High life
Lost weekend
Taki
Orvieto rvieto from a distance is a hell of a sight. As is the whole of Umbria. If Tus- cany is straight out of a film, Umbria is an opera set. Last Friday, the nostalgic, haunt- ing echoes of a town that belongs to history helpedIceep a three-day binge from turning into a lost weekend. The Dionysian extrav- agances began in the evening. Three hun- dred or so friends of Cosima von Billow and Riccardo Pavoncelli gathered in the Piazza del Duomo, and off we were to the races. It was full of pretty girls, music and high jinks, and some very old friends.
La Badia, the 8th-century Benedictine monastery, now a luxury hotel, was the starting line. We dined and danced under walls so rich in history they'd stop a Holly- wood type from name-dropping. Orvieto classico wines were consumed with the kind of eager and good-humoured gallantry once displayed by Baron von Richthofen taking to the air, Your correspondent was by far the most gallant.
The trouble with meeting friends one hasn't seen in years is nostalgia. It hits one like a Mike Tyson left hook. Dado Ruspoli was one case. He was the best-looking, noblest prince of his generation, and a great buddy. Now in his seventies, he's still wonderful looking and as nice as he has always been. And just as mystical. Mind you, I prefer to suffer from nostalgia than frustration. As in the case of Kelly Nuttall, recent bride of Harry Nuttall. Kelly is a beauty, with hooded blue eyes and a per- fect example of that miracle of design, the female human form. Alas, she loves her husband, but they say that no one worth having is ever unattached. By midnight, my gallantry was causing all-round embarrass- ment.
Locating one's hotel in an ancient town full of ever-tightening perimeters when totally soused can be a problem. Especially while in the middle of an argument with some Italian friends over the Ancient Greek temples dedicated to military might, which I prefer over the temples dedicated to the glory of the Almighty, which they do. It was back to some bar and more psychob- abble.
The next afternoon came quicker than expected. After a good lunch, Charlie Glass arrived from Rome and off we were once again. The Piazza del Duomo is lit- tered with outdoor cafés, and by the time dusk was falling our party had become obstreperous and quite dishevelled. Sweet young things do not like drunks, so we sat watching our friends go by, all of them refusing to sit with us to a girl.
The piece de resistance was the evening black tie dance at the Pavoncelli villa. Although memory does not serve, I do remember the great speech by Claus von Billow, as well as dancing to the best samba band I've danced to in 30 years. On and on went the parade of pretty young girls, Kate Reardon, Arietta Vardinonyannis, Paola Tholstrup, Isabel Sartorius and so on. They broke an old man's heart.
Well, it could have been worse. I could have spent the weekend in the Hamptons with Hollywood types and hostile takeover artists. In fact, it could not have been bet- ter. Italy does hold an aesthetic and natural allure for someone Greek. There is a lan- guor about the place I love, and to hell with the perfidy of the Italian character. The place may be tainted, but it reeks of warmth and natural joie de vivre. Last weekend may have been curtains for the liver, but oh! the joy of not having encoun- tered a single person who resembled friends of Bill Clinton.
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