order to experience four months of pure pleasure, they didn't have any hang-ups about it.
Complimenti! Vai avanti! Congratulations, they would say. Go ahead. Knock yourself out.
Be our guest. Nobody once said, "pletely irresponsible of you," or "What a
Self-indulgent luxury." But while the Italians have given me full permission to enjoy
myself, I still can't quite let go. During my first few weeks in Italy, all my Protestant
synapses were zinging in distress, looking for a task. I wanted to take on pleasure like a
homework assignment, or a giant science fair project. I pondered such questions as,
"How is pleasure most efficiently maximized?" I wondered if maybe I should spend all
my time in Italy in the library, doing research on the history of pleasure. Or maybe I
should interview Italians who've experienced a lot of pleasure in their lives, asking them
what their pleasures feel like, and then writing a report on this topic. (Double-spaced and
with one-inch margins, perhaps? To be turned in first thing Monday morning?)
When I realized that the only question at hand was, "How do I define pleasure?" and that
I was truly in a country where people would permit me to explore that question freely,
everything changed. Everything became . . . delicious. All I had to do was ask myself
every day, for the first time in my life, "What would you enjoy doing today, Liz? What
would bring you pleasure right now?" With nobody else's agenda to consider and no
other obligations to worry about, this question finally became distilled and absolutely
Self-specific.
It was interesting for me to discover what I did not want to do in Italy, once I'd given
myself executive authorization to enjoy my experience there. There are so many
manifestations of pleasure in Italy, and I didn't have time to sample them all. You have to
kind of declare a pleasure major here, or you'll get overwhelmed. That being the case, I
didn't get into fashion, or opera, or cinema, or fancy aut
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