讓人又愛又恨的南歐寶地
拾趣
One of my many regrets in life is that my daughters will never see the Italy I knew. Other people probably feel the same about Greece， France， Spain or Portugal， recalling the age before everyone seemed to be everywhere. When even Florence was not that crowded in summer and the small towns and villages of Tuscany and central Italy—certainly the south—were Italian in every way： very few foreigners and that uncompromised， apparently indestructible way of life.
An early start in the cool of morning， hard work followed by a good lunch with wine from a jug. Then the sacred siesta—a nap， or cuddling-up with someone else during the Italian afternoon， when everything is determinedly chiuso—closed. After the impenitent heat of day relents， the shutters reopen and evening begins for most with the passeggiata， Grandpa on the arm of his granddaughter， teenagers showing off， heated discussion over Gazetta dello Sport or the Communist party’s daily， L’Unità， posted on the wall. For others， back to work： for a few hours， behind the counter or in the office. On Sundays： forget it—no， you cannot go and buy this or that. Those metal shutters are down and will remain so until Monday morning， possibly late Monday afternoon. Sunday lunch lasts from about 3：30 P.M. till past 11.
This is rose-tinted and ignores the appalling tribulations some people faced， but these customs still exist in Italy and across the Mediterranean and Aegean， just about. It is called the quality of life and it is how I lived—and worked—for a fair while during the early 1970s and （less relaxedly） as a correspondent in the 1990s. But this popular civilisation is endangered， because of a pincer movement by tourism and the north’s economic doctrines. In the big cities—Rome， Florence—Sunday is just not Sunday any more. The pressure is on southern Europe to stop the indulgences and heed our own headlines about debt and deficit： CRISIS IN THE EUROZONE！ AUSTERITY！
Millions of people will leave Britain， northern Europe and America this holiday season， heading for the lands where the olive trees grow. Many holidaymakers will enjoy playing at—perhaps even enviably gawping at—the way life is lived among the cypresses. Understandably， they’ll adopt a few local habits for this precious week or two： a quick morning espresso at the bar； a longer lunch than at home； a siesta， indeed； an aperitif in the square before dinner outdoors. They may be a little annoyed that the church or museum they wanted to visit is shut for the afternoon， but， walking around， will hear the echo of their footsteps off the old stone walls and admire the tenacity with which the town has gone restfully silent in a way no place in northern Europe does.