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You
tell
me
,
then
,
why
today
my
feet
led
me
almost
of
their
own
accord
to
a
discreet
boutique
off
the
Via
Condotti
,
where
-
under
the
expert
tutelage
of
the
silky
young
Italian
shop
girl
-
I
spent
a
few
dreamy
hours
(
and
a
transcontinental
airline
ticket
’
s
worth
of
money
)
buying
enough
lingerie
to
keep
a
sultan
’
s
consort
outfitted
for
1
,
001
nights
.
I
bought
bras
of
every
shape
and
formation
.
I
bought
filmy
,
flimsy
camisoles
and
sassy
bits
of
panty
in
every
color
of
the
Easter
basket
,
and
slips
that
came
in
creamy
satins
and
hush
-
now
-
baby
silks
,
and
handmade
little
bits
of
string
and
things
and
basically
just
one
velvety
,
lacy
,
crazy
valentine
after
another
.
I
have
never
owned
things
like
this
in
my
life
.
So
why
now
?
As
I
was
walking
out
of
the
store
,
hauling
my
cache
of
tissue
-
wrapped
naughties
under
my
arm
,
I
suddenly
thought
of
the
anguished
demand
I
’
d
heard
a
Roman
soccer
fan
yell
the
other
night
at
the
Lazio
game
,
when
Lazio
’
s
star
player
Albertini
at
a
critical
moment
had
passed
the
ball
right
into
the
middle
of
nowhere
,
for
no
reason
whatsoever
,
totally
blowing
the
play
.
"
Per
chi
?
?
?
"
the
fan
had
shouted
in
near
-
madness
.
"
Per
chi
?
?
?
"
For
WHOM
?
?
?
For
whom
are
you
passing
this
ball
,
Albertini
?
Nobody
’
s
there
!
Out
on
the
street
after
my
delirious
hours
of
lingerie
shopping
,
I
remembered
this
line
and
repeated
it
to
myself
in
a
whisper
:
"
Per
chi
?
"
For
whom
,
Liz
?
For
whom
all
this
decadent
sexiness
?
Nobody
’
s
there
.
I
had
only
a
few
weeks
left
in
Italy
and
absolutely
no
intention
of
knocking
boots
with
anyone
Or
did
I
?
Had
I
finally
been
affected
by
the
word
on
the
streets
in
Rome
?
Was
this
some
final
effort
to
become
Italian
?
Was
this
a
gift
to
myself
,
or
was
it
a
gift
for
some
as
yet
not
even
imagined
lover
?
Was
this
an
attempt
to
start
healing
my
libido
after
the
sexual
self
-
confidence
disaster
of
my
last
relationship
?
I
asked
myself
,
"
You
gonna
bring
all
this
stuff
to
India
?
"
Luca
Spaghetti
’
s
birthday
falls
this
year
on
America
’
s
Thanksgiving
Day
,
so
he
wants
to
do
a
turkey
for
his
birthday
party
.
He
’
s
never
eaten
a
big
,
fat
,
roasted
American
Thanksgiving
turkey
,
though
he
’
s
seen
them
in
pictures
.
He
thinks
it
should
be
easy
to
replicate
such
a
feast
(
especially
with
the
help
of
me
,
a
real
American
)
.
He
says
we
can
use
the
kitchen
of
his
friends
Mario
and
Simona
,
who
have
a
nice
big
house
in
the
mountains
outside
Rome
,
and
who
always
host
Luca
’
s
birthday
parties
.
So
here
was
Luca
’
s
plan
for
the
festivities
-
he
would
pick
me
up
at
around
seven
o
’
clock
at
night
,
after
he
’
d
finished
work
,
and
then
we
would
drive
north
out
of
Rome
for
an
hour
or
so
to
his
friends
’
house
(
where
we
would
meet
the
other
attendees
of
the
birthday
party
)
and
we
’
d
drink
some
wine
and
all
get
to
know
each
other
,
and
then
,
probably
around
9
:
00
PM
,
we
would
commence
to
roasting
a
twenty
-
pound
turkey
…
