WORLD CUP ’90 : For One American, It Was a Month of Love, Italian Style

Italy has me moonstruck.

There is more than mere inanimate beauty here, more than just statuary of rippling-muscled men and canvas portraits of ripe, round women. There are flesh-and-blood Italian people, very much alive, offering you a helping hand when not needing it to converse, pointing a finger toward a breathtakingly beautiful spire or steeple when not using it to pick your pocket.

Over the years I have lugged my luggage to many places, looked for directions or similar forms of kindness from many faces, had my passport stamped with inkblots of many colors. With each mile flown, every step walked, any road not taken, what lingers are the memories and images, the mental souvenirs.

I have seen skiers traverse steep Alpine slopes in the blinding snow of Yugoslavia, seen bicycle spokes spinning along the Champs Elysees on a perfect afternoon in Paris. I have seen golfers go forth armed with everything short of machetes into Scotland’s wet brown weeds, seen sleek yachts set sail toward orange sunrises off the edge of Australia.

Yet, give me Italy, every time. Give me a loaf of hard-crusted bread, with red sauces or green oils to sop from the plate. Give me a jug of wine inside a wicker basket, at a candle-lit table for two in the courtyard. Give me a street-corner musician plucking the strings of a dulcimer, beside a colorfully robed African businessman spreading a rug at your feet, unfurling his watchbands or flutes or warrior masks.

Five long weeks in Italy have made me love it more, not less. They should hold every World Cup here, and make it once a year. I promise to improve my knowledge of soccer, so I can discern the difference between a midfielder and a striker, and to improve my language skills, to keep from saying fagioli when what I mean to order is fragola , since the one scoop these ice-cream parlors rarely carry is bean flavored.

Yes, you do grow weary of dodging dozens of motorcycle daredevils along alley-wide cobblestone streets. Yes, you do hate waiting for trains that you could set your clock by, provided you are the sort of person who has a cuckoo coming out of your forehead. On the whole, though, Italy is more ecstasy than agony.

I have seen fireworks dance with a crescent moon above the gently flowing Arno at midnight, seen gondoliers weave their vessels along a web of Venetian canals, seen sunbathers rotate like a rotisserie atop jagged rocks at Genoa’s shore.

I have veered left in Naples and come face-to-face with storybook castles, swerved right in Rome and run smack into famous fountains or colossal cathedrals, turned the wrong way in Turin at 4 a.m. and encountered a stampede of military police, face-shields down, Uzis up, clomping in their combat boots while running toward a mob of trouble-making Englishmen.

I have seen a re-enactment of medieval football so violent that by comparison it made rugby resemble a debutante’s dance, seen elderly men make bocce balls curve and spin and do everything but fetch sticks or play dead, seen a horse race around the public square of Siena so completely spellbinding and danger-filled that it made the Kentucky Derby look as slow and safe as a carousel.

I have sampled octopus on salads and squid ink on rice and ravioli stuffed with rabbit, and been offered eel and brains and wild boar. I have thought of ways to make wheelbarrows full of money by introducing to Italian diners such 20th-Century innovations as no-smoking sections, rye bread and ice cubes.

I have taken rides with dedicated taxi drivers who went way out of their way for me, and with demolition-derby taxi drivers who made a way where there was no way. I have been accosted by assorted gypsies, tramps and thieves, but have been befriended by any number of helpful, thoughtful, cheerful university students such as Nicoletta Peluffo and Isabella Orlando, who enjoyed scolding me about not visiting more of Florence’s museums and enjoyed talking about their favorite American singer, Madonna, because: “She’s Italian, you know.”

I have seen swaying, rollicking Italian football fans sing for hours, hang flags from their balconies, honk horns from dusk to dawn and turn densely populated cities into ghost towns on the night of a match, with every television set for miles tuned to the same channel. On my own TV, I have seen dubbed into Italian everything from Benny Hill to “Blue Velvet,” without being able to yet tell which one was supposed to be funny.

I came to Italy for the soccer, but will leave for America after today’s World Cup championship game remembering practically everything else except the soccer. This is a warm and wonderful place, Italy, in the world and in my heart. That is why I am speaking to you this way, with my hands. I’m Italian, you know.