The Prada is in the Details

Similar to the question about what I answer to the question of what do I miss about the American West, when asked about Italy, I have no hesitation about my answer. In the case of Italy, it is the details. Without a doubt, the country that I have come to appreciate the most with an eye and attention to details with every aspect of life is Bella Italia. Even when these details reach hyberbolic proportions, there is something to be said for this.

Perhaps it is the non-Italian's lacuna of such details that gives us (at least me) away from a mile (1.6 kilometers) away that I am indeed a straniero there. No matter how closely I would try at times to attain such heroic measures of style or precision, it was always forced, contrived, or simply ridiculous. And, it was not lost on the Italians.

But, let's cut to the chase. When it comes to the details, there are two things that jump out at me, the food and the shoes. How trite, yes, I know, but I just returned from the grocery store to make an Italian dinner tonight and it took me back to the streets of Bologna thinking about picking up fresh pasta at La Baita on the Via Pescheria Vecchia, which is a crowded street of fresh fruit stands, home-made pasta trattorie, and of course, as fish mongers as the name implies. It is, in short, a gastronomical paradise and where I would walk through nearly every day from the train station to the Piazza Aldrovandi, where we lived for a year. The tortelloni di zucca (pumkin/squash-filled pasta) are simply nothing short of a masterpiece. Boil for about two minutes max, saute with fresh sage and real butter, and you will never look at a pumpkin the same way again.

But, when it comes to details, as my mind was wandering back to Bologna, I will never forget the shoe store. In the first place, Italian shoes are legendary. However, take that to the nth degree with this cobbler's shop on the northeast entrance to the Corte Isolani, a secret "bat cave" passageway to get to the Piazza San(to) Stefano. I am pretty sure that I stopped and gawked at the hand-crafted shoes every day that I lived in Bologna. I am pretty sure that I would sometimes just leave the apartment to go stare at the shoes.

And, I never bought a pair. Normally, I am pretty impulsive with clothes shopping, inter alia. I know what I like, I like it, I get it. Pretty simple formula.

Except for those darn shoes. In addition to them being cost-prohibitive, it was more out of respect for the shoes in the window that I never even WENT INTO THE STORE! I know that I did not trust myself to go in there, I probably would have hyperventilated or something. I just remember peering in through the window, gazing at the immaculate and meticulous footwear, every stitch in place, every fabric perfectly cut. Every sole, a work of art. The two people that worked in the store were no less intimidating. A man and a woman, both dressed from head to toe each day with the clothing and shoes of this small boutique and were themselves works of art. No matter what your sexual preference or gender, I doubt many people walked by without a brief palpitation of the heart.

Why am I rambling on about this shoe/clothing store that I was too timid to even walk into? It is because I felt that it was one of the last, truly, truly great hand-made stores that I had seen. It was as if I wanted to keep it as a shrine in my mind of what craftsmanship was all about. Perhaps if I had walked in there, the beautiful woman salesperson would have had a funny voice, or the man might have mocked me, or the shoes would not have fit or, whatever. I just wanted to have that visual experience each day, unsullied by the actual commerce of buying the shoes. Just pure, unadulterated, visual pleasure.

Is it the fashion devil who tempts me to one day go back and purchase a pair, thus breaking the enchantment?

Perhaps...ci vedremo, ... ci vedremo...