day thirty
I’m going to tell you about the time I got kicked in the face on the beach by an Italian man. Also, the time I made PB&J for my host family. Both of these memories have imprinted themselves in my mind.
(One of them quite literally.)
. . . . . .
It had been such a perfect Sunday.
Since the bus schedule is always weird on Sunday, my friend Nicole picked me up on her motorbike. Her grandmother lives near my village, and she had been out visiting.
We fly down the wistful mountain roads. I remember my host parents commending me on my scooter-riding abilities a few days before.
“Most people try to lean against the turns – you lean into them! A true Italian!”
This is probably (no, definitely) the highest compliment I have ever received.
I’m holding onto the metal handles behind me, then holding onto Nicole because we’re going so fast and my hands are sweaty. I’m no longer leaning into every turn. My true nature begins to reveal itself—a frightened American. What’s worse, I always seem to be wearing a dress when I’m on one of these things. And let me tell you, dresses and motor bikes and Italian breezes don’t make for a conservative pairing.
We arrive at the café and meet our friends for lunch. We talk with them about growing up in Imperia. They see many of their friends walking by as we speak. This is something I really love about this place – it’s a small town. You’re bound to run into someone you know wherever you go. This proved to be very, very helpful later on in the day. It could’ve saved my life. (Not actually. That’s pretty dramatic. It helped a lot, though!)
What followed was a blissful afternoon on the rocks, soaking up the sun and jumping off the rocks into the blue, blue sea.
We couldn’t have known what would follow a few hours later in this very same spot.
. . . . . .
Their faces are doubtful. They struggle to hide their feelings about anything, ever. I don’t know if this is just my host family or an Italian thing. (Can I say that?) Regardless, both Antonella and Rebecca have one eyebrow propped up as if a man on the street was trying to sell them magical beans
I spread the peanut butter first, quite generously. I’d like to know who starts with jelly. Please, if you know this person, get me in contact with them. I’d like to ask them a few questions.
They are overwhelmed. Both Antonella and Rebecca have conveyed to me that they don’t like the consistency of peanut butter. They’re nervous. This is understandable. There’s nothing in the traditional Italian diet that resembles peanut butter. Besides Nutella. But like, that’s Nutella.
When I finish with the peanut butter, I spoon out strawberry jam. This is another very important step in the construction of the perfect PB&J. It must be strawberry jam. I don’t want to hear the arguments for gr*pe j*lly. I just don’t want to hear them.
I take the two slices of bread and press them together. The corners must match exactly. Usually, I don’t pay attention to detail when making PB&J. That’s kind of the beauty of it. It should be effortless, haphazard. However, this is the first time these people are trying this classic American delicacy. One that means so much to me. I’m basically inviting them into my world as they have done for me time and time again. (I’ll admit this is also quite dramatic. Sue me.)
Antonella reaches for the sandwich, but I stop her.
“This is the most important part.”
They watch as I take the butter knife and slice the sandwich diagonally. My cut is one of utter precision. I split the sandwich in half and hand a slice to each.
. . . . . .
A whole day in the sun makes a person very hungry – hungry in a specific way. What I mean by this is that the sun makes a person want to decimate an entire pizza.
And an entire pizza I did decimate.
After, gelato. And walking. And more food. And possibly more gelato. (Did we have more gelato?)
Suddenly, it’s almost midnight and we are sitting on the beach listening to music. There are lots of people in the distance – some on the rocks, others walking off their pizza and gelato, other authority figures with flashlights making sure no one is sneaking into the beach clubs. My friend and I are sitting on the sand at the free beach.
In Italy, one must pay to be a member at a beach. Otherwise, you’re stuck spreading out your towel on the sand in a very tight, fenced off area called the spiaggia libera– the free beach. This is where the cheapskates recline. So basically, me and my friends.
So, we’re sitting on the sand with headphones in. I think Tycho’s playing – something very calm and ambient. The waves are crashing onto the shore and the rocks. My feet are burrowed in the sand. All is well with the world.
I hear shouting in the background, but it is faint. I ignore it – there are so many teenagers around with their friends, I just assume the sound is coming from one of them.
The shouting gets a bit louder; I’m going to turn the music up. There’s a light pole behind us, tinging the night with an orange hue. A shadow falls over us, turning our oranged faces dark.
This is when I turn my head around. It was second nature. I didn’t even think about looking back before I did.
Before I know it, I’m laying back on the beach, cradling my head in my hands.
My friend is standing up, screaming at the man. He chases him away. Then both of us are sitting in the sand. I’m speechless. I am completely without speech.
Okay, so I was screaming all the curse words I knew at the top of my lungs. What of it.
. . . . . .
They’re chewing as I’ve seen no one chew before.
I can’t tell if they love it or hate it. I know they will give me their honest opinion regardless – of this I am absolutely sure. This is something I’ve had to adjust to since being in Italy. People here will tell you exactly how they’re feeling. It is utterly refreshing and utterly heart-wrenching. I am nowhere near as sensitive as I once was.
“What do you think?”
I don’t look up as I ask the fated question. I’m spreading my own peanut butter on my own sandwich. This is the first time I’ve come in contact with remotely American food since being in Italy. I hide behind my slices of white bread. I don’t want them to know how much I care.
Antonella grins widely.
“Good! Good! Very, very good! I like!”
I am glowing.
I look to Rebecca. She doesn’t have the same look on her face.
“I don’t like.”
Suddenly I’m devastated. This is an emotional rollercoaster for me. I have gotten my hopes up only to watch them be dashed upon the rocks by an eight-year-old. How will I learn to trust again? How can I put myself out there once more after such a laceration?
I grab the rest of her sandwich and take a huge bite.
. . . . . .
He must have been strung out on drugs. There is literally no other logical explanation besides insanity.
All I remember about him was that he was wearing a green shirt. I don’t remember his face or stature. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out in a crowd.
We didn’t make eye contact as he kicked me in the head. I don’t think I was looking up that far.
So, I’m screaming on the beach. (Just another Sunday night.)
After a few minutes, my friend grabs my phone and shines it on my face. The impact had broken the skin on my upper forehead, but nothing looked too bad.
Then, I take the flashlight and shine it on his face.
The entire left side of his head is covered in blood.
We run to the bathroom. I’m flipping out, obviously. I can’t stop laughing and then subsequently screaming. I think it is just a lot to process. Also, I’m dramatic. Also, we got kicked in the face pretty hard. So, it’s understandable to a point.
I clean the blood and sand off with toilet paper. (Why do the bathrooms here never have paper towels? So inconvenient at a time like this.)
“What just happened? Did that just happen?”
Over and over and over again.
We walk out of the bathroom. We had gone to the outside café that all of us had eaten at earlier. The waiter recognized me from lunch.
He spots our head wounds and asks if we are alright. In broken Italian, I attempt to explain to him the situation. This proves to be quite difficult, however, because I never learned the vocabulary for getting assaulted on a beach.
Thankfully, the one person who can help me the most comes walking down the port at this very moment. Nicole.
“Oh my god! Are you guys alright? What has happened?”
Nicole speaks English really well. She’s only seventeen but can communicate perfectly. She also drives a motorbike. I tell Nicole all the time that she’s a total badass. This seems to be the only English word she doesn’t understand.
We explain what happened. She gets ice for our heads and talks to the police for us. Then, she calls me a taxi.
I think she is my guardian angel.
. . . . . .
Antonella tells me that Rebecca had two PB&J’s for dinner when I was gone. She even asked if she could start packing them for lunch at school next year.
I tell her nothing makes me happier. Then, I show her my flesh wound.
. . . . . .
After a week or so, the scabs heal. I was out in the sun too much and didn’t really take care of it properly. There’s a chance I will have a permanent scar on my forehead from the whole ordeal. Oh well! Like I keep saying, I’m saving hundreds on souvenirs from all the scars I’m accumulating this summer.
Everyone keeps telling me that this experience is an anomaly for Imperia. And I believe them. Imperia is safe – it’s a small, family-oriented town. I don’t feel particularly endangered being here. But regardless of how safe or unsafe, I’m glad I wasn’t alone and I’m glad it happened to people who were tough enough to take it.
Little does this man know that along with kicking me in the face, he’s given me a story I can tell for a lifetime.
Be safe, kids!