Living in a Foreign Language. A Memoir of Food, Wine, and Love in Italy

Spring was about change, and so were we.

It is important... the support of a mate, who — at that crucial moment halfway out on the gangplank when you get weak in the knees and fear you are being a fool — assures you that indeed you are fool, and that is just fine.

Rome — is like a river, in that its past, present and future are all rolling by you at the same time.

To have the partner of a lifetime — for a lifetime — is rare stuff. We had be fools not to indulge it to the limit. What extraordinary freedom it is not to care about up or down, rich or poor, East Coast, West Coast, as long we are in the taxi together.

There is only one way to know the Italians. To speak Italian.

Italians follow a very strict code when it comes to eating, and one hard-and-fast rule is gelato at four o`clock. It is sort of a law.

I mean it is hard enough being a star, but when there is nobody there to worship you, it is damn near impossible.

We talked and ate in that way you do in Italy. Time passes gently; there is no sens of hurry or direction.

They say you never hear the one that gets you.

There is a sting — probably a monofilament of some kind because it can not be seen by the human eye; yet it is durable enough to maintain its strength for a lifetime, and it is long enough to reach across oceans.

Italy is a philosophical country. One sits at table — yes, there may be a bit f food and drink at hand — and one discourses with colleagues on the many thorny questions of life.

The mantra for driving in Rome is "Never look back, never look to the side and above all, never hesitate — just step on the accelerator and pray".