Hungry for Italy

Louise could not stop raving about that wine bar in Venice—the one across from the San Trovaso church I’d told her about. She and Jack became regulars there during their two week holiday; thought of me every time they clinked their glasses of prosecco. They even sent me a postcard of “Gianni The Bar Owner,” who she agreed could have been Marcello Mastroianni’s brother. Of course, they’ve been back a week, but I probably won’t get that postcard for a month. Italian mail!

I laugh with Louise on the phone, while deep down I feel that stirring of a desire that won’t quit: the hunger for a trip to Italy.

It’s a yearning deeply rooted in childhood memories of long Sunday dinners at my Italian grandparents’ house in Newark, New Jersey. Fueled every August when we’d see Papa off on a ship to visit his sisters who still lived in Naples. He’d send back postcards of churches and statues. He’d return by Labor Day with beads from Venice, handkerchiefs from Florence, and rocks from Mount Vesuvius.

I keep Louise on the phone for an hour, pumping her for details of her trip.

I’ve spent the last year in a one bedroom apartment in Hollywood. According to my agent I’m “a writer between jobs.” According to Dorothy Parker I’m “dying from encouragement.” And according to me: I’m a person that hasn’t traveled to Italy in far too long.

I’ve sent no postcards. I’ve sent e-mails to friends, full of fabulous advice about great little hidden spots to hit while they’re off to Italy for vacation.

I mark my calendar with their itineraries so that I can vicariously indulge in their travels. There’s Donna, in Rome, probably around the corner from the Pantheon, drinking the best espresso on earth at Tazza D’Oro, thanks to me. Sheila, searching that alley in Florence with my directions in hand, and opening the door to that amazing paper shop. I keep my fingers crossed that Ellen got the room in the Verona pensione I told her about—the one with the balcony overlooking Piazza Erbe, the market square.