and hence a useful subject of conversation.rnNo two Aprils are ever alike, norrntwo afternoons in anv April, nor twornhours in any April afternoon, and nobodyrnin London ever saw the same kindrnof rain twice. It is always smaller, or flatter,rnor steeper, or softer, or whiter, orrnlonger, or louder than another day’s rain,rnsometimes falling over just half a street,rnsometimes out of a cloudless sky, sometimesrnwith more than one rainbow overrnthe horizon.rnAnyway, for Italians the perenniallyrnnewsworthy equivalent is overcrowding.rnAs though guided by the instinct of arnswarming bee that leads him to do exactlyrnwhat everyone else in the city, thernprovince, and the country is doing at thatrnparticular moment, an Italian will invariablyrnfind himself caught in some obscenelyrnpopulous swarm, survey it withrnan air of genuine surprise, and address inrnits general direction, as if appealing tornthe errant conscience of each and everyrncitizen worker, the ritual remark: Tropparngentel To chide them over this apparentrnincongruity is like berating bees for theirrnexcessive interest in nectar: if you happenrnto approve of honey, there is nothingrnexcessive about it. Still, it is a little oddrnseeing a bee point at his fellows withrnwhat seems like genuine disapproval andrnexclaim that he could never imagine sornmany of them turning out for a sunny afternoonrnin sweet clover.rnLIBERAL ARTSrnMELTING POTrnMALAISErn”Tlie France [soccer] team is madernup of such a ‘melting pot’ of playersrnfrom Africa, Algeria and other suchrnFrench populations that ‘people findrnit difRcuIt to embrace them.'”rn—French fan Andre Pascaud to MarkrnCannizzaro of the New York Postrnf/u/y J], 1998JrnOne Sunday morning in the springrnI found myself inside a small dustyrnFiat with four other adults and threernchildren, motionless among similarlyrnfreighted cars in the traffic along the ViarnAurelia, the ancient Roman road thatrnturns north as it reaches the Tyrrhenianrncoast and makes its way towards Genoarnand on to the Riviera. Tomorrow, arnfamily friend had confided Saturdayrnevening, is a good da}’ to have lunch inrnFregene, but let us leave early becausernotherwise there will be too many people.rnIt was obvious that by the stroke of midnightrnon Saturday every friend of everyrnother family in Rome had made thernsame confidential recommendation.rnOn any other morning the seaside villagernof Fregene would be 20 minutes away.rnLike e-eryone else in Rome, we got therernby lunchtime.rnWhatever the news of the weather.rnEnglishmen carry umbrellas. Artless asrnthat Troppa gentel sounds to the foreigner,rnit now proved, as I had begun to suspect,rnso much knowing coquetrv’. On arrivalrnin Fregene, where the occasionalrndilapidated villa glimpsed through arnwrought-iron gate informs the visitor thatrnthe place has seen richer pickings as arnfashionable summer resort, I saw an endlessrnavenue of some 40 open-air restaurants,rneach the size of a football field,rnready to receive all of Rome on the dayrnall of Rome decides that today is the dayrnfor Fregene. The abandoned resort hadrnadapted and become a year-round destinationrnfor Sunday outings, attractingrnenough people for people to start complaining.rnThere was something ofrnBrighton in the old British fdms about it,rnbut without the penny-pinching sadness,rnand something of Atlantic Git}’ in thosernsame good old days, except I was neverrnthere of course and can onlv guess whatrnthat was about.rnThere was an amazing blonde beautv’rnat the next table in the restaurant we hadrnchosen, a cross between Jayne Mansfieldrnand the dish of spaghetti with frutti dirnmare that had just arrived. I say this in allrnseriousness, and not only because thernshells on my plate reminded me of thatrnfamous painting in the Uffizi, but becausernthe sun was burning overhead likernmagnesium wire and the wine tauntedrnthe brain by being judiciously cool, andrnbecause there was a breeze from the searnthat smelled like wet gravel and driedrnflowers, and because the dish in questionrnwas the work of a great artist and thernwoman reallv did resemble the Venus ofrnBotticelli. She was having lunch in therncompany of two brothers, young menrnwith crewcuts who looked like U.S.rnMarines, their father, who looked like anrnex-Marine, and the other sister-in-law,rnwho was also auroral in form but only irresolutelyrn1950’s in content, as thoughrninfected by some vague worldly sorrowrnwhile passing through a Ghirlandaio onernmorning on her way to the fishmonger’srnnear the Galleria Coloniia. There wasrnalso the young men’s mother, fussingrnwith a baby carriage where a newbornrnchild belonging to one of the women cavortedrnlike the infant Jesus.rnWherever one looked, a similarly tangledrnand absorbing family scene caughtrnthe eye, and, once caught, the eye hadrnno choice but to take in the whole Sundayrngospel of physical and spiritualrnwholesomeness, verse after orotundrnverse. I know I am beginning to soundrnlike a voyeur with strong Nazi predilections,rnand under ordinary’ circumstancesrnI might apologize for being charmed byrnbare arms and golden hair and evenrnWagner, but in this case I stand myrnground. The sheer size of the spectaclernbefore ine endowed it with the stature ofrna natural phenomenon, and most wouldrnagree that it is unfair to accuse a geologistrn(even one obsessed by the health of thernAlps) or an astronomer (even one with arnromantic attachment to Alpha Centauri)rnof being a dirty old man and a fascistrncreep. There must have been eight orrnnine hundred people around us, which,rnmultiplied by 40, amounted to somethingrnlike 10,000 happy families crammedrninto a couple of square miles ofrnblinding sunlight framed by the palernsand and the waveless sea. Gloriously,rnthey seemed all alike, just like Tolsto}’rnsaid.rnLast month I wrote in this space aboutrna brief visit to New York, and that afternoonrnin Fregene it occurred to me thatrnduring my stay there I had not seen a singlernbeautiful woman. To make the observationrnmore categorical, I wouldrnequate beauty with health and simply sayrnthat the women I saw in the streets ofrnNew York all looked like the’ were undergoingrnprolonged chemotherapy. Thernimpression I now have (which admittedlyrnpains the equivocal Russian in me, arnRussian brought up on the harmony ofrnChekhov’s kindness and the counterpointrnof Dostoyevsky’s individualism) isrnthat beautv is not merely objective, butrneolleetivist and conformist: more like arndoctor’s clean bill of health or Italianrn42/CHRONICLESrnrnrn