The celebration at La Saletta when Italy won the World Cup.

Toscana Americana: It’s All Good
Under The Tuscan Sun

(continued)

By Linda Oatman High

Monday, but NOT just another Manic Monday
3:00

They won! BRAVO, ITALIA! We watched the World Cup on a TV in La Saletta, in a barroom full of the most passionate, excited Italians I've ever seen. The waitress — pigtailed Silvia — was so beside herself that she was dropping things... And this was before the game even started.

Italy's national anthem is a rousing thing, and they were singing it. And singing it, and singing it, before the game. They sing it with gusto. We visitors joined in, even though we didn't know the words.

The game started, and there was shouting and squealing and screaming and hugging. There was praying and cursing. I don't even like sports, but I was glued to that TV screen like no Super Bowl fan you've ever seen. We four Americans — me and John and Suzanne and Holly — were shouting and squealing and screaming, too.

I was also trying to watch the Italians watching the game, without them noticing that I was watching them. Their faces were great. I loved the guy with the smile and the cigar, and the man who picked up the chair and thumped it on the ground when the captain of the French team got red-flagged and kicked out of the game. It was tense as heck when the score was tied at 1-1, and the game went into overtime.

At one point, the unthinkable happened: the electricity went off. This happens occasionally in Cortona, but oh Lord, not tonight. There was a moment of stunned shock, and then the waiters and waitresses went into panic mode. There was running and shouting and a man standing up with his hands clasped telling us something serious in Italian. Lights flickered off and on, and off and on, and finally the TV was back on. There was a sigh of relief, and then the volume and the excitement rose to fever-pitch level.

I discovered in that barroom that soccer's a game I can get into. There are no mysterious stoppings-of-the-clock, no time-outs, no unnaturally big-shouldered guys patting one another's butts, no Budweiser commercials or Janet Jackson halftimes. There's just the game — "the beautiful game," as the Italians say. Two halves of 45 minutes each: that's a game I can take. It's almost like a ballet, danced on green with a black and white ball. Oh, and the players are hot. Way hot. There's one with a ponytail and one with a tattoo that says "Anna" on the back of his neck and one with the most handsome Italian face I've ever seen that's not on a statue. As I said, this is a game I can really get in to. Totti and Tono, you can show those ugly Americana football players a thing or two about beauty and grace and the meaning of the game.

When it ended, and Italia was the victor, OHMIGOD. I have never in my life seen such frenzy. Not in Manhattan at rush hour, nor on the Jersey Turnpike. Wow, wow, wow. There was weeping and screaming and leaping and cheering. The people at La Saletta jumped up and down while belting out the National Anthem at the top of their lungs. There were fists of victory, and kissing, and whistling. Some guy hauled out a big flag, and waved it. One man put his hand on his heart with a grin and a proud pulling-up of his shoulders that literally brought tears to my eyes. I'm not even Italian, not even half, but I could have fallen on the ground and wept with happiness at this win that had been 24 years in the making. They'll be talking about this — July 9th of 2006 — for many, many years.

We went out on the streets to see what was happening. Celebration was happening, and what a celebration it was: jubilant honking of horns and sparklers and torches and running and jumping and dancing. It was spectacular to be in the midst of such patriotism and joy. The unity of it all, the connectedness, was a special thing. I was actually kind of jealous of their country being united as one, having come from, um, a place in which there's some division going on the past couple of years. Ahem. Anyway...

Our group, cautious Americans that we are, headed back down the steep and narrow streets before the throngs got too crazy. No taxi would come to Cortona, and no one could blame them. There were lines of little Smart cars, convertibles, small ATVs, scooters... All converging on Cortona. One big black-bearded man (on a Harley!) was revving his red cycle over and over, expressing his satisfaction through loud American horsepower. People from the valley rushed up the mountain. The cars were flying past, careening, and we were jumping on the roadside banks to get out of their way, just in case the drivers were blinded by joy or wine. Italian flags were everywhere, strung between buildings and hung from windows and flapping from speeding cars. One flag slapped me on the cheek, and it was actually kind of sweet.

People slapped us high fives as we walked by, and the connection of the flesh across continents was a grand thing. Bare chested boys were wrapped in flags, the word ITALIA written in red, white, and green on their foreheads. Oh, and we ingenious (and cheap) USA tourist people made our own little Italy fan gear, having no patriotic clothes of our own. Patrick gave us each three bar napkins — red, white, and green — and we stuck them in our collars, displaying our colors. The Italians loved it. I met one of them in the bathroom (the sinks are all together here, regardless of gender) and he was wearing Converse shoes: red, white, and blue.

"Cool!" I said. "Love the Chuck Taylors."

"Yes," he said. "I got them in the U.S. of A."

So anyway, it was one big jubilee in little Italy last night. I spent a few hours just leaning on my stone windowsill, gazing through the open windows at the sparkling valley below. It was a vista of fireworks and headlights and really happy people planning to stay awake all night. Horns were honking... And honking, and honking. People were yelling, and singing... And singing.

I think I dreamed of soccer balls, when I finally did sleep. It was either that, or maybe Totti and Tono.