As I write, in my kitchen in Vermont, it is a cold and
rainy day heading to winter. Although gray and windy, the leaves long ago blown off the
trees, I am not stuck in this stick season. I am thinking about another visit
to my sister in Italy (check
last week’s post), but the trip I am thinking about now was in the
heat of summer.
It was over a year later,
and by this summer visit Marzia and Fabio’s relationship had become rocky; I
was soon to marry Jackie, who was with me on this trip; Tina and Ignazio had a
little baby.
My sister Tina
lived then in
Prato, a textile town, and in the summer the sun burnt down upon it.
Tina’s apartment did not, of course, have air conditioning. To escape the heat
we planned a trip to the beach with Marzia and Fabio. We would stay with them
for a night or two.
On the morning of
the trip I, ever the American, was up early. I woke Jackie, who scowled, and I made her help me get ready for our excursion. We packed for the beach. I made coffee. We dressed. And then we
sat and waited for the sounds of people waking up. They didn’t.
Ignazio, Tina and
Giulia slept on so we drank the coffee and talked, moving to the small porch
looking across to other apartment buildings. We watched a woman beat a rug; a
man drink his own coffee, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, he watching
us watch him; two kids playing; a man water potted plants. We finished our
coffees and went back inside. The others still slept.
I went for a walk
to the station to get a Herald Tribune.
The air was attic-closet hot and still. I tried not to move as I walked. Forty
minutes later, when I returned, the house was still dark but at least it was
cool. I made more coffee. I watched soccer on Italian TV while Jackie read.
Finally, my sister
got up. She made coffee. I asked when we would go. She shrugged and said, as
if it were obvious, which I guess it was, ‘everyone is still asleep.’ I watched
more soccer.
By noon Ignazio
was up, had his coffee and was dressed. The baby gnawed on some hard biscuits,
hot drool running down her front. Ignazio packed the car; Tina got the baby
ready. Jackie and I were thrilled. Off we’d go! But.
We did not go to the car. ‘We need to see Rachele and Paolo,’
Tina said. They were Ignazio’s parents, both gone now. We need to go for ‘a
little lunch,’ she said, 'we can’t not go.’ She opened her hands in a frustrated gesture, again
as though it were obvious, which I guess it was.
Rachele must
have been standing just on the other side of her apartment door because as soon
as we came into the foyer of her building she appeared on the landing. She must
have been listening for the creak of the big, heavy, ancient wooden door and
then for the beast to slam shut. She smiled and watched us walk up. She was
waving, talking. She pulled her hands together, in front of her heart, and
clasped them tightly, smiling and talking.
Paolo was quiet. He talked
to me in Sicilian. I didn’t understand but nodded. It was now about one o’clock. The apartment was dark, hot and close, like a museum. We went and sat on
the balcony but there was no relief. Of course all I could think about was we
should be at the beach, but we instead sat and talked and it seemed only I
wanted to go. And then we were called to lunch.
Rachele put out some pasta
tossed with a red sauce and veal. The sauce just touched the pasta and clung to
it and the meat fell apart with each bite. The taste was rich and spicy but not
heavy. The pasta was firm and thick (homemade). Delicious. Too hot for such a
meal but an incredible pasta. As we mopped the sauce off the plate with fresh bread,
completely satisfied, a bit drunk on thick red wine, me now thinking we would
without a doubt be off to the beach, Rachele came back from the kitchen.
Plates of stuffed artichokes; a roast beef rolled with garlic, herbs and bread; cold broccoli rabe marinated in olive oil, garlic and lemon. I pulled the fragrant,
seasoned artichoke leaves from the husk, drank more wine, stuffed down two thick
slices of the roast. Next came some homemade biscotti and dark, dark coffee.
‘A little lunch,’ my sister
had said. It was now three o’clock. We sat around the table and the
conversation rolled from Italian to Sicilian to Italian to short English
translation and back to Italian. We all laughed and smiled. It was interesting,
fun, enjoyable.
We finally left, Giulia
asleep in her father’s arms as we lumbered down the stairs, Rachele waving goodbye from the landing. We climbed into the car for the drive to the beach, an hour away. I
nodded off into a half sleep, full of odd dreams and fear of crashing,
sweating, my head lolling, Giulia sleeping next to me, holding my finger in her
small hand.
I listened through the haze of car-ride slumber to the sing-song talk of
my sister and her husband. The baby woke up, cried and cooed. Sitting between
Jackie and me in the back seat, she pulled my hair and laughed. She made Jackie
laugh. The wind roared through the car as we sped toward the coast.
At the apartment by the beach we changed into our
swimsuits. We went for a walk, a swim.
The beach was crowded and it
was still hot even late in the day. We talked, and read, and watched
Giulia throw sand at the sea. We watched the sun go down.
At dusk we
all went for another long walk on the street by the waterfront. It seemed
everyone in town was out, some wearing fine clothes; some, like us, still in
their beach things, comfortable walking along in swimsuits and flip-flops and
nothing else; others were casual and cool, in t-shirts and jeans, short skirts
or cotton dresses. People walked arm in arm, talking, or sat on park benches. Conversation was all around. It was festive, calm, relaxed. It was just Italians at the beach for a Sunday
evening.
We went back to the
apartment and showered and dressed. Still full from lunch. It took eight hours to get to the beach, full
as pythons, this trip to the beach not at all what
we were used to.
At about ten
that night we went back out. We headed south, walking along the promenade, the sea to our right. We arrived at
a long, low, open wooden building, which formed a U facing the Mediterranean. It
was a pizzeria. You could sit inside or choose to be outside under the stars. It
was rustic and warm, all worn wooden benches and plank floors. There was a big
fire burning outside where they made the pizzas. We sat at a communal table on
the beach and ordered a ton of food – bruchetta, olives, roasted vegetables
(eggplant, peppers, garlic, artichoke) and pizzas. I was still full from lunch. But I ate. And we drank wine. We sat
and talked more. The baby was asleep in her stroller. She was not the only bambina under the stars.
I sat between Tina
and Marzia. Jackie was across from me, smiling. Ignazio and Fabio were by the
baby arguing about football or music or politics. Shouting, gesturing, rolling
their words and making them long, piped, dramatic. Tina and I talked for a
minute, she feeling maybe a bit homesick put her head on my shoulder for
just a second. There were tears in her eyes, which she wiped away. She moved
away and just touched the back of my neck. She turned to Jackie and changed the
subject. We stayed out most of the night.
I have never been
as full, content, engaged.
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2012 David Rocchio
