Buona Fortuna

I've never been able to accept good fortune without a mental struggle. As my maids clean the house, I wonder, why them and not me? Why does life have such grand plans for some of us, and bleak ones for others? I didn't grow up rich, but I always felt like we had money. We lived in a nice house and had anything we wanted. My father made sure we could "shit with the big boys." In other words, we had what the rich had, or at least we appeared to have, everything we wanted, beg, borrow or steal.

I had always been told that my Italian grandmother came from an aristocratic family. Hard to believe looking at her sons. While my grandmother was cultured and spoke three languages, my father and his brothers spoke Italian mobster. You know, "Yo, Vinnie, where da hell is da money you owes me...do I have to break one of your fingers?"

We traveled to Italy last year and I finally met my grandmother's family. Luckily, Michael picked up Italian fluently and was able to communicate with my relatives. Quite funny, considering I'm Italian and he's Jewish. My only expertise with the Italian language came courtesy of my father. I can easily tell someone to go fuck themselves or to kiss my aunt's ass, but it ends there.

After visiting Rome, Venice, Tuscany, Sienna and the Amalfi Coast, we met my cousin Nicoletta in a city called Benevento, outside of my grandmother's village. It's a very cosmopolitan place, surrounded by rolling hills. My cousin Nicoletta, a 32-year-old attorney who bares a close resemblance to Giada DeLaurentis, greeted us with hugs and asked us to follow her car to the place we'd be staying.

We arrived at a lovely apartment, took the elevator up and entered a three-bedroom loft with tall ceilings, hardwood floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows, filled with ancient art (real art, not copies of art) and antiques, a grand piano, and three terraces overlooking the hills.
"Thee, ahh, cabinetsah, are, ahh, filleda, witha, lotsa, how-you-say, fruita and other thingsa. Our Aunt Rosalba wants you fora dinner, soa, I'lla picka you upa at a, how you saya.... seven o clocka. She handed us keys to the apartment and left.

Instinct told me to dress conservatively, so I put on an outfit I brought to wear to the Vatican: a knee-length skirt, proper blouse, heels and pearls, and prepared myself for Nicoletta's arrival. We drove down a street that reminded us of Central Park West, overlooking a beautiful park. At the end of the street were gates that said, "Villa Columba." We proceeded up a winding lane, passing two mansions and arrived at the main house. Yes, they own all of this. The main house was so large we weren't sure what level we were in as we entered. An Italian-looking Ivana Trump met us at the door. She speaks no English so Michael and Nicoletta attempted to translate. She says, "I'm your Aunt Rosalba and I'm so happy to finally meet you." After lots of hugs, we were brought into a sitting room filled with antiques and ancient art and artifacts. The coffee table glass sat on Roman columns, original Roman columns.

We were introduced to my cousin, Giuseppi, who was so beautiful I had a hard time not staring. A lawyer in his 30s, Giuseppi practices law with Nicoletta. Aunt Rosalba is Nicoletta's mother's sister, who passed away last year, along with her father, a professor, in the same year. My great Aunt, Aunt Angelina, the matron of the family, is in her late 80s. She told me in Italian that I must learn to speak Italian immediatly. She also scolded Michael because my hands weren't soft enough and told him that I must not do hard work. (I love Aunt Angelina).

After several glasses of wine, Michael managed to learn more about my Italian family then I'd ever known. My aunts on the East Coast abandoned their roots in Italy, even insisting that my nonie not speak Italian in the home. They wanted to be Americans. Strange, but I guess very typical for the time. In a nutshell, my nonie's sister married a baron whose grandson looks exactly like my son, Andy; my Aunt Rosalba is an attorney and widow; all of my Italian relatives were either attorneys, professors, or royalty; my great grandfather ran the education system and was raised by a priest because his father, my great great grandfather, led a revolution against Garibaldi and was executed. My Italian relatives still own land throughout Italy and are very powerful in the conservative, Catholic political arena.

We visited my nonie's village, Castelvetore sul Calore, the next day. The walls leading into the village have my nonie's family name, Bimonte, carved line after line. I walked through her childhood home and felt like I'd returned home. I can't describe the feeling, but I felt I belonged there.

We left the next day for Milan, and Michael told me he felt he needed to bow when I walk in the room. He keeps telling me that I deserve to be treated like a queen, but in the real world, I wonder, why me? Why do I live this charmed life while others are destined to clean toilets? Does reincarnation exist? Do we come here over and over again, working our way up the food chain or are some of us just really lucky? I contemplate this thought as my young Latino maid wipes off my computer screen.

"Sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn't make me Madonna. Never will." -Cyn, "Working Girl"