Nothing But Iron: Under the Tuscan Influence by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. November 11, 2006 It is morning in Florence, and we await our flight to Frankfurt. From there we make the long journey over the ocean and half of the United States, to Chicago. By the time we land, the Wisconsin-Iowa game will be either good history or bad history. I read that there are some planes now that have internet access allowing history to be scrutinized as it is formed, but we will not have that amenity on our flight. Instead we ponder the various predictive paper details that probably will not be central to the outcome. In most years, my thoughts in the week before the Iowa game would be monopolized by stats and injury reports and relative strengths and hopes and wishes and fantasies of returning the once-traveling, but lately-stationary Corn Trophy to its creator, my good gold-clad Hawkeye friend Brent Feller. In my daydreams I return this icon of humility with the same respect and good sportsmanship that he has offered me so many times in this decade. This, though, is not most years. This is the year of Italy. Italy was Kelly's idea. Well, not originally her idea. There were these Romans and Sienese and Florentines and countless other Italian cultures and societies who first had the idea of Italy, and Kelly's modern-day whim was also preceded by that of our friends Debra and Terenzio (Terry here in the States), who thought it would be fun to travel there with a small group of friends. I finally warmed to the concept and feasibility of the trip, but it took many months of flat-out refusal, considerable reluctance, and reluctant consideration, which ultimately matured to frank acceptance. But for a few minutes of high-speed internet surfing at our villa–yes, even villas are wired now–my thoughts in the week before the Iowa game were of winding roads through rolling hills of slate-colored, gravid olive trees, ancient stone buildings, and golden vineyards holding the promise of next year's harvest of Sangiovese grapes. At the risk of sounding contrived, I was going to write post-partum golden vineyards, but I didn't because I didn't want to sound contrived. Italians, who are emphatic by nature, have a suffix that transforms a lowly adjective into a superlative. Bello, meaning beautiful, becomes bellissimo–beautiful with passion. Bellissimo is beautiful that begs to be photographed, or at the very least memorized. Bellissimo is Italy. When we return home you will ask us if Italy's beauty is the same is that of post cards? First we will apologize for not actually sending you your post cards, and then we will answer no. No, because the two-dimensionality of the post card–even one depicting the long shadows of an old couple on their morning walk along a pigeoned, cobblestoned street–forsake the depth and the texture of actually being there. Moreover, postcards have no sound. The experience of Italy is incomplete without audio, comprised mostly of animated conversations of its countrymen, in coffee bars, at open-air markets, across streets, from sidewalk to second-story window. Sharply enunciated. Liberally gestured. Rarely subdued. The postcard portrays Italy as a mere menu portrays a feast. To tell the rest would take more time than you have to read about it, so instead I will 1) invite you to come to Italy with us sometime and 2) leave you with a few observations and a handful of pictures as I turn my thoughts back to the Iowa game and what might be revealed when we land, and how it will matter, which is not quite as much as it would have before I spent the week in Italy with my wife and some good friends. Observations: Italy for guests like us was a consumptive paradise, full of gastronomic excesses: wine, coffee, cheese, meat, fruit, bread, pastries, olive oil and more wine, and then coffee to reverse the physiologic effects of all the rest. Sleep, Pepcid and occasional ibuprofen was helpful too. Do not order cappuccino in the afternoon. This is a morning drink. To order it in the afternoon is very American, and considered unrefined by the natives. You might say this is entirely arbitrary. I would reply that we do arbitrary much better than the Italians. For example, Ohio State and Rugrats could end up playing for the so-called national championship of oblong pointed football. And that matchup is one that probably makes the most sense. Italians too, enjoy their food and drink, but I was pleasantly astounded and somewhat embarrassed by their overall lack of conspicuous consumption. Gas is $6 a gallon, so they consume less by driving small cars. It is rare to see an SUV. Heating costs are astronomical, so they keep their homes cool in winter. Even elegant homes, except those owned by foreigners, lack air conditioning. I was told that liberal use of stone and tile construction makes air conditioning unnecessary. They hang their clothes to dry in the air. They recycle. They turn off lights. We of the United States of Waste and Disposability could learn much from Italians. On two days we picked olives, like real live volunteer migrant workers, which, technically we were. I managed to pick about half what a professional picker might pick, which is fair because studies show that professional olive pickers can awaken only half of their anesthetized patients. There are many methods, including some mechanical, of harvesting olives, but nothing is more conducive to high-quality olive oil like the gathering of olives branch-by-branch by the hands of high-quality humans. You might wonder why we chose to do this, and it is a long story, that I will gladly tell you in person someday. It is sufficient to know that this was very much a highlight of the trip. This is not a place for timid drivers. Italy does not have street signs in the way we know them. It has arrows. Go this way to get here. Go that way to get there. What road are we on? We are on the road that goes to the places that the arrows point. Some signs have a dozen different possible destinations, so speed readers have an advantage. Dyslexics move. As population density increases, so does the confusion. We found one sign, in the city of Siena, that pointed in the direction exactly opposite the actual location. Perhaps it was a joke that the locals play on naive tourists. Even finding the airport in Florence was challenging. As signs go, Italy is all about equal-opportunity: no destination more prominent than any other. Airport arrow signs are just as obscure as those for Firenze or Grosseto or San Gimignano. Because Terenzio, a seasoned Europe traveler with olives of steel, did all the driving, I was able to enjoy the adventures of the road without taking beta blockers or extra vino. _____________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports and sometimes travel column. For readers who are so narrow-mined that they only want to read about sports and think everything else is crap, the author apologizes for them being so narrow minded, and suggests that they make their own sports column. Special thanks, or as the Italians and at least a few foreigners say, grazie mille, to Debra and Terry, whose preparation and Italy expertise allowed us to cultivate a month's worth of fun out of six days. Thanks also to them for making their friends, Sharon, Leeann, Jerry and Barbara, our friends too. The author really apologizes for the SUV stains on his hands and all the lights his kids leave on. ©2006 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved.