Living Amid Romance in Rome

Are we silly to feel like teens again, or just young enough to be able to? Writer Claudia Flisi just feels young, living in Rome and running into everyone from Good-Looking Antonio to Claudia Cardinale.

The Italian actress Claudia Cardinale was the guest of honor at a local film festival last year, and I had the chance to exchange a few words with her. She was surprised and amused by my story: “Ms. Cardinale, we have never met before but you have had a positive influence on my life. You see, my name is Claudia too, but it’s not a common name in the United States, and it was far less common in the 1960s when I was growing up. When I would introduce myself to people, they didn’t always catch my name, so I would say, “Claudia, like Claudia Cardinale.” THEN they would understand, and sometimes they would make an appreciative comment about my namesake.

“Your fame and beauty gave me a lot of caché,” I told her. “So I wanted to thank you for having given the name Claudia such a positive connotation.”

Ms. Cardinale smiled at me for having shared this tidbit of appreciation. That got me to thinking about the impact people can have on you without their being aware of it. That happens often enough when you are young, but it can happen when you are in middle age as well. For example, a man I’ll call “good looking Tony”— or, where I live, “Il Bell’Antonio.”

“Antonio” is not his real name, and the eponymous film of 1960 starring Marcello Mastroianni (and, ironically, Claudia Cardinale) is not so much about a man’s beauty as it is about repressive Sicilian society, but the moniker of Il Bell’Antonio, the handsomest man in town, the one all the girls lust for and all their mothers do too, is appropriate.

”Antonio” is 60-something, a year or two younger than my husband. His wife is exactly my age, have been married the same number of years, and our respective spouses have aged with grace (his wife) and dignity (my husband). But “Antonio” is in a different league altogether. He is tallish and well dressed, has abundant silvery-grey hair, a flat stomach, firm jaw, and twinkling blue eyes. He looks like something out of central casting, Hollywood’s idea of the silver-haired Italian business executive, “of a certain age” to be sure, but aged in such an amazing bottle.

Even better, he–– like Marcello Mastroianni in the film–– is apparently offhandedly unaware of his appearance. He is not a strutting peacock or Don Giovanni, adjusting his tie and fidgeting with his hair; he talks sports with the guys and current affairs with colleagues and doesn’t flirt outrageously with the bimbettes, though well he might.

Sometimes he talks to me, as we are colleagues. In our city, we head our respective alumni associations and often attend each others’ events, so at least once a month we find ourselves at the same receptions . . . and the effect he has on me is always the same. I feel tongue-tied, awkward, the four-eyed class bookworm suddenly facing the captain of the football team and the president of the student council all in one. Barbra Streisand sighing after golden boy Robert Redford. My cheeks turn red, my hands are clammy, and my heart is pounding. Every word I utter feels like a screeching banality that I regret as soon as it escapes my lips.

“Antonio” seems unaware of the effect he has on me. Thank goodness. He smiles, banters, then nods and makes his way through the crowd, working the room with charming efficiency. My heart is in my throat and if I take a step at that moment, I am going to fall down flat on my unaccustomed high heels.

Knowing that I may see him at this or that event, I try to prepare myself in advance. I wear conservatively fashionable outfits, and heels in which navigation is possible without undue effort. I practice conversations on topics of mutual interest and comments on relevant current affairs. But it doesn’t work.

A few weeks ago, attending a lecture, I almost bumped into “Antonio” talking on a cell phone at the entrance to the event. I was so unnerved that I came close to falling across the marble floor. It would have been a spectacular entrance in a teen dating movie, but I am old enough to be osteoporosis-challenged. Falling on a marble floor is not a good idea.

“Antonio” flashed me a brilliant smile, extended his hand to steady my wobbling legs, then turned back to his phone call. I felt like a fish, my mouth gulping and exhaling air in a permanent O-shape.

Oh, this is so embarrassing at my age, so ridiculous, I scold myself. We are not talking love here (I am devoted to my spouse), we are not talking lust (post-menopausal passion is a pale imitation of its estrogen-rich equivalent), we are talking about a woman approaching her sixth decade acting like a 16-year-old girl.

But beyond the surface embarrassment and awkwardness, beyond the age-inappropriate “girlishness” of my behavior, down deep inside I admit that I revel in my discomfiture and am grateful to Antonio for making me feel this way. When I stammer and blush, it means I haven’t lost the ability to be thrown off track. Feeling like 16 may be strange and unexpected, but it means I don’t feel like 60, whatever THAT is supposed to be.

It means that the emotional world of middle age doesn’t have to be bland and predictable; it can throw you off balance, render you speechless, throw the fish out of water and into the boat, gasping for air. It means there can still be a surprise or two in store, maybe a road less traveled. The point is I still have a future, and that is something worth smiling about.

Someday I have to tell Il Bell’Antonio what he has done for me, the smile of surprising possibilities he has given me. Yes, I will do it someday, like I did with Claudia Cardinale . . . when my hands unclam and my tongue unties.

Filed Under: Baby Boomers • Claudia Flisi

Tags: Claudia Flisi • romance • Rome