There is something about the breeze in Italy. It really does caress. Standing in the square by the Orvieto train station, the warm, bright sun forces me to squint. Through half-closed eyes—it's like looking through a filter that softens and blends the landscape—I gaze up at tall, gently swaying poplar trees and rich, earth-colored villas. The small piazza fountain dances in melodic splashes, its rhythm varying with a wind carrying that Mediterranean "perfume"—thyme and lavender—and an occasional whiff of strong coffee from the trackside café.
I am being met at the station for a week in the countryside near Todi, but for the moment I couldn't care less about being picked up. Perhaps the trans-Atlantic jet-lag gives me that floating feeling; I want to do nothing but stand and be. The cicadas' buzz crescendos. I notice people, locals, some standing about, others sitting under the canopy of a majestic chestnut tree, just doing sweet nothing. The Italians call it "dolce far niente." They seem to have a word for all the good things in life.
My friend arrives on time. I wish he'd been late. We toss my bags into the Fiat and begin our steep ascent up a winding road that curves through well-groomed fields of sunflowers and orchards of olive trees. The ancient hill town, Todi, glistens in the distance, its spires and towers strong against the clear, blue sky. Majestically elevated and fortressed, it looks down in all directions like a maestro conducting a silent orchestra.
Then I see them. I blink once and then again, and I still see them. Standing by the road under the shade of a tree is a statuesque, young black woman clad in a mini-skirt and a revealing halter. Her high heels push her well over six feet. She is beautiful. Is it Naomi Campbell on a fashion shoot in Italy? Has this young lady had a flat tire and is she waiting for the Italian AAA to come to her rescue? There is no car, but there is a bench behind her in the bushes. A hundred yards later, I see her sister, another tall, black woman; she waves and smiles.
The lush, ancient Umbrian hills have become the backdrop for a new kind of business. The world's oldest profession has become a multi-national enterprise here in Todi. Master-minded and managed by the Albanian Mafia, operating out of nearby towns centering on Perugia, these women, mostly African, are one department in a supermarket of vice and crime that has sprung up as part of the post-Cold War spread of globalization.
With the death of Enver Hoxha and the collapse of Euro-communism's last holdout, Albanian crime made the short trip across the Adriatic to Italy, where it set up shop in drugs, prostitution, extortion, and murder. This venture in globalization has been more than mildly successful. It is estimated that a large share of Middle Eastern and South Asian drugs is trafficked through these Albanian "businessmen," eventually finding their way to American markets. Today, Albanian-engineered crime is touching ordinary people, not just those with a penchant for dope and girls. As the crime machine expands, and the rich grow richer, armed robbery has arrived in the peaceful, heretofore secure Umbrian countryside, where locks were more to keep livestock in than burglars out. A villa doesn't need to be unattended for more than a few hours. Trucks pull up, "clean house" and leave a spotlessly empty dwelling. Owners return, and shock turns to relief. They're glad to be alive and know they can buy everything back at well-known markets where stolen property is fenced.
As with its homegrown counterpart, the Mafia, highly publicized attempts at eradication are sporadic and largely ineffective with the web of vice and crime growing quietly, but steadily. Mafia experts are convinced that these organizations will continue to thrive despite thousands of arrests having been made in recent years.
As we pull into the villa's driveway, I catch sight of the sparkling pool, and talk turns to lunch and the afternoon's options for amusement. That night at dinner, I learn that Umbria has a new name: "Chianti-shire." It is so-called for the legions of affluent English and Americans, together with the occasional Milanese day trader, who are buying up local property—any property—for astronomical prices.
One wealthy expatriate recently flew in by helicopter to inspect a rather modest, rundown house which she purchased on the spot, saying it had "that wonderful quality of poverty about it." Other foreigners who bought early and cheap are cashing in with multi-million-dollar sales to the super rich.
And what about ordinary local people— "the contadini"? They lack decent medical attention, and the Italian pension program is going broke. Where will the average, working-class Italian be in a few years? Burbling accounts of bella Tuscany and timeless Todi are charming, superficial, and seemingly oblivious to the hard times ordinary folks here are facing. It is easy to ignore hardship in this beautiful, civilized land of smiles.
My week goes by in a flash, mostly just sitting on my host's vine-covered verandah, looking happily out into the space before me—a valley climbing to gold-tinted, freshly plowed hills with purple mountains in the distance. A farmer's dog barks as the warm day fades and a cool evening brings out the big, orange moon. Deep breaths of sweet air are delicious. People say just being in Umbria is a healing experience.
My week in paradise is over, and we start our descent to Orvieto, taking me back to the train. The afternoon sun is hot, and the sunflowers droop, waiting for relief from the cool night air. We pass the ladies on the road. They are tired too. They don't stand in fetching, catwalk poses now. Hunched over, they look at us with empty eyes as we pass and throw up dust in our wake. I wave to the tall beauty in heels. She fans herself with a newspaper and sends me a sad smile.
Sam Oglesby is a writer whose memoir, Postcards from the Past—Portraits of People and Places was recently published. His email is: ogl39@aol.com.
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