Don’t Judge an Italian by his Kurta

A short while after taking off, the plane carrying my father on a business trip developed engine trouble and headed back to Madras for maintenance. While waiting in the airport lounge, he noticed a little commotion going on with some foreigners.

Apparently one of them had decided, come hell or high-water, she was not getting on that plane, even after they had fixed the problem. The others were trying to placate her that it would be alright and tried to allay her fear of flying. It was imperative for them to get back to Bombay that night.

My father, being my father, went over to help. Convincing them that things would be alright,  he would help and even put in an intercessory prayer to all the million Indian Gods, he managed to help the lady emplane. Once aboard the flight, he went to request special help from the flight attendant and got some seats blocked off for her, so Donatella could stretch out. He organized a couple of cars to meet them at the airport upon arrival and take them to the Taj Hotel, where they had reservations.

Back in Bombay the next morning, at the breakfast table, I was informed that he had met some Italian 'hippies' and to please entertain them.

I had long ceased to argue with my father or ask questions. He was forever making friends all over the world and giving them a Mi Casa es Su Casa card. Once it was a Japanese group who I rescued from a cramped Buddhist temple in Worli and brought back home. Except the group turned out to be fourteen young kids. With huge backpacks. And bicycles. They were on a biking tour through India. The tour leader Moriwakisan was so grateful and the ensuing friendship went so deep, that he named his vacation home Pateru House after my dad. Another time, it was Bo, a Swedish gentleman who organized concerts. The moment I found out he had once organized a tour for the Rolling Stones, I was more compliant to give him a royal tour and show him the sights of Bombay (hoping to wangle a free ticket in the future of course). Had he organized a Barry Manilow concert, it would have gotten him a viewing of the best slums.

For four days, I showed the Italian hippies around. They had the whole ‘kurta and beads’ vibe going on, this being the 70s and all. We walked around Chowpatty Beach, restraining them from eating anything from the beach stalls, no matter how appetizing or appealing they looked or smelled. We compensated by serving them hot bhajias, or ‘bombolini fritti’ as they called them and then wined and dined them. They saw a Bollywood movie at Film Center, the family’s color film laboratory. And then we said Ciao and back to Florence they went.

A few weeks later, we received a book in the mail: Villas and Palaces of Tuscany. Little cards were paper-clipped throughout. The cards read “Conte e Contessa Giovanni Guicciardini Corsi Salviati”, highlighting their summer homes and winter homes, their city homes and their country homes, and their family estates. I almost dropped the book, risking amputating a toe. A few years later, while studying Italian in Florence, I found out that they are one of the most influential families, with a Lungarno Guicciardini and part of the Pitti Palace, because as it turns out, the original Signor Guicciardini was a scribe to the Medicis.

Still friends after all these years, my sisters and I spent a wonderful afternoon with Donatella and Beppe in her country home in April.

Just goes to show, never judge an Italian by his kurta!