ITALY 1: One Night in Italy

 “La carità è paziente, è benigna la carità. Non invidia, non si vanta non e orgoglioso.  Fa altri non disonore, non e egoista, non è facile all’ira, non tiene conto dei torti.  L’amore non si diletta nel male magioisce con la verità.  Protegge sempre, sempre crede, tutto spera, tuto sopporta.” ~ Dio

I can still taste his mouth on my lips as I flop onto my bed amazed, exhausted, and out of breath.  My head is spinning, and I’m trying to piece together exactly what happened.  Even the ten minute bus ride from his house to my hotel room couldn’t clear up the confusion that I am feeling.  It doesn’t happen like this at home, well at least not for me . . . one minute I’m eating gelato in the park, and the next I’m a few feet away from some guy’s bed.  “I want to make love to you before you go.” He said with what any girl would depict as a dreamy Italian accent.  My eyes widened and I couldn’t express clearly or quickly enough that I wasn’t that kind of girl.  I had known him for all of ten minutes.  We had pulled out the computer to translate what we were trying to communicate to each other.  I typed, “I’m not the kind of girl that kisses someone she has just met.” Up until that moment, his exaggerated affection had been written off as the ‘Italian culture’.  I few more sentences typed between us on the computer, and I thought I had been very clear that I had no intention of doing anything with him.  No is the same in every language; so I thought.  I have never been more wrong.  He grabbed my face in both his hands and kissed me directly on the lips.  My eyes widened, I jerked back and stood up waving my hands. “No! No! No!” I said in amazement.  “I’ll take you to the bus stop?” he typed onto the computer.  All I could do was nod.  I was glad he got the hint, because my mind had already begun to race with unpleasant thoughts, and fear didn’t bother creeping in the back door but rather ran straight in with a knife.  If this guy didn’t understand that no meant no, then . . . well, let’s not think about that.  He walked me to the bus stop.  Only a minute had passed before the bus arrived, but time felt as though it was standing still.  The doors opened creating a safety net that I gladly dove into, but not before he grabbed my shoulders and kissed my cheeks good-bye, in the regular European fashion.  As I took my seat on the bus, my heart pounded and I let out a deep sigh of relief.  My mouth dropped open, my eyes widened, and I shook my head in disbelief as I thought about the situation. When it came to my stop I jumped out of the bus and ran all the way to my hotel room.  I didn’t stop to take a breath until I was safely locked in my room and flopping onto my bed.  I should have known Italian men were going to be trouble when I first stepped off the plane.  I was the last one off, and I had to rush to catch the shuttle.  The moment I stepped through the doors, a young Italian man took notice of me right away. The way he looked at me, caused me to keep checking to make sure my clothes were still on.  His smile suggested that he had already done something terrible to me and I didn’t even know it yet. I repositioned myself out of his gaze sending him a very disapproving side-ways glance. “Oh Lord,” I thought, “I’m in trouble!” Not five minutes in Italy, and I have already had more attention than 10 years in America.  To my delight, the food would balance out the scallywags!

My new hosts are lively, self-sustaining, knowledgeable and amazing cooks! I have had one fantastic dish served after another.  Tonight, the limestone walls arch overhead, creating perfect acoustics for the evenings music selection.  Appropriately Lenny Kravitz, ‘It Ain’t Over till it’s Over’ began to play.  A large white bowl encompassed the two perfectly formed hand stuffed crespelli.  A viscous red sauce poured over the top slid down the sides and pooled around the bottom.  Freshly grated parmesan from the local dairy garnished the dish like freshly fallen snow.  It seemed almost a sin to ruin the perfect harmony that had been so beautiful painted in front of me.  A greater tragedy would have been to leave it alone.  My fork cut easily into the crespelli exposing the insides bursting with prosciutto.  The moment the food reached my mouth and my tongue awoke I was transported into another dimension.  I had been warned that eating food in Italy wouldn’t just be for sustenance, but rather it would be a religious experience.  I understood the moment all 10,000 of my taste buds stood at attention and worshipped. I paused as I was transfixed by the flavor explosion.  I closed my eyes, and faded away.  I awoke with tears in my eyes, and white knuckles on my fork and knife.  As I gripped my silverware I used the rest of my energy to hold back my urge to throw my utensils aside and devour the rest without stopping to breathe.  As I brought the last bite to my mouth tears glazed my eyes and I felt as though I was losing a dear friend.  I gently laid down my silverware, and gripped the edges of my chair to resist the desire to lick my bowl clean.   You may think I am being a bit over dramatic, but then perhaps you haven’t had a religious experience with food before.  Keith, my host, must have understood as he handed me a piece of bread exclaiming, “Scapetti!” Here in Italy it is perfectly acceptable and borderline offensive if you don’t scapetti, scraping every last drop of sauce and food from off your plate. 

I knew I would love Italy!!! They have ruined all other food for me, and I am eternally grateful! 


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAhKf_Ro4ZU