Schmoozing in Italy

Betsey and I love traveling in Italy.  Having visited nearly 40 cities and towns from Milano to Messina, we hope to visit many more.

One of our favorite destinations is Florence, where I studied during part of my junior year of college in the winter of 1969.  I encouraged Betsey to study Italian, and she may now speak better than I.   

Not merely surprised by our significant efforts, Italians so often encourage us.  Having often inquired whether we have Italian ancestors, they are shocked to learn that we do not. 

Perhaps Betsey and I are shameless because we enjoy schmoozing with just about anybody.  For better or worse, we typically interact with hotel and restaurant staff or merchants and cab drivers rather than our peers. 

On our last trip to Florence, in November, we enjoyed being recognized by some staff members at our favorite hotel.  One waitress, whom we may had met once or twice on previous visits, greeted us enthusiastically – like a long lost relative! I thought for a moment that Laura would not merely hug us, but burst into tears.

Then there’s a favorite Florentine restaurant where I more closely resemble a chef than my own fraternal twin!  On our first visit there, a few waiters immediately rushed into the kitchen to fetch my lost “brother.”

Fellow visitors offer us even more schmoozing opportunities –  in Italian or English – especially when enjoying meals at neighboring tables.  On our recent trip to Florence, we became acquainted with two young men from India who had graduated from American colleges, Oberlin and Babson.  They were visiting Italy for less than a week, however, and not to savor its art, architecture, music or wine.  Rather, they loved the idea of driving Italian sports cars, so they experimented with Ferraris, Lamborghinis and Maseratis. 

On another evening in Florence, Betsey and I were seated next to a couple who, based on our remarks to waiters, assumed that we were Italians.  Then they heard us speaking English to each other.  Michael and Phoebe explained that, having been born in Hong Kong, they were naturalized Americans.  They sought our advice about visiting other Italian cities.

We did encounter a number of American students in Italy.  Two were waiting in airports.  One was from Colorado College, the other from Villanova University, and both were able to travel widely in Europe when not attending classes in Florence.

While eating lunch at one of our favorite Florentine restaurants, we noticed four students seated together and busily chatting in English.  I was curious to meet them (even if Betsey preferred that I leave them alone).  Stopping to chat, I was astonished to learn that they were Stanford undergraduates.  They were intrigued to learn that I had earned my doctorate there nearly 50 years ago.  Indeed, while a student in Florence, I had met some of their predecessors—possibly even their grandparents! 

As an undergraduate, I attended Lake Forest, a small liberal arts college near Chicago.  I was among the first cadre of its students to study in Italy.  Although Lake Forest no longer maintains its own Florentine program, I recently contacted some administrators to learn if any current students were participating in a sister program.  Indeed, there were two such students whom Betsey and I enjoyed meeting over cocktails.  They were enjoying their Italian adventure, which included preparing their own meals, as much as I  did all those years ago.

But what about meeting Jews?  Betsey and I have visited several synagogues in Italy.  On our most recent trip, we visited a magnificent, 19th-century example in Modena, a small city north of Bologna.  The caretaker who welcomed us said nothing to indicate that he was a Jew, and he asked nothing about our backgrounds.  Likewise, the soldiers who guarded the synagogue’s exterior chose or were commanded to say almost nothing to us.

Similarly, on our return visit to the gorgeous, 19th-century synagogue in Florence, nobody sought to engage us.  We were allowed to walk freely within the sanctuary and visit the upstairs museum, but a Jewish presence here also felt ghostly.  Once again, silent soldiers guarded its perimeter and the congregation’s vibrant past.

As we were leaving the synagogue, I noticed a storefront with a large photo of the late Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the Chabad movement’s patriarch.  As I snapped a photo of it, a young, bearded rabbi emerged from a doorway and asked me to lay tefillin.  I was tempted to say that, for 25 years, I had often helped form a minyan at Providence’s Chabad House, but I was not personally drawn to this movement.  Rather, I had much preferred helping form and lead Temple Beth-El’s minyan before the onset of Covid.  More importantly perhaps, I have always needed to find my own way within Judaism and probably everything else.

Was it somehow easier in Italy to schmooze with Gentiles than Jews?  Or is schmoozing as much an Italian preoccupation as a Jewish one?

While I enjoy greeting strangers at Beth-El and elsewhere, I too enjoy being recognized and welcomed.  Am I simply naïve about potential dangers or am I essentially an optimist?  Alas, my career as a salesman lasted for only one summer, until I turned 23. 

Perhaps it’s easier to conclude that I have always lacked or spurned the reserve that characterizes many New Englanders.  Or that being a mensch in Italy or elsewhere represents a natural urge to share warmth and kindness.  I hope that such conviviality is also occasionally expressed through my column.  Then again, “column,” like “calumny,” is such a joyless word!

“Yacker” would probably suffice.

GEORGE M. GOODWIN, of Providence, is the editor of Rhode Island Jewish Historical Notes.