Day Three

I’m about three glasses of moscato in when I realize it is time for me to go. The bus is supposedly coming at 6:49, and it is quickly approaching 6:45. The bus stop is only a short walk away. I down my last sip as Kat, another au pair, leads me outside. 

Yesterday, Kat and I walked over thirteen miles around Imperia— stopping for pasta and bread and wine and gelato, of course. Neither of us have international drivers licenses, which is probably a good thing because I would not want to drive here. There is lots of honking and yelling and arm-waving. I’m too sensitive to drive in Italy; I would burst into tears at the mere sight of an Italian shaking their head in my direction. So, we must ask for rides. Just like middle school.

Earlier in the day, Antonella drove me down from the village to get an Italian SIM card. Now I have an Italian number. It begins with +39 — just like everyone else.

It was raining, so the roads were slippery. Rebecca and I slid towards and away from each other at every bend, colliding when Antonella pressed the brakes. No one in Italy brakes gently. It is always an aggressive, surprised, jolted motion— as if they are trying to kill a spider before it climbs up their leg, again and again and again. I know I would fit in in this regard.

We drive around some more before finding a parking spot. Rebecca and I play on the swings while Antonella goes off somewhere. After a while, Rebecca grabs my hand.

“Let’s find Mommy.”

We pop our heads into different stores until we find her buying pens. Then, all three of us go here and there, looking at this thing and that thing in the windows. It begins raining softly, and we duck into a cafe. Antonella greets the owners warmly, as she does at most places we go to. She knows them, just as she knows everyone.

I order cappuccino and focaccia. I think of my grandmother. We have cappuccino all the time, dreaming of this very thing— Italy and pastries and warmth. One time, we tried making focaccia. We slaved away at the recipe, correcting the ratio of flour and oil, kneading until our hands hurt and then kneading some more. When it finally came out of the oven, we marveled at our hard work and success. We lathered it in sea salt and honey—multo belle, multo buono. But this piece of focaccia I have been served in this nondescript cafe suggests something different. It suggests an ease of being, as if it has just materialized out of thin air. As if it’s no big deal. For Italy, focaccia isn’t much of anything. It isn’t labored over; it isn’t a delicacy. It is simply there, residing in the corner shelf of every cafe and pasticceria. Dependable, constant, simple, delicious. I bite into the thick crust with closed eyes and take a sip of my foaming cappuccino. 

Antonella shows me a map of Imperia and gives me some tips for navigating around. We fill out some paperwork and speak to the cafe owners some more. As we get up to leave, I knock my precious cappuccino cup out of its saucer. It crashes onto the floor.

“Scuzi! Scuzi! Scuzi!”

I bring my hand to my mouth before bending down to pick up its crumbled remains. But the cafe owners kindly shoo me away.

 “No worries, no worries. We got it.”

They smile, reassuring me as they sweep up my broken cup. I don’t even know what to say, I am so overcome with a mixture of thanks and embarrassment. It seems my clumsiness transcends nations. Antonella pays the bill and walks back out into the rain, unbothered.

We walk further, running some more errands. I see a big, marble building. 

“What’s that, Antonella?”

“A church. Big, very beautiful. We stop inside?”

 I nod. We walk up the steps and into the church. I feel very small and insignificant and all those other clichés people write about feeling in spaces such as this one. But that’s the thing, I really feel them. There is no one else inside this enormous church, and every single step causes echo after echo. 

 We walk up to the shrines of many different saints. At each one, Antonella gives Rebecca euros to put inside the offering box. At one, there is a metal grate on the floor. Apparently, you are supposed to throw coins inside. Rebecca goes first, closing her eyes and mouthing a prayer before tossing. The coin clinks as it hits the ground. Then, Antonella offers me a coin. I’m not sure if I should say a prayer before, and if so, then to whom, so I just throw it underhand. The coin lodges in between the metal flanks. Antonella tries to stifle her laughter, but to no avail. All three of us are laughing as I wedge the coin through the grate with my shoe. Silently, I wonder if this was because of my decisive lack of prayer. Maybe that dead saint has a sense of humor.

Before we leave, I catch Antonella near the door, mouthing a prayer and kissing her hand to her lips. 

I watch them wane easily between laughter and prayer, lightness and sincerity. This is the most foreign (and possibly the most endearing) thing so far that I have noticed about the people of this marvelous country.

On our way back to the car, we stop for gelato. I ask for lemon, but Antonella sweetly insists that I try a second flavor. I eye the pistachio. Do lemon and pistachio go together? Four minutes later, I realize that that they do, being the first to finish (maybe the proper word here is demolish) my two scoops.

Then, Antonella says that we must buy potatoes for Fulvio. We walk into the market, only a few stores down. Rebecca and I play a game where she says the Italian word and I tell her the English word. 

“Mela?”

“Apple.”

“Cucumbre?”

“Cucumber.”

“Zucchene?”

“Zucchini.”

And on and on and on and on. When Rebecca gets tired of that game, we play “Do you like this?” The game consists of walking up and down the aisles, pointing at objects, and asking each other, “Do you like this?” When I ask Rebecca the titular question, she always responds “yes” unless it is chicken livers, which she does not like. I, too, respond with “yes” unless it is something America doesn’t have, in which case I say, “America does not have.” Or, unless it is chicken livers, which I also do not like.

Soon, it is time to go. We carry our bags back to the car.

Which is what led me here, a few hours later, standing at a bus stop with an equally confused Kat. Antonella had dropped me off after going to the market. Kat and I drank moscato and ate French cheese, planning our weekend trip to Bordighera. I had told my host family that I would be back for dinner. But I didn’t want them to drive and pick me up, so I said I’d take the bus. 

So, we’re standing on the edge of the street at what we believe to be the bus stop for Bivio Croce. From there, I am to board another bus heading up towards the village of my host family. We wait. 6:49 passes, then 6:50. At 6:52, I assume the bus is merely late. At 6:55, I think we’ve missed it.

Then, at 6:59, a bus rolls around the corner in the leisurely but violent way that is so characteristic of Italy. It flies past where we are waiting and instead stops at the end of the block where others have gathered. We begin chasing after it— wait! wait! wait! An older Italian man flags down the bus just as it closes its doors. I board and sit in the first empty seat I see, the one right behind the driver. I wave to Kat as we drive away, feeling very accomplished.

There are about eight others on the bus. I suspect they are regulars because they all eye me with intense curiosity. I am an unfamiliar entity to them. We begin our ascent up the mountain but make a sharp right turn instead of continuing left where my village can be reached. We drive up further and further.  

I’m on the bus for about ten minutes before I realize I have taken the wrong one.

The winding roads do not pair well with my recent dietary choices. I think I’m going to be sick. I close my eyes, horrified at the potential scene of me puking on this very bus, alone and miles away from my village.

 I try to text Kat, but to no avail. My phone is about to die, and I barely have service. A double-whammy of international travel nightmares.

When the bus finally stops, I get up and summon enough courage to ask the bus driver in struggled Italian where he’s driving next. 

“Dove…Imperia…duopo?”

I butcher it, but he understands. Amused, he tells me he’s going back down the mountain. To my village. At the next stop.

My eyes fill with tears. A few minutes later, we pull into the bus stop. I’m walking alone through this beautiful village surrounded by beautiful mountains and once again, I feel so small and solitary and alive et cetera et cetera et cetera. 

It is this reverence that has carried me through thus far. That and the overwhelming kindnesses of the people of this country, willing to help me appreciate the very land that they have been worshipping for millennia.