Hungry for Italy

I am the anti-Buddah. There is no “be here now” in my world. The desire to “be there now” has taken over. I surrender to it completely as Italy, like a billowy cartoon finger wafting from a bubbling pot of tomato sauce beckons to me.

I schedule extra lessons with Andrea, my Italian tutor, a Venetian with the face of a Raphael cherub. I supply the Chianti and imagine we’re in the palazzo on the Grand Canal where he grew up, as he helps me tackle the subjunctive; the verb mood used to express doubt, probability, hope. Together we translate: “I had hoped that my work situation would have smoothed out by now so I could plan a trip to Italy.”

I pour over Mario Batali’s cookbooks and make it my mission to perfect my fusilli puttanesca. Out for groceries, I detour to the cheese store where I can close my eyes and inhale the aroma Italians describe as Piedi di Dio—God’s feet. For that moment I’m in Il Mercato Centrale in Florence ready to pick up a wedge of pecorino for a picnic in the Boboli Gardens.

Louise’s postcard finally arrives. As I stick it on the fridge, the memory of that wine bar rushes back. I discovered it in my first hours on my first trip to Venice with my old friend, Betsy. In that arrival haze, we dropped our bags, hurried out of our hotel, and set out to explore the neighborhood—wobbly travel weary gals in the golden twilight hour.

As we approached a small bridge, we saw a gondola down the canal, where tourists were being serenaded by a man who played a melancholy tune on a concertina. It took our breath away: the reflection of the rosy stone buildings, geraniums tumbling from planter boxes, winged lion statues over doorways. The gondola glided towards us, steered by the most handsome of handsome dark eyed gondoliers. He flashed us a smile and a ciao, then floated away.

Reeling, we stumbled across another bridge, and there it was—that wine bar. We took our place at the counter and Gianni served me my first glass ever of prosecco.