one-year contract. But when I took a closer look at the calendar I realized that I should not have been so blasé about the trip: Between Dreamy's business trip and my family vacation, we only had two days to ourselves. Two days which we had foolishly promised to spend with Brian.

So Dreamy and I sat down last weekend and discussed our options. I asked him to think about what he really wanted, since that sometimes seems to get lost between the demands of his work, his friends, and me. I told him that I would like for us to change the plans and make it so we have some Heathen and Dreamy alone time not because it's what I want, but because it's what both of us want. I had been hoping he'd agree to cancel the two days of travel with Brian, but after mulling it over for a day he told me that he felt like the $4000 he was supposed to receive for his work trip wasn't worth giving up the vacation days he could be spending with me, and he wanted to bow out. (Confusingly, even though it's a work trip, it comes out of his vacation days since it's freelance work.)

WOW. I don't think I've ever had a boyfriend put quite such a literal price on me: a week with me is worth more than $4000. I was so happy and flattered that I immediately, and without fully contemplating the meager contents of my bank account, offered to foot the bill for half of his ticket to Italy. We could now have two weeks: one at the villa and one to ourselves.

It turned out not to be quite so easy. Dreamy had promised months ago to go on this trip; he assumed it would be easy to find a replacement, but that doesn't seem to be the case. So instead, Dreamy came up with a new plan: I go to the villa and have family vacation without him, and then we will go on our own vacation elsewhere. "And babe," he reminded me, "I'll have lots of money from my work trip. I'll pay for half of your ticket to anywhere you want to go. Brazil, Thailand, Greece, Turkey, you name it. And then I want to buy you some amazing dinners while we're there, too."

Dang. I'm a little bummed he won't be coming to Italy, but I don't know if I've ever gotten quite such a sweet-sounding offer. So the only question that remains is: Where to go???

Old patterns die hard

Over the last couple of months, I had two fun, uneventful conversations with my Italian ex, l'Artista. Both were good, long conversations, and they were relatively painless. He apologized kindly for the pain he put me through when we broke up, and we talked about seeing each other next summer when I go to Tuscany for family vacation. When my sister got engaged, I wrote to inform him, and he wrote back telling me how happy he was to hear the news. I was beginning to think we could have a simple, non-fraught friendship.

Turns out I was a little too optimistic. During snow day #3 last week, l'Artista spotted me on Skype and suggested we have a third conversation (without the video, since he "didn't think we could handle that"). It went well for a short time, and then all of a sudden it wasn't going well. I'm not even sure what our first argument was about -- it didn't particularly feel like it was about anything -- but all of a sudden I felt like I had been catapulted back in time five years and we were still embroiled in our difficult, never-ending breakup. He interrupted me several times, until finally I said, "I notice you still interrupt me a lot." He countered that with, "You still reproach me exactly like you did ten years ago." Ouch. We were like one of those seventy-year-old couples who have been married for 45 years and can't stand each other who you want to get as far away from as possible.

When we talked again about my impending visit to Italy, he told me he's not sure we should see each other after all. He doesn't want to see me with Dreamy, and he feels uncomfortable seeing my family; I don't care who else is there, but I don't want it to be just the two of us. Perhaps we can meet for a quick coffee instead of the dinner I had been envisioning (just thinking about his dinners makes my stomach growl...). Clearly, it'll take some more time and thinking to figure out what role, if any, he can play in my life.

That evening, I told Dreamy about my conversation, and he asked if I still have feelings for l'Artista. I answered no because that seemed like the right thing to say to let Dreamy know he has nothing to worry about. The truth, however, is a bit more complicated than that. I do have feelings for l'Artista, lots of them. I feel anger, and affection, and anxiety (when I asked about his health, he reported that he had briefly reduced his cigarette and alcohol intakes, but wasn't able to maintain it). The one thing that I am clear on is that I do not want him to be my boyfriend ever again.

So, instead, I'm concentrating on my new favorite Skype buddy, Dreamy. We've been Skyping most nights before bed, and it's nice to be able to see him on the days when we're busy. I can't believe it's taken me this long to discover how great Skype is. Our conversations are straightforward and fun and not fraught, because he likes me and I like him and we both want to be with each other. It sounds so simple, but it's not easy to find.

Rapprochement

ra-prōsh-man. n. Derives from the French word rapprocher, "to bring together".

1) Establishment of or state of having cordial relations.
2) A human developmental milestone usually occurring between 15 to 24 months. The child moves away from and then returns to the mother for reassurance.

Definition #2 might be a bit of a stretch, but taken down a notch, it could possibly describe what is happening recently between me and my ex-boyfriend, l'Artista. He was such an important figure in my life that in some ways he was almost like a parent. Somehow, La Moustache managed to be such a douchebag during our breakup that he made l'Artista look good by comparison and changed the way I've been thinking about that relationship since it ended a few years ago. I realize that the fact that he's not quite as horrible as your other ex doesn't really constitute a good reason to be friends, but I thought about it a lot and felt there might be some value for me in trying to establish a relationship.

Still, each time he emails me it somehow takes me weeks before I feel ready to write back. I'm not really sure why. It's not just that I'm busy, although that is part of it. When I read his emails I feel strongly that I need to close them and not reply to them for a while.

So when I received an email in early November, in which he told me that he'd like to talk on the phone and specifically he'd like to discuss our breakup, which he's always felt bad about, I mentally put it in the category of "things to think about later." I finally turned my thoughts back to it yesterday afternoon. L'Artista didn't say why he felt bad about our breakup, but I suspected that he thought it was unfair of me to cut him off so completely. When we broke up, I refused to take his calls, read his emails, or give him any way to contact me. I put a block on my email and hung up when he figured out how to call me so I couldn't see who it was. Of course this was very, very hard for both of us. But I had to do it because after months and months of trying to break up I realized this was the only way it was going to happen.

I carefully constructed my reply, telling him I would be happy to discuss the breakup, but reminding him that as we both know my memory is much better than his. "I don't know how you remember our breakup," I said diplomatically, "but in case you remember it differently from how I remember it, I hope you are able to listen to what I have to say about it. Of course, I will listen to you, too. Feel free to give me a call."

A scant 40 minutes later, I was in the car driving to dinner with my sister. We had just pulled over so she could hop out and buy a sixpack when my phone rang. My sister rooted around in my bag to find my phone, and my heart sank a little when she reported that the number was unlisted. When I answered and heard l'Artista's voice, I had a sudden, irrational urge to hide the fact that he was calling from my sister, who still hadn't exited the car. (As it turns out, this was utterly useless since she told me later that she had recognized his voice the moment I answered.) "Oh, hi!" I said casually when I heard his voice, still as familiar as the back of my hand even though I haven't heard it in over four years, "hold on a sec." I tried to make it sound as normal as possible, as though I were actually talking with someone who speaks English.

I hoped Ms. Swamp would disappear quickly, but she was looking for her purse. "Who is it?" she asked, her curiosity obviously piqued.

"Get out of the car!" I hissed back, abandoning any pretense that it was a normal phone call. She threw me a quizzical look, grabbed her purse and left, at which point I told l'Artista that I was with my sister and couldn't talk. We made plans to talk another time.

We finally talked this evening, and it turns out my fears about his memories of our breakup were utterly unfounded. He feels awful about it, and says he feels that he went out of his way to create problems that he then couldn't face. I think he's right, and that it was a very weak, bad moment for a person who is overall decent and caring.

It was pleasant, if a bit surreal, to hear his voice. Mostly it felt as though no time at all has passed since we spoke last, whereas in reality my entire life has changed since then. It feels as though he knows me so well, but in fact there are so many things he doesn't know about me, since in many ways I'm not the same person I was when we broke up. Whether or not I know him is hard to say.

I may have the chance to explore this further soon. When we said goodbye, I told him to feel free to call again if he wants to. But we also might do more than talk on the phone soon, since I received the astonishing news a few weeks ago that my parents participated in a raffle and WON A WEEKLONG VACATION IN A VILLA IN TUSCANY. Crazy, right?? And actually it's not one villa but two, and it's on a vineyard, and there is a pool. In the photos it looks absolutely gorgeous. It's probable that we'll be going next July, if the dates work out.

Still not sure how I feel about actually seeing l'Artista, but if there's one thing I'm certain I'm excited about it's eating one of his amazing meals. My stomach is growling in anticipation already.

Fumo

For a few months now, I have been considering developing a friendship with my Italian artist ex-boyfriend, l'Artista. To that end, I wrote him a friendly email back in August telling him about my new job, my new bird, etc. I fully expected an email back immediately telling me how happy he was to hear from me, could we talk on the phone, and he misses me, but instead I heard nothing. That didn't bother me; in fact, it made me think that if he is less emotionally invested in me a friendship might actually be possible.

So a few weeks ago when I came across an antique French postcard that reminded me of him, I bought it and sent it to him for his 41st (!) birthday. It was a photo (not this one, but a similar style) of Marseille, a city I've never been to but one of his favorites; furthermore, the bridge in the photo was taken at an angle that is reminiscent of shots we took years ago during an early visit to New York of the Brooklyn Bridge. It felt strange to address the postcard to the same address in Florence, Italy where we lived together so long ago.

After l'Artista received the postcard, he finally sent the email I had been anticipating in August. He told me that it felt like he was hearing me talk to him as he read it, and asked if I'd like to come to Italy for a visit before he moves out of the apartment (his landlord is planning to move in, so after 13 years there he has to leave). He's an incredibly heartfelt, affectionate person, and just as he said of me, I could hear his voice talking as I read his email. I know him so very, very well, despite the five years that have passed since I last saw him, and I miss him and care about him. At the same time, I absolutely cannot let there be any romantic overtones to a correspondence between us, and I'm honestly unsure if he's capable of that.

Then this morning, before I had responded to the last email, I got another one. This one sent a chill down my spine. He's never taken very good care of himself; he smokes and drinks a lot, consumes strong coffee all day long and late into the evening, and doesn't exercise. Last week, he had to go to the emergency room because of pain in his stomach, and they told him that his stomach lining is seriously damaged and he absolutely has to change his lifestyle.

In order to begin going about this change, the first thing he thought to do was to unearth a book I made for him on October 26, 2000 -- almost exactly ten years ago. It's called "l'Artista's Cigarette Book," and I made it for him to keep track of how many cigarettes he smoked. Apparently, I painstakingly decorated every page and made little charts by hand for him to check off how many cigarettes he smokes. I have no memory of making it, but apparently he used it for quite a while -- he said more than half of it was already filled out. All these years later, he knew exactly which drawer he had tucked it away in.

I don't really know how serious his health is, but it doesn't seem like a good sign if someone has to go to the emergency room at age 41 because of damage they've done to themselves by living unhealthily. It's hard for me to imagine a world without l'Artista in it, and I hope that we are able to develop a platonic relationship. I also feel very grateful that my life doesn't center around someone who makes such poor choices.

Déjà déçu

It is not news to me that men can be disappointing. I've been reminded of that time and time again, in big and small ways, ranging from l'Artista's inability to decide whether he wanted to be with me to my live-in ex-boyfriend La Moustache's midlife crisis at the worst possible juncture in my life and his decision to travel the world solo to the failure of men I've gone out with to follow up after a date or send a quick note saying "Hi, I enjoyed meeting you, but I don't think you're what I'm looking for."

Nonetheless, I must be the most doggedly optimistic person on the planet, because I still have hopes for men. Most recently, I had hopes for Le Canadien. I've been looking forward all week to our weekend date, which started out as a plan to watch a movie in the park and ended up involving a trip to a lake for a swim. When he got here this afternoon, he told me that he had an appointment to go see an apartment later on, and he had to stop by his lab to do a bit of work. Fine, I don't mind having a break in the middle of the date, and I assumed he'd come back shortly thereafter.

So we drove to the lake, doggie paddled around and joked about how we're both terrible swimmers, drank surreptitious beers, and kissed on identical beach towels. It was nice. I feel a connection with him, maybe because he reminds me of the Quebecois boys I went to college with. I feel comfortable talking to him, and I think he feels the same way. I told him the story of how I fell in love at age 18 with my 28-year-old Italian painting teacher, l'Artista, and the sad ending to that story. I even told him a bit about La Moustache. He talked to me of a girl he liked and professed his love to while he lived in Italy (she liked him back, but the timing was off and nothing ever came of it), his father's death, and the house he inherited from his father in Quebec that he remodeled and rents out. He told me he is now leaning toward staying in Boston rather than moving to California, and I felt glad about it, without having any expectations. I like the idea of having the chance to get to know him better.

Eventually we moseyed back to the place where I'm housesitting and settled in for some more kissing. When 5:30 rolled around, I reminded him that he needed to get ready for his 6:00 appointment, and he tucked in his shirt and asked if he looked like someone I'd accept as a roommate. I assured him that he looked fine. He got up to go, and as he kissed me goodbye, I said, "You'll be back for the movie at 8, right?"

"Oh, maybe... I'm not sure I can make it. If not tonight, we can go another time," was his response. Oops. Not the right answer. It reminded me of a game I used to play with La Moustache where I'd ask him a question, then when he answered, I'd do my best machine voice and say, "Réponse incorrecte," until he gave me an answer I liked. This was definitely an incorrect response. I explained that this is not a movie that is in the theaters, it is a one-time showing in the park. He said he'll try to make it back, but somehow I doubt I'll be seeing him again tonight.

Am I overreacting to feel so disappointed? Other than that, from what I know of him so far he seems great -- thoughtful, smart, funny. He has thirteen days before he has to be out of his place, and he's (justifiably) stressed about finding a new place to live. However, a date is a date, and I'm not interested in spending time with someone who's unreliable and lets me down. Now, how to let him know that this is unacceptable without sounding high maintenance?

Ghosts of Relationships Past

Last week I traveled home, along with everybody else in this country, to spend Thanksgiving Weekend with my family. I was a little on the skinny side when I arrived, due to a post-breakup decrease in appetite, but found that, when I weighed myself every morning on the bathroom scale, I weighed a pound more each day than I had the previous day. By the end of the weekend, I was more or less back to my normal weight. Green Bean traveled with me and was happy to get lots of attention and to have free reign of the house, and was also appreciative that he's been forgiven for preferring La Moustache to me in the past. There were a couple of semi-close calls, but I managed to keep him safe from my parents' obese cat, Kiki, thanks largely to Kiki's unmaneuverability and slow reflexes.

While I was home, I had a brief visit with my oldest friend, Ms. B, who moved back home from New York a year and a half ago, built a house, had a baby, and transformed herself with astonishing rapidity into an adult. When we had a moment to ourselves, she told me something surprising: “If I were you, I would call up L'Artista. It's probably not the right thing to do, but I would if I were in your shoes.”

Up to that point, I had not allowed this thought to cross my mind. L'Artista was my first serious boyfriend. I met him when I was 18 and had just arrived in Florence, Italy for a semester of painting lessons, where he was my 28-year-old painting teacher. He was charming, handsome, hopelessly in love with me (as I was with him), the most amazing cook I've ever met, and a disaster when it came to committed relationships. Still, he was scrupulously honest about this last aspect of his personality, which puts him several notches above La Moustache in my book. He took me for rides on his Vespa, painted numerous paintings of me, and cooked fabulous meals for me and my friends. We embarked on a meandering, romantic relationship while I went to college, then moved to New York and began my life. It should have ended there, when I grew up a bit and began to want a real partner, but L'Artista got carried away by his own romanticism and began musing about moving to New York and starting a life together. I chose not to heed his earlier warnings, and we talked about this possibility for over a year, without making any discernible headway. My patience finally began to wear thin, and the situation culminated one day on a bus in England; during a discussion about our future together, L'Artista got up, ran to the bathroom, and was sick to his stomach. This was too much for me, and I ended it. As soon as I did so, he told me he was ready to move to New York and get serious about me. HA.

Since then, L'Artista has maintained his romanticism, and continues to call me “amore” in sporadic e-mails that I rarely reply to, and muses about what it would be like if we were to see each other again. The thought is terrifying and, I have to admit, enticing. I e-mailed him in September to wish him a happy 40th (!) birthday, and told him about some of the difficulties of my life lately (though no mention was made of La Moustache, since I had a feeling he would get ideas if he knew I am single). He e-mailed me back several times, and finally wrote a note saying that my silence was beginning to worry him; he asked me to let him know if everything was okay. Angry and embittered against all men, I wrote back a cryptic e-mail saying that I was fine, I just didn't need selfish people in my life at that moment, or maybe ever. I composed the e-mail rapidly, without thinking, and wrote it in French because it seemed like too much trouble to find the words in Italian (even though I often chat online with old friends in Italy with no language problems). I quickly hit “send” before I had a chance to reconsider.

The response was fast; a hurt L'Artista shot off four e-mails asking what he had done wrong, and if it is a crime for him to tell me that I am important to him. I suspect that he's forgotten all about his role in encouraging me to hope for more from our relationship. I didn't reply to any of these missives.

There is a fine balance when it comes to memories of past relationships. Too good a memory makes it impossible to move on, and too poor a memory leads one to keep making the same mistakes over and over again, like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. If given the chance, I feel sure that L'Artista would do it all over again with me, right down to vomiting in the bus restroom; absent that opportunity, I imagine he is making similar mistakes with other people (I flatter myself that I am still his first choice). Four years after the last time I saw L'Artista, I like to think that I am a wiser, better person because of that relationship. And despite his 40 years, I have a feeling I'm a lot wiser than L'Artista. For that, I am thankful.

Drawing of me at age 19 by L'Artista