Every February, my family gathers to celebrate the holiday of holidays, the crowning event of the post-Christmas/pre-Easter season. President's Day sweeps through our household with a gust of perplexing joy. At universities near and far, we try to explain ourselves to incredulous friends and scurry home, where an Americana-themed cake has appeared and a turkey has laid down its life for the cause.
We are not really a patriotic family. We are more likely to sing along to a Dylan song than to "The Star-Spangled Banner." And with the exception of "The West Wing," we don't have much faith in the presidency right now. It's not patriotism that has set off this explosion of revelry every year in February.
None of us can really remember how it all started, but I have a hazy memory of a decree from my dad several years back and a cherry pie. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse to celebrate. Maybe this whole tradition is a joke taken to an extreme. Whatever the case, from that founding President's Day on, we had a new holiday, a blissful refuge from that windswept tundra between December and springtime.
For the first time since its inception, I couldn't be home for President's Day this year (flying home for the weekend was considered too drastic). Instead, I traveled through Italy on spring break, where I assumed I would be as far from President's Day as possible. I did feel far from my family's quirky holiday, and I continued to feel that way until I sat down to write this column and my mind began to draw circles around points of tangency I didn't know were there.
What I loved about Italy, especially Venice and Florence, was the unaffected hospitality of the people. Italians drench a meal in wine and simple sauces, and stretch dinner into an evening of rustic pleasure. Italians take an ordinary cup of coffee and make it foam over with joy. Italians welcome you into their homes with the charm of no-frills English and an ironic grin.
Italians celebrate for the sake of celebrating. My family may not drink cappuccino or employ gondolas for transportation, but we sure know how to celebrate. At my house, we recognize the arbitrariness of holidays, and delight in those we have and haven't invented. In Italy, they recognize the brilliant simplicity of food and home, and decide to savor every moment.
Last year, President's Day was especially festive. A (more or less) scale model of the White House was built out of gingerbread, the celebration lasted for hours. I didn't know then that we were being Italian. Last week in Italy, I didn't know I was celebrating President's Day. I didn't recognize how, in that faraway place where people celebrate for the sake of celebrating, I was very close to home.
My Two Pence is published every other Monday. next week, check out the fashion column, A Matter of Style.
