“Why do we Russians love Italy so much and recklessly, often without ever having been there? Why does the word“ Italy ”make our hearts so sweet and our faces look dreamy? Why is there something like a Mediterranean Pushkin’s night where it smells laurel and lemon?
This love is irrational, it defies any explanation. Moreover, each of us has Italy, as well as Pushkin, by the way.
For some, Italy is the non-tourist Rimini, Venice, Rome, Naples or Milan with special routes known only to them. For others, this is Peisan life among the Umbrian hills, Tuscan vineyards or mountains of southern Campania, for others it is the cradle of European culture, these are Leonardo da Vinci and Rafael, Dante Alighieri and Boccaccio, Villa Borghese and Pompeii. Someone is Celentano, Bella Chao, Mastroianni, Fellini, Vittorio de Sica and Sophia Loren, and some have Tinto Brass, but they carefully hide it ... "
This is exactly what I was thinking at the moment when the stewardess with a perfect smile asked me to buckle up. The Istanbul-Naples plane was on the decline. Through the transparent clouds it was already possible to distinguish the red roofs of the houses, the motorway strips, the wide Gulf of Naples, the mountains and the irregular squares of the fields. Below, the runway of Capodichino airport gleamed. I was at the very beginning of my most dizzying novel in my life. Novel with Italy.
From time immemorial, the Italian "boot" has attracted the attention of artists, artists, musicians, singers, avid travelers with its special magic. It is in Italy that it is easier for us Russians to breathe, write faster, sing more fun, and draw more beautifully. And no wonder. Italian beauties and endless natural harmony, entering into an alliance with our Russian mentality, give rise to true masterpieces, discover hitherto unprecedented talents, and open up in us ourselves such perspectives that are breathtaking! What can we say about us, simple!
Some names of the great are worth something! Bunin, Gorky, Tchaikovsky, Turgenev, Brodsky, Gogol, Dostoevsky, Repin, Surikov, Aivazovsky, Kiprensky ... If not for the trips to Italy of our talented compatriots, many recognized Russian masterpieces would hardly have seen the light of day.
What about the kitchen? Yes, my dear readers, Italian cuisine deserves a separate thorough discussion, seasoned with spices and sauces, in the company of fresh mozzarella balls, translucent chunks of prosciutto, Kuatroformadji, stewed artichokes, the most delicate nyokki in the world, pasta, strong aromatic espresso or a small glass of sweet . Ah, Italy, Italy!
But for me personally Italy is people. Elegant old women who for some reason walk in pairs, lingering at each shop window. Guys, every second of which looks like a young ancient god. Women who are young, obviously, have some kind of special chic gene. Old men in ties and silk scarves. And these old men have to do everything, be it rearrangements in the cabinet or the divorce of the owner of the local cheese factory.
Italy is when you close your eyes and begin to absorb the midday sun with all your senses, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the ringing of bells in an old basilica. When you admire the ability of the next handsome man to ride a scooter, putting his legs over his feet, bawling the song with might and main, and charming oncoming girls, doing all this at the same time. When suddenly, sitting in a trattoria on the outskirts of the city, you see in the face of pizzaiolo a profile of the Roman emperor.
And at some point you realize that you are recklessly in love, like a girl. In love with unconsciousness, not noticing the minuses, extolling the pros and dreaming to see the object of love again and again. And the most interesting is that Italy reciprocates! Is always!
