Perugia

I don’t know a damn thing about fashion but the fact that people obsess about it and spend ridiculous amounts of money on is endlessly fascinating to me. I mean, I stopped watching Sex and the City after the episode where Carrie Bradshaw realized she’d spent $40,000 on footwear yet couldn’t afford an apartment because I just thought it was too over the top. Nobody is really like that, are they?

Well, evidently they are. Particularly in Italy.

Photos by David Lansing.

I have to admit that it’s kind of fun to walk down Corso Vannucci in Perugia and just look at the window displays, which are nothing like the ones in L.A. or NY. Right next to my hotel, for instance, there’s an ancient little alcove, no more than ten feet wide, that has been turned into a display area for wedding gowns. There’s no information available on the window or anywhere else about where these gowns are being sold but there is a tiny little slip of paper on a pedestal that says 15,065. I assume that means Euros and the idea is that if you have to ask anything else about it, you can’t afford to buy it anyway.

In the same vicolo where I got lost a few days looking for a cheese shop is a store selling children’s clothes. But not like Gap kid’s clothes. More like the sort of clothes Audrey Hepburn’s character in Breakfast at Tiffany’s would have worn if they’d done a prequel about Holly Golightly as a 7-year-old. This shot I took of a Degas-ballerina-inspired outfit with Kermit the Frog cape? 2,436 Euros (but that includes the ballet slippers and a child’s handbag so she has someplace to stick her crayons).

Yesterday Maura and I were walking around Maesta when we came across this men’s fashion store in what used to be a church (okay, in the states we turn old churches into restaurants, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one repurposed into a place to sell D&G underwear). It’s called NIBA and is owned by a LeRoy Neiman-lookalike named Gianpaolo Nicolia. Maura picked up a package of Dolce&Gabbana underwear that, she said, would look great on me. And believe it or not, I was actually thinking of getting these shorts as kind of an Italian souvenir for myself until I noticed that they cost 73 Euros—or about $97.

Gianpaolo Nicolia and his $100 briefs.

But hey, the D&G underwear was cheap compared to the silk pajamas that were going for the equivalent of $759. Would a man really wear a pair of silk pajamas that cost $759? Well, yes and no, Gianpaolo told me. For instance, he himself has a classic pair of striped pajamas but he only brings them out for holidays and specials occasions. Like when he goes to Canne with his mistress.

The trick, he told me, is to buy the same version of the pajamas in cotton for days when you’re just home with the wife. “These,” he said, holding up a pair of cheap cotton striped pajamas, “are only $165.”

I don’t know, I told him. I just didn’t see the point (frankly, I’m perfectly comfortable in boxers and a T-shirt).

“Listen,” he told me, “when you make love to a woman, it is like she is giving you a gift. And just like any gift, you want the packaging to look beautiful. That is why Italian women pay attention to their lingerie and are happy to spend 150 or 200 Euros for a bra. It is part of the present. And it is the same for a man. You are a fool if you don’t pay attention to your undergarments.”

Okay, I can almost buy this (although I did not buy the hundred dollar pair of shorts). But I still don’t understand why anyone would pay over $3,200 for a little girl’s ballerina outfit. 

They’re crazy about chocolate in Perugia. There’s a festival, in October, called Eurochocolate to celebrate what they call the “food of the gods.” There’s also the Chocolate Hotel where the restaurant has a Choco-Menu with everything being made of chocolate.

But the big chocolate draw is undoubtedly Perugina chocolate, the people that make those little blue foil-wrapped chocolate kisses.

Yesterday Maura took me out to the Perugina factory, a few minutes out of town, where we walked around the chocolate museum upstairs. She told me this story, which is probably apocryphal, about how the Baci chocolates came to be: Perugina chocolate was founded by two families named Buitoni and Spagnol. They made a little chocolate called cazzotto, which means punch or fist because that’s what it looked like. But they didn’t sell much chocolate.

The Chocolate Museum at Perugina.

Meanwhile, the wife of one of the founders, Luisa Spagnol, began having an affair with her husband’s business partner, Giovanni Buitoni. They worked together and every morning, Louisa would write a little love note and place it beneath a cappuccino on a plate with some chocolate and bring it to Giovanni. This gave him an idea and he decided to change the shape of the chocolate, call it Bacio, which means “kiss,” and put a love note in each one.

Then Maura held up the dark Bacio between her two fingers and asked me what I thought the chocolate looked like.

The answer was embarrassingly apparent: “A nipple?”

“Exactly,” she said. “Giovanni shaped the chocolate to look like his lover’s nipple.” Maura smiled, then plopped the dark mounded chocolate into my mouth.

She said, “Do you want another Bacio or have you had enough?”

I told her I could probably handle at least one more.

In the museum they had a lot of the old Perugina ads, some going back to the 30s, all emphasizing the sensual nature of chocolate. Even the original box, which came out in 1922, showed a representation of Goya’s famous “The Kiss” of Romeo and Juliette. A few years later, Perugina came out with a new product, a banana-flavored chocolate that was shaped like a two-inch-long banana. A poster made by the famed Italian artist Federico Seneca for the new product shows a recumbent black man, totally naked, cradling an immense banana between his legs.

“You know,” Maura said, studying the poster, “for us, chocolate and sex always go together.”

That night, before turning off the light, I sent a text message to Hardy: Weathr in Perugia gettng bettr; dn’t pay bet off just yet. 

I don’t know what the priests were pouring when I was an altar boy, but it wasn’t a nice Montefalco sangratino. I would have remembered that since I usually had a toot or two before Mass.

My favorite sangratino is called Scacciadiavoli, which means “chasing the devil away.” Don’t you love that? It’s worth drinking just for the name but it’s also awfully damn good. The Scacciadiavoli estate, which might be the most beautiful in all of Umbria, is in a little village not far from Montefalco.

There is a story, perhaps apocryphal, about how Scacciadiavoli got its name: Seems back in the Middle Ages, a local woman was possessed by the devil. Back then this could be a real problem, leading to some rather nasty medieval solutions like being flayed and disemboweled. But there was this wealthy noble man from Montefalco, who was a pretty good guy, and he decided to see if he couldn’t personally exorcise the devil. Evidently the treatment required some serious one-on-one time alone in his chambers.

And, hallelujah, it worked. No one was really quite sure what he did to rid the devil in Mrs. Jones, but the most prominent theory was that he had sex with her. Because any Italian worth his D&G sunglasses will tell you that sex is a good way to clear the mind. 

The cure took. But evidently every once in awhile Mrs. Jones would feel that ol’ devil in her bones again and ask her husband’s permission to visit the noble man for a little refresher exorcism. Which he always granted. Because when she came home, not only was she calmer and happier but she always brought a nice bottle of sangratino with her as a gift from the noble man to her husband. And the husband started calling this wine “scacciadiavoli” in honor of the noble man’s prodigious gift.

This went on for a number of years. Until the woman got pregnant. Which seemed a little odd to everyone in the village since her husband was long known to be impotent. Anyway, the Scacciadiavoli vineyards are still there, up in the Umbrian hills near a little village called Bastardo. Nobody is quite sure how the village got its name. But, as you can imagine, there are stories. 

This morning when I explained to the young woman at the front desk at the Locanda Della Posta that I needed to either switch rooms or change hotels, someone was immediately dispatched to move me to a slightly larger and decidedly more pleasant room with windows that open on to Perugia’s historic main street, Corso Vannucci.

The view from the Locanda Della Posta in Umbria, Italy. Photo by David Lansing.

Fortunately, it has stopped raining—at least for the moment. But it’s overcast and inordinately cold for this late in spring. School children, bundled in coats and scarves, are being marched by their teachers up the narrow street to the pink and white marble cathedral, which I can see if I stick my head out far enough over my balcony. Below me is a café and I can smell the invigorating perfume of espresso and hear the lilting Italian of those sitting at outside tables huddled beneath dripping café umbrellas.

Across the way, an old woman pokes and prods a large planter of somnolent wisteria on her balcony, as if demanding to know why, this late in May, it refuses to bloom. Above her, a lone swallow flits about beneath the red tile roof, no doubt searching for a fat insect or two for breakfast. But the morning is too cold and damp for bugs. The swallow retreats into a mud nest beneath the eaves.

It’s all very pretty in a Merchant-Ivory sort of way, I suppose. But here in Umbria they have a saying: Una rondine non fa primavera. A single swallow does not make spring; in other words, if you see something beautiful, it doesn’t mean that everything that follows will be beautiful. 

Dining in Italy isn’t as expensive as you think. Yes, a few years ago one dollar was just about equal to one euro and now the dollar is worth about 75 cents. But here’s the thing: In Italy they don’t tip! So that saves you at least 15% on your bill, right? Plus, if you go to a place like the Bar Ferrari in Perugia, you can get a glass of Umbrian vino rosso for 3 euros and they throw in a plate of Napoletana pizza (tomato, oregano, olive oil) and another plate of olives, cornichons, prosciutto, salame, cheese, ham, capers, and other goodies for free. Back home, we call this dinner. And the total is 3 euros (or less than 5 bucks). 

The other good thing about the Bar Ferrari is it’s where I meet the Two Amandas. They are sitting at the best table in the bar, with views of the red-tile roofed town and the Umbria hills, nursing a couple of glasses of Orvietto Classico and slowly eating the free antipasto plate when Ireland Amanda gets up to take a photo of Australia Amanda seated at the window with a view. Being the ace photographer I am, I offer to take a photo of both of them. And then they invite me to join them.

Introductions all around: Ireland Amanda is a social worker from Cork; Australia Amanda is a teacher from Cairns. They tell me they came to Perugia because they thought they might get lucky. “In fact,” says Ireland Amanda, who is pale and blond and very attractive, “on the train from Rome yesterday was the cutest guy and I’m thinking, ‘Hmmm….,’ and then he takes off his raincoat and sure enough he’s wearing a priest’s collar.”

Still, I say, Catholic priests, Ireland, pretty girls….

The two Amandas. Photo by David Lansing.

“True enough, but never mind,” she says, waving off the idea. “We found the Perugina store today and chocolate is better than sex. In fact, it’s better than religion.”

“Well, the church, yes, fuck the church,” says Australia Amanda. “But sex is pretty good. In fact, if I remember correctly, I used to quite enjoy it.”

“It can be good,” says Irish Amanda, ever the diplomat. “But chocolate is better. Less mess all ‘round and when you’re done, you’re done. Unlike boyfriends.”

Australia Amanda considers this argument for a moment but doesn’t seem to be convinced.

Irish Amanda drains her wine and slaps the glass on the table. “Never mind all that,” she says. “The night is young yet. And we’re in a four-bed room in the hostel and the other two beds are empty and if that doesn’t work out, well, I’ve still got a box of Baci chocolates.”

She winks, we all tink empty glasses, and away the two Amandas go.