"Jay, what do you want?" I ask him. He looks down at his calloused hands. "You." He answers, earnestly. I turn to Leo now, "what do you want, Leo?" His answer is identical. "You." I fumble with my red-painted fingernails. Jay's hand is rough and war...
The streets were magnificent, even after three weeks of walking through them, I was still in complete awe. I was becoming more and more comfortable with the city as I spent long days wandering around and snapping pictures as subtly as I could possibly manage. Growing up in Southern California, you have a very particular frustration for any and all tourists...I surely didn't want to be even the slightest thorn in any of the local's sides. Then again, I wasn't an entire family of Americans. I wasn't wearing a fanny-pack and I wasn't stopping every three and a half feet to take seventeen-thousand pictures. It's a tree, lady, I'm sure you have them wherever you're from. See, I was simply walking, gazing. Admiring the beauty that surrounded me. Despite being here, and living with my Nonna and Papà, two elderly, slightly Americanized Italians, I'd learned a minimal amount of words. Like, only the basics. Ciao, hello (obviously), parli inglese, do you speak English (that one is pretty much imperative), grazie, thank you (everyone knows this one), aiuto, help (another important one), and finally (my personal favorite), ti amo. I shouldn't have to tell anyone what this means. If you don't know it, than I'm quite sure you're not any sort of romantic.
I, however, am obscenely romantic. I've dreamt up the moment where I meet some handsome Italian man, probably a good twenty-five thousand times. It's perfect. It's all perfect and movie-esque. So, I'm walking, gracefully, of course and then the tip of my sandal gets caught on a loose paver. Down I go, but suddenly, tanned arms catch me carefully and pull me back up. His eyes are brown...or green and his hair is dark, his smile blinding...It's love at first sight, and then we spend the summer falling more and more in love and we live happily ever after. Yeah, I'm that romantic. The nauseating, hopeless kind. But I'm not in a movie. No sir. This is real life and nothing is movie-esque. So, I walk and I snap inconspicuous photographs, and I run into a big, whopping zero handsome Italian men.
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The sun is prettily hitting the tangerine colored stucco of my grandparent's flat building, and I see my Nonna walk by the wide open window. She's been doing laundry, I see, as a few garments blow gently in the late-afternoon breeze. The kelly green shutters are a beautiful contrast against the orange walls and I stop for a minute and smile. Okay, so maybe some things are movie-esque. She walks by again, but this time glances out and smiles. "Ciao, la mia bella ragazza (hello, my beautiful girl)!" I wave to her.
"Ciao, Nonna."
"Salire, salire (come up, come up)...il pranzo (dinner) is almost ready!" I hurry up the stairs, and push the door open on the second floor, their floor. Giraldo Pasolini was the cutest little man. He kind of resembled a turtle I had back in the third grade, Franklin (original, I know). He's sitting at the kitchen table as I scoot behind him, kissing his cheek as I pass by.
"Ciao, Papà." He squeezes my hand before I slip into my current bedroom. The apartment is small, so I can still see him.
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"Ciao, tesoro (hello, sweetheart)." He greets back. "Good day?" I nod, removing my sandals.
"Amazing day...got lots of good pictures." My feet pad gently against their rustic wood floors, and I stop by the wine rack. I pour three generous glasses of Barbaresco, the most amazing red wine I've ever tasted. Nonna and Papà drink more wine than any other American adult I've met, but then again, compared to their fellow Italians, they drink an unremarkable amount. Mind you, I'm trying my best keep up.
"Have you met your bell'uomo (handsome man) yet?" I shake my head in response to Nonna's question. "C'è ancora domani (there's still tomorrow), darling." We sit down for yet another hefty meal, and my plate is the biggest. "Mangiare tutto, sei troppo magra (eat it all, you're too skinny)." I laugh at this...I was raised in Southern California. The only way of eating that wasn't frowned upon, wasn't really eating at all. It's this fad called juicing and everybody's doing it, you know?
