The lambent land of Italy is the home of mandolins and macaroni, olive oil and opera, gorgonzola and gondolas. Without it, there would be no Venetian glass, Florentine leather, Neapolitan ice cream or Roman fever. We of America are especially indebted to it: Cristoforo Colombo discovered us and Amerigo Vespucci lent us his name. We have a town called Italy, three called Rome, five each called Naples, Venice and Verona, and we also have an airfield called La Guardia. Our language is studded with snappy words on lend-lease from Italy: tempo, fiasco, piano, umbrella, stucco, fresco, ditto, volcano, casino, bordello, incognito, quota, soda, stanza, vista, vendetta, manifesto, motto and mah-rone! And what do we call that leaning-tower-type type in which the foregoing string of words is printed? Italic. The Boot meets The Beard this month as the fine Italian hand of Shel Silverstein -- Playboy's ambulating americano -- sketches sunny Italy.
"I don't know the exact address, but it's right behind a church..."
"Perhaps, signore, we could make your wishes come true without wasting your coins on this silly fountain..."
"It's really a very simple dish ... you take a flat piece of dough ... cover it over with tomato sauce ... chop in chunks of Italian sausage, mushrooms and anchovies ... top it all with melted provolone cheese and bake."
Shel Silverstein draws a Roman crowd in more ways than one.
"Now remember ... nothing A.D....we only have time for B.C."
"Marge -- Marge Wilson! Why, I haven't seen you since high school!"
"Gondola, signore? Three thousand lire for the first hour ... two thousand for each additional hour ... a small additional charge if you wish accordion music or romantic arias..."
"Viva la pasta!" says Shel as he shovels in the spaghetti.
"...Most American tourists, they see nothing ... they waste their time running through the ruins of the Forum, they take photographs of San Pietro, they throw coins into Trevi Fountain, they burrow into the catacombs, they whisk through the Colosseum and the Pantheon and the museums all the day and sit and drink and dance in the Via Veneto cabarets all night ... but you, signore, you are seeing the real Rome!!"
Amid the blaze of noon, Silverstein slakes the Silverstein thirst the hard way.
"Beware the ides of March!"
Beards billowing in the breeze, a picturesque trio takes a stroll.
"Show over?"
