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One of my many regrets in life is that my daughters will never see the Italy I knew. Other people probably feel the same about Greece， France， Spain or Portugal， recalling the age before everyone seemed to be everywhere. When even Florence was not that crowded in summer and the small towns and villages of Tuscany and central Italy—certainly the south—were Italian in every way： very few foreigners and that uncompromised， apparently 1）indestructible way of life.
An early start in the cool of morning， hard work followed by a good lunch with wine from a jug. Then the sacred siesta—a nap， or cuddling-up with someone else during the Italian afternoon， when everything is determinedly chiuso—closed. After the 2）impenitent heat of day 3）relents， the 4）shutters reopen and evening begins for most with the passeggiata， Grandpa on the arm of his granddaughter， teenagers showing off， heated discussion over Gazetta dello Sport or the Communist party’s daily， L’Unità， posted on the wall. For others， back to work： for a few hours， behind the counter or in the office. On Sundays： forget it—no， you cannot go and buy this or that. Those metal shutters are down and will remain so until Monday morning， possibly late Monday afternoon. Sunday lunch lasts from about 3：30 P.M. till past 11.
This is rose-tinted and ignores the appalling 5）tribulations some people faced， but these customs still exist in Italy and across the Mediterranean and Aegean， just about. It is called the quality of life and it is how I lived—and worked—for a fair while during the early 1970s and （less relaxedly） as a correspondent in the 1990s. But this popular civilisation is endangered， because of a 6）pincer movement by tourism and the north’s economic doctrines. In the big cities—Rome， Florence—Sunday is just not Sunday any more. The pressure is on southern Europe to stop the indulgences and 7）heed our own headlines about debt and deficit： CRISIS IN THE EUROZONE！ AUSTERITY！
Millions of people will leave Britain， northern Europe and America this holiday season， heading for the lands where the olive trees grow. Many holidaymakers will enjoy playing at—perhaps even enviably 8）gawping at—the way life is lived among the cypresses. Understandably， they’ll adopt a few local habits for this precious week or two： a quick morning espresso at the bar； a longer lunch than at home； a siesta， indeed； an aperitif in the square before dinner outdoors. They may be a little annoyed that the church or museum they wanted to visit is shut for the afternoon， but， walking around， will hear the echo of their footsteps off the old stone walls and admire the 9）tenacity with which the town has gone restfully silent in a way no place in northern Europe does. The few places left that have fended off mass tourism and preserved their way of life， such as Ikaria， the plains of Castile， the wilds of Abruzzo， are， in reality， everything that our northern society， our managers， the IMF， businessmen， politicians—both 10）Eurosceptics and 11）Angela Merkel—despise. The politics of the EU （and Britain’s variation on its theme） are nothing if not a grinding of southern Europe； bludgeoning the south into abandoning its lazy ways， sprucing up， paying off its debt and Being like us！
And so our August holidays on cobblestones and land where the vine grows become very weird， as people go to play at the way of life their leaders—maybe even they themselves—are destroying. Many of those from Britain， America， Germany and elsewhere this weekend setting off to savour the southern life are the politicians， bankers， lawyers， managers， civil servants， thinktank “brains”—newspaper columnists indeed—who have decided， generally if not individually， that our Anglo-American way of capitalism is the only way to go. Fuelled， it sometimes feels， more by some combination of cocaine， Red Bull and Viagra than 12）aromatic coffee， a cool aperitif and an afternoon snooze.
But in August， we leave our frantic 13）modus vivendi behind， to enjoy theirs. “Oh， look at those little old men playing chess on the pavement—so sweet！” “Campari-soda per favore！” “Tasha， you must try the époisses， it’s divine！” “I so love the way they whizz about on scooters without helmets and no one wears seat belts—it’s such fun！” Then September comes， back to balancing the books， the shareholders’ interests， the“aggressively managed 14）portfolio”， the 15）FTSE and 16）Dow Jones. That’s enough 17）Caravaggio and 18）mortadella for one year， time for a new austerity package—those lazy bloody Latins…
我人生中的众多遗憾之一便是，我的女儿再也见不到我所熟知的那个意大利了。其他人也许会对希腊、法国、西班牙或葡萄牙持有相同的感受，只要回想起过去那个并非人人似乎都能周游世界的年代。那时的夏日连佛罗伦萨也不会这般人头攒动，托斯卡纳的小村小镇和意大利中心地带——当然还少不了意大利南部——还完全属于意大利人：几乎见不到外国人，大家的生活方式还是不打折扣，显然坚不可摧。
在凉爽的清晨早起，开始一天的生活，辛勤的工作之后是伴着大罐美酒的丰盛午餐。接着是神圣的午休时间——在意大利的午后打个小盹或与某人相依共眠，而其他的一切则是断然地“chiuso”——关门。当白日毫无愧意的炎热稍稍消退后，百叶窗被重新打开，对于大多数人来说，夜晚以悠闲的散步为开始，爷爷倚着孙女的臂膀，少年们显摆着自己，热切地讨论着墙上张贴的《米兰体育报》或共产党日报——《团结报》。而其他人则返回去工作：在柜台后或办公室里干上几个小时的活儿。到了周日：别想了——不行，你不可能出门买点这个买点那个。那些橱窗金属百叶帘全都关上了，并且会一直持续到周一清晨，也有可能是周一傍晚。周日午餐会从下午三点半左右一直持续到晚上十一点以后。
这是对旧时光的过分美化，忽视了当时有些人所面对的艰苦磨难，但这些风俗依然存在于意大利，而且整个地中海和爱琴海地区也几乎如是。这被称为生活品质，很大程度上它也是我曾经在上世纪七十年代早期生活和工作的方式，上世纪九十年代我当记者时亦是如此，即使日子已不如以前轻松。但这一大众文化却因为旅游业和北方经济主义的夹攻而遭遇危险——罗马、佛罗伦萨这样的大城市——周日已不再是周日了。南欧受到了压力，必须停止享乐，而要留意我们自己关于债务和赤字的新闻标题：欧元区危机！财政紧缩！
这个旅游旺季里，数百万人会离开英国、北欧和美国，直奔橄榄树生长的地方而去。许多度假的游客们将会享受到——也许甚至是满怀羡慕地傻看着——那柏树间惬意的生活方式。可以理解的是，他们将在这珍贵的一两周假期里稍稍入乡随俗：清晨在酒吧里快速地喝上一杯浓缩咖啡；吃上一顿比在自家享用时间稍长的午餐；一场真正的午睡；户外晚餐前在广场上来杯开胃酒。他们也许还会感到些许恼怒，因为他们想要游玩的教堂或博物馆在下午都关门了，但四处走走，会听到古老石墙上传来他们脚步的回声，继而对小镇的韧力肃然起敬，因为这里有着欧洲北部任何地方都无法体会到的悠闲静谧。
为数不多的几个阻挡了游客潮，并保存了自身生活方式的地方，例如伊卡里亚岛、卡斯蒂利亚平原、阿布鲁奇，实际上备受我们的北方社会、我们的经理人、国际货币基金组织、商人和政客们（无论是疑欧派还是安格拉·默克尔）的鄙视。欧盟的政治（以及英国在此主题上的百变态度）无非就是对南欧的拷打磨难，逼迫其抛弃懒惰的方式，打醒精神，偿还债务，并且，过得要像我们一样！
于是，我们到这些鹅卵石地及葡萄园国度的八月假期便显得非常奇怪，因为人们去体验的正是其领导人——或者甚至他们自己——正设法摧毁的生活方式。这一众周末出发去享受南部生活的英美德及其他别国的游客正是那些政客、银行家、律师、经理人、公务员、智囊团“智者”（实际是报纸专栏作家）。他们都认定英美资本主义方式是唯一的发展之道，尽管他们不一定私底下都认同，但总的舆论观感如此。有时候让人觉得他们更多的是受了某种可卡因、红牛和伟哥混合物的刺激，而非拜香浓咖啡、清凉开胃酒和午后小盹的恩赐。
但是在八月，我们将自己疯狂的生活方式抛诸脑后，转而去享受他们的方式。“哦，看那些在人行道上下象棋的小老头们——太可爱了！”“请来杯金巴利—苏打！”“塔莎，你一定要试试这个芝士，太棒了！”“我真喜欢他们不带头盔就骑着小摩托车四处跑，而且没人系安全带——真是太有趣了！”接着九月来临，又回归管理账簿、持股人利益、“积极型管理投资组合”、富时指数和道琼斯指数。这一年也看够卡拉瓦乔名画，吃够意式肉肠了，是时候展开新一轮紧缩政策了——那些该死的拉丁懒鬼……
An early start in the cool of morning， hard work followed by a good lunch with wine from a jug. Then the sacred siesta—a nap， or cuddling-up with someone else during the Italian afternoon， when everything is determinedly chiuso—closed. After the 2）impenitent heat of day 3）relents， the 4）shutters reopen and evening begins for most with the passeggiata， Grandpa on the arm of his granddaughter， teenagers showing off， heated discussion over Gazetta dello Sport or the Communist party’s daily， L’Unità， posted on the wall. For others， back to work： for a few hours， behind the counter or in the office. On Sundays： forget it—no， you cannot go and buy this or that. Those metal shutters are down and will remain so until Monday morning， possibly late Monday afternoon. Sunday lunch lasts from about 3：30 P.M. till past 11.
This is rose-tinted and ignores the appalling 5）tribulations some people faced， but these customs still exist in Italy and across the Mediterranean and Aegean， just about. It is called the quality of life and it is how I lived—and worked—for a fair while during the early 1970s and （less relaxedly） as a correspondent in the 1990s. But this popular civilisation is endangered， because of a 6）pincer movement by tourism and the north’s economic doctrines. In the big cities—Rome， Florence—Sunday is just not Sunday any more. The pressure is on southern Europe to stop the indulgences and 7）heed our own headlines about debt and deficit： CRISIS IN THE EUROZONE！ AUSTERITY！
Millions of people will leave Britain， northern Europe and America this holiday season， heading for the lands where the olive trees grow. Many holidaymakers will enjoy playing at—perhaps even enviably 8）gawping at—the way life is lived among the cypresses. Understandably， they’ll adopt a few local habits for this precious week or two： a quick morning espresso at the bar； a longer lunch than at home； a siesta， indeed； an aperitif in the square before dinner outdoors. They may be a little annoyed that the church or museum they wanted to visit is shut for the afternoon， but， walking around， will hear the echo of their footsteps off the old stone walls and admire the 9）tenacity with which the town has gone restfully silent in a way no place in northern Europe does. The few places left that have fended off mass tourism and preserved their way of life， such as Ikaria， the plains of Castile， the wilds of Abruzzo， are， in reality， everything that our northern society， our managers， the IMF， businessmen， politicians—both 10）Eurosceptics and 11）Angela Merkel—despise. The politics of the EU （and Britain’s variation on its theme） are nothing if not a grinding of southern Europe； bludgeoning the south into abandoning its lazy ways， sprucing up， paying off its debt and Being like us！
And so our August holidays on cobblestones and land where the vine grows become very weird， as people go to play at the way of life their leaders—maybe even they themselves—are destroying. Many of those from Britain， America， Germany and elsewhere this weekend setting off to savour the southern life are the politicians， bankers， lawyers， managers， civil servants， thinktank “brains”—newspaper columnists indeed—who have decided， generally if not individually， that our Anglo-American way of capitalism is the only way to go. Fuelled， it sometimes feels， more by some combination of cocaine， Red Bull and Viagra than 12）aromatic coffee， a cool aperitif and an afternoon snooze.
But in August， we leave our frantic 13）modus vivendi behind， to enjoy theirs. “Oh， look at those little old men playing chess on the pavement—so sweet！” “Campari-soda per favore！” “Tasha， you must try the époisses， it’s divine！” “I so love the way they whizz about on scooters without helmets and no one wears seat belts—it’s such fun！” Then September comes， back to balancing the books， the shareholders’ interests， the“aggressively managed 14）portfolio”， the 15）FTSE and 16）Dow Jones. That’s enough 17）Caravaggio and 18）mortadella for one year， time for a new austerity package—those lazy bloody Latins…
我人生中的众多遗憾之一便是，我的女儿再也见不到我所熟知的那个意大利了。其他人也许会对希腊、法国、西班牙或葡萄牙持有相同的感受，只要回想起过去那个并非人人似乎都能周游世界的年代。那时的夏日连佛罗伦萨也不会这般人头攒动，托斯卡纳的小村小镇和意大利中心地带——当然还少不了意大利南部——还完全属于意大利人：几乎见不到外国人，大家的生活方式还是不打折扣，显然坚不可摧。
在凉爽的清晨早起，开始一天的生活，辛勤的工作之后是伴着大罐美酒的丰盛午餐。接着是神圣的午休时间——在意大利的午后打个小盹或与某人相依共眠，而其他的一切则是断然地“chiuso”——关门。当白日毫无愧意的炎热稍稍消退后，百叶窗被重新打开，对于大多数人来说，夜晚以悠闲的散步为开始，爷爷倚着孙女的臂膀，少年们显摆着自己，热切地讨论着墙上张贴的《米兰体育报》或共产党日报——《团结报》。而其他人则返回去工作：在柜台后或办公室里干上几个小时的活儿。到了周日：别想了——不行，你不可能出门买点这个买点那个。那些橱窗金属百叶帘全都关上了，并且会一直持续到周一清晨，也有可能是周一傍晚。周日午餐会从下午三点半左右一直持续到晚上十一点以后。
这是对旧时光的过分美化，忽视了当时有些人所面对的艰苦磨难，但这些风俗依然存在于意大利，而且整个地中海和爱琴海地区也几乎如是。这被称为生活品质，很大程度上它也是我曾经在上世纪七十年代早期生活和工作的方式，上世纪九十年代我当记者时亦是如此，即使日子已不如以前轻松。但这一大众文化却因为旅游业和北方经济主义的夹攻而遭遇危险——罗马、佛罗伦萨这样的大城市——周日已不再是周日了。南欧受到了压力，必须停止享乐，而要留意我们自己关于债务和赤字的新闻标题：欧元区危机！财政紧缩！
这个旅游旺季里，数百万人会离开英国、北欧和美国，直奔橄榄树生长的地方而去。许多度假的游客们将会享受到——也许甚至是满怀羡慕地傻看着——那柏树间惬意的生活方式。可以理解的是，他们将在这珍贵的一两周假期里稍稍入乡随俗：清晨在酒吧里快速地喝上一杯浓缩咖啡；吃上一顿比在自家享用时间稍长的午餐；一场真正的午睡；户外晚餐前在广场上来杯开胃酒。他们也许还会感到些许恼怒，因为他们想要游玩的教堂或博物馆在下午都关门了，但四处走走，会听到古老石墙上传来他们脚步的回声，继而对小镇的韧力肃然起敬，因为这里有着欧洲北部任何地方都无法体会到的悠闲静谧。
为数不多的几个阻挡了游客潮，并保存了自身生活方式的地方，例如伊卡里亚岛、卡斯蒂利亚平原、阿布鲁奇，实际上备受我们的北方社会、我们的经理人、国际货币基金组织、商人和政客们（无论是疑欧派还是安格拉·默克尔）的鄙视。欧盟的政治（以及英国在此主题上的百变态度）无非就是对南欧的拷打磨难，逼迫其抛弃懒惰的方式，打醒精神，偿还债务，并且，过得要像我们一样！
于是，我们到这些鹅卵石地及葡萄园国度的八月假期便显得非常奇怪，因为人们去体验的正是其领导人——或者甚至他们自己——正设法摧毁的生活方式。这一众周末出发去享受南部生活的英美德及其他别国的游客正是那些政客、银行家、律师、经理人、公务员、智囊团“智者”（实际是报纸专栏作家）。他们都认定英美资本主义方式是唯一的发展之道，尽管他们不一定私底下都认同，但总的舆论观感如此。有时候让人觉得他们更多的是受了某种可卡因、红牛和伟哥混合物的刺激，而非拜香浓咖啡、清凉开胃酒和午后小盹的恩赐。
但是在八月，我们将自己疯狂的生活方式抛诸脑后，转而去享受他们的方式。“哦，看那些在人行道上下象棋的小老头们——太可爱了！”“请来杯金巴利—苏打！”“塔莎，你一定要试试这个芝士，太棒了！”“我真喜欢他们不带头盔就骑着小摩托车四处跑，而且没人系安全带——真是太有趣了！”接着九月来临，又回归管理账簿、持股人利益、“积极型管理投资组合”、富时指数和道琼斯指数。这一年也看够卡拉瓦乔名画，吃够意式肉肠了，是时候展开新一轮紧缩政策了——那些该死的拉丁懒鬼……