My Italy

He was handsome like an English thief in a French film noir. He looked academic but drove Hollywood and made love cowboy. He was my renaissance man, my excitement, and my life. We met when I was nineteen going on twenty-five and he was thirty-nine going on twenty. “A perfect match,” we’d tell our friends. “Plus, it’s just for the summer,” we’d carelessly shrug.
         But I knew it wasn’t. I suppose, for me, it was about the prospect of growing up. As a shy young person – my only prospects a future promotion to hostess at a nameless restaurant and marriage to a man who I would probably divorce – handsome Robert was the opportunity.
         That’s not to say that it was bad. Robert wined and dined me at first. For our first date he took me to a local art show. The afternoon after we went hiking over Biscayne’s Keys. Three more art shows, two hikes, and a play later I slept with him. I figured we’d hit the right amount of cultural events to excuse the assumed sexual relationship due to our age difference. Our first time I tried to be sexy with Marilyn Monroe lips and Grace Kelly charm, but my baby fat and perky breasts didn’t hold the right kind of sexy misery that comes with age, and so I just looked like an inexperienced porn star. But I had made him laugh. And he had kissed me like he loved me.

• • •

         Our official first date was accidental. We had only recently met, and, considering our age difference, vehemently denied the mutual attraction.
But Cupid had other designs.
Just prior to our meeting I had decided, after a string of awkward dinner-and-movie twofers, to give up dating for a while. So I had enrolled in a local art class at a studio near my apartment, hoping to renew my love of painting while simultaneously ignoring men. A lot of good that did me. As Murphy’s Law will have it, as soon as I said “sayonara” to the opposite sex Robert caught my eye and smiled. Amazing that’s all it took to cripple my cynical demeanor. I never said I wasn’t a romantic.
I remember him as he was then perfectly. The first day of class he walked in the small sunlit room that smelled of turpentine and sat down to the left of me, smiling hello.  Oh that smile, the one that whispered of many future bedside hellos. It beamed right off his crinkled face, giving his olive skin a ruddy glow that only bliss-infused radiance can bring. I felt my face slowly fill with heat that, I assumed, burned crimson. I only returned a small smile in response but I know my heart was betraying me, beating loud enough for the entire room to hear.
[Is it odd that your lover reminds you of food? Well, he did. His hair was the color of chocolate cake batter, pre-bake. His teeth egg white with only a few spots of yellow that gave me the security that he was indeed human. He wore black thin-framed glasses, which he had to adjust every so often due to the fact that his eyelashes were so long they tickled the lenses. Circular winkles, born from laughter, framed the corners of his mouth in a way that gave his entire face a round, calm, circular motion. That’s kind of how he was – circular but always in motion.]
I had watched out of the corner of my eye with a kind of curious fascination as he unpacked his painting materials, brush-by-brush, yellow paint, then blue, then red. His movements were quiet and graceful, and he went about his work with the diligence of a mouse collecting his next meal. I, on the other hand, thinking I was late, had thrown all my old painting supplies into my brown knapsack, of which were now in a large and messy heap on the floor by my feet. Along with a handful of buttons, a couple of clothespins, some bottle caps, popsicle sticks, and rainbow glitter, I was delighted to find that I had managed to gather a few good brushes and a couple of half-empty bottles of paint.
         I adjusted my canvas and dusted a bit of glitter off my sweater collar. Brush poised, I situated myself in an attempt to look like I knew what I was doing. I imagined channeling a mixture of Monet and Modigliani. Maybe that was the problem.
         “Okay, friends, it’s high time to begin. Can I have everyone’s attention?”
         I was startled to find the voice coming from my left, from the handsome man with the thin-framed glasses. He was, in fact, was teaching the class. Already smitten, I looked down at my empty canvas and longed for even an ounce of natural talent.
         I’ll admit that don’t remember what we learned that day in class or in subsequent classes. He consumed my thoughts both in and away from class. But still I could not talk to him. I cherished the moments in class when he would peer over my shoulder and comment on my work, his lips centimeters away from my ear.

Soon, it became all too much. I had to take action. So I asked for personal assistance on my most current painting. It was already long past saving but I guess I figured it would at least get him to agree. He did, and suggested that we stay late after class that night.
We were the last people in the studio. I looked out the one small window that pointed towards to heavens. Bluish whispers of nightfall with yellow stars scattered amidst were fading into a deep raven with each minute passing. My stomach rumbled and I looked at my watch – nine o’clock. I tried to remember when I had eaten last. I couldn’t, so I began to put on my coat.          
“Hey, where are you going?”
I simply pointed to my rumbling stomach and shrugged. I figured it would speak for itself.
         Boy did it. “Well let me grab my coat and we can get something together. Do you like Italian?”
         Surprised, I replied that I did.
         We left the small studio and drove to an intimate Italian restaurant. Robert stood close to me, so close I could smell him. Musky body mixed with laundry detergent. He gave his name to the host, who replied that it would most likely be a twenty to thirty minute wait. Looking at me, he raised his eyebrows as if to ask if that would be alright. I nodded, making sure to not seem too eager. It was all very like the courtships in a Hitchcock film, romantic, removed, and ridiculous. I stifled a laugh.
         Finally, we sat. The waitress arrived to take our drink orders. He, a glass of a nameless red; me, a glass of water with lemon. The waitress left and Robert, teasing, said “what, you don’t drink?”
         Oh boy. I looked away and said nothing, half-searching for a good reply, half-wishing that he would be drunk by the time he figured it all out.
         No such luck. “Wait, are you twenty one?”                    
         Nope, not even close pal. “I’m nineteen.”
         He whistled and avoided eye contact. We looked around the restaurant, pretending to admire all the beautiful people. I watched a slightly overweight waiter trip on a ruffled carpet patch and almost drop an entire tray of delectable Italian dishes. I applauded his balance in my head.
         Three minutes passed. Allowing my curious nature to take hold, I inquired as to how old he was.
         He grinned awkwardly. “Thirty-nine.”
         I would have whistled if I could’ve.

• • •

         Eventually I told my parents about him. The conversation was awkward, to say the least. I had been over there for one of my mandatory parental check up weekends.  My Catholic mother was in the kitchen, cooking enough for twenty although there were only four eating, and my dad was having his late afternoon beer at the kitchen table, buttering soft rolls. A Doris Day moment set to perfection. On my way to their house, I coached myself through lists of appropriate conversation topics that would hopefully direct attention away from any possible discussion of boys. Only when I felt safe and prepared did I move from my car and into my parents’ open arms.
         My parents greeted me like they hadn’t seen me since birth. Mid-hug, Mom opened the boy door, marked with thick red ‘no entry’ tape.
         “So, who’s the guy?”
         It’s like they could smell it on me.
         “What guy?”
         “Oh come on Mol.  We’re not that dense.”
         “Right.” I wondered how they knew. I assumed it was just one of those parental things I would figure out someday. “He’s just some guy.” I shrugged. “Nobody special really.”
         “How serious is it?”
“Who says it’s serious?”
         My mom put down the wooden spoon she was wielding in the spaghetti sauce, wiped her hands on her pants, set them firmly on her hips, and turned around to look directly at me.
         “You’re not usually this defensive about your boyfriends. Sweetheart, although this is not your first relationship, it’s potentially your first serious one.”
         Roll of the eyes. “That’s not true, mom,” I replied, defensively. “What about Carl?”
         “Carl was immature and too wrapped up in his own reflection to give you the time of day you deserve.”
         “Well Mike was –”
         “Mike was a sweetheart but he didn’t even kiss you. I would hardly call that a relationship, Molly.”
         “I was talking about the other Mike.”
         “That Mike didn’t kiss you either!”
         She had a point. “Ok, so I don’t have that much experience in the boy department.” I shuffled my feet and stuffed my hands in my pockets.
         “And you aren’t required too. You’re only twenty years old – you have years to fall in and out of love repeatedly. Why get serious now?” And then, as an afterthought,  “just don’t have sex with them.”
Dad finally picked this most convenient moment to cut in. “Jane, I don’t really think we should lecture our daughter on not having serious relationships when she’s young. After all, we got married when we were twenty-two.”
“Yes, but that was thirty years ago. It was a different world back then, and women have so many more options now. I just don’t want her to get bogged down with seriousness. While she still can avoid it.”

I knew this. I understood it. But still I couldn’t seem to avoid Robert and his delicious goodness. And the deeper I fell into love the more concerned they became – especially when they discovered how much older he was. It ultimately became a taboo subject during our rendezvous. Mom would simply ask if we’d broken up yet, to which I would snidely reply, “Mom, we’re in a relationship. He’s not going anywhere soon.”
         “Pumpkin, he’s just too old for you.”

         I looked at my dad.  The three of us were in the living room, eating homemade bean dip and salami with cream cheese, watching the fire lick and dance against the brick walls that kept it contained. It was December, and I’d been with Robert for six months.  Dad was more quiet than usual, but I took his silence to mean disagreement. “Pumpkin,” he finally said. “You know I trust you, but my concerns have always been the same: what happens in a year? Are you going to marry him when he asks?”
         I considered. When he asks? “Dad, we’ve only been together six months. We’re still in the infatuation stage.”
         He smiled wisely, and said, “He’s older. It’s something you have to consider.”
         I had considered it, but I didn’t dare face the facts just yet. For facts often meant break ups and a return to lonely Saturday nights. I sighed. My parents, perhaps sensing my unease, dropped the subject and I put it out of my mind, doused a chip with bean dip, and watched the flames mingle and the smoke rise.

• • •

         Robert and I had our first serious discussion shortly after.  It all started with a fight because of the fact that he wouldn’t fight with me. From there it was a quick jump to us.
         He was worried that I wasn’t taking the relationship seriously.
         “All we do is eat and watch movies. We don’t even have as much sex as I want,” he pouted.
         “I don’t understand what you want.”
         “I want a relationship. I want to start a life with you.”
         “A life with me? We’ve barely been dating six months, and already you’re talking about a life with me? I don’t how to answer that.”
         “Then what are we doing.” He said it as a statement. “If we can’t even talk about a future, then what are we doing now, traipsing about? I’m almost forty, Mol. This is all I seem to think about.”
         I was speechless. He stared at me, and then stood up and walked away, arms crossed. The silence between us grew palpable. I fondled a loose button on my sweater, tugging and nudging the threads that kept it attached, daring it to separate from the button. It did, of course. I tried not to read too much into the symbolism.
To break the swollen silence, he exclaimed that he’d like to take a trip. 
         “Like, to the beach?” I said like the twenty-year-old he often forgot I was.
         “No – I was thinking more of Italy.”                    
         Of course he was.
         “I’ll only be gone for a month or so,” he continued. “What do you think?”
         What did I think? He asked it so casually, like going to Italy for me was an everyday consideration. What did I think –

         Well, I thought that I would like to go to Italy myself. I thought that going with him might be nice, but it wouldn’t fix the problems we were having. I thought that his hair looked awfully Italian, and that I liked spaghetti and wine and cheesy accents.
         Instead I said, “Ok.  I’ll try to be around when you get back.” I was playing coy.  “And please remember not to let the door hit you on your way out.” That might have been too much. I angled up the corner of my lips into a half smile and gave him one of my dazzling winks.
         His eyes contemplated mine. “Baby,” he said with more humor than annoyance. “I really want you to come.”
“Oh, no, I’ve got plenty of work to do here. I’ll be fine, plus I don’t really care for Italy in the summer.”
         I was lying. I wanted to go. I’d never seen Italy in the summer, let alone any other time of the year.

• • •

         Our plane left at 7:40 am on November 24th. I was nervous, as it was my first time flying. Robert held my hand the entire way but not without lecturing me on the overwhelming security of flying.
         “It’s really the safest way to travel,” he began. He placed his arm on mine as if to lock my attention into place. It was unnecessary – he had my undivided attention for the subsequent two-day flight. “Did you know that according to the New York Times, in a typical year lightning kills about 47 people in the United States, venomous animals and plants 94?” He shuffled in his seat to turn towards me. He was getting excited. “But last year passengers flew 760 million times on airline flights in the United States, with just one death: a mechanic who fell while trying to close the door of a parked plane! So, sweetheart,” he said, slowing down his words and catching my eye. “Flying is fine.  You’re going to be just fine.” He gave my hand an extra squeeze and dismissed the conversation by pulling out his book.
         I glared at him and didn’t feel very comforted, but at least I was left with the security that I wouldn’t be alone when I died. I looked out the window – nothingness in the form of whispery clouds greeted me. The ground below looked like roly-poly play dough, houses like Legos. I imagined that I was a play dough-eating monster ravaging the world. But the plane suddenly sank and I felt my stomach heave and closed the blinds.
         Hefty turbulence began halfway through flight, however, and I gripped the arms of my chair, Robert’s hand, anything I could grasp with both hands until the flight was over.
         Finally safe on Italian ground I found myself lost in dark turquoise sky and Gothic streets. As Robert hailed a cab outside the busy Rome Airport, I inspected the sights around me with the attitude of Sherlock Holmes. I was not disappointed. As our cab traced the city corridors, I abandoned my inspector hat for one of a child’s insatiable curiosity, and pressed my nose up against the window to take in the sights.
         The air itself was bleeding with culture. As I took a deep breath, I felt it refuel and reenergize my insides. My heart fluttered with an Italian sonata and –
         “Baby, let’s find the hotel. I’m starved and I need a nap.”
         With that I was brought down and out of my reverie. I begrudgingly lifted my overstuffed bag and followed my lover to our supposed sanctuary.

• • •

         Darkness. My eyes opened wide, arching for sunlight. All they found was darkness. Confused, I rolled lethargically onto my side and glanced over Robert’s sleeping form at the clock.
         Did it say ten o’clock? I squinted and, after my suspicions were confirmed, felt my heart quicken. Ten o’clock on my first night in Italy? Falling out of bed, I began to throw shirts, pants, shoes onto myself at random. Robert didn’t stir. I threw a heeled sandal at him, aiming for his head but getting the lamp next to it. It toppled off the nightstand and broke with a resounding crash. Robert only grumbled and moved the pillow over his head, effectively blocking both my voice and my view.
         I shouted for his attention. I threatened to leave him. I resolved to make his life a living hell for the rest of the trip, words I knew would melt his guts any other day.
Nothing. Robert only curled more into a tiny ball. He looked like a child, sleeping away within the Eternal City. I stared at him, hoping the heat from my eyeballs would burn a hole through his disinterested skull. But a last sharp beam of sunlight pierced them, and I had to blink.
         Lush lime halos framed my view when I opened them again, and I suddenly resolved to forget about my childish boyfriend. The city awaited me, with or without him. I quickly got ready, and tip toed out of our room, leaving Robert’s snoring form alone.
         Finally out in the open air I looked up at the sky and breathed deeply. Hoping to wash away the annoyance that now pulled at my heartstrings, which threatened to break, I repeated the breath. An Italian sunset was seeping into the sallow clouds above. Wispy and pallid at first, they leisurely filled with fiery saturation. That scarlet stain began to spread, cloud by cloud, until the entirety of heaven was filled with homogeneous shades of tangerine and carmine. Slightly rejuvenated, I slowly began to traverse my way down the rickety streets.
         They should have named Rome the city that never sleeps. I guessed it was nine-thirty or ten o’clock when I closed the rustic red door (that was only the beginning of the separation between Robert and me) and the streets were hustling – it could have been midday. Gaudy vendors shouted “Ciao Bella,” to each female who walked close enough to his cart, be it human or beast. A fruit woman, face so wrinkled that I imagined the beads of her labor had formed them when traversing from her hairline to her chin, offered me a grape. Its squishy skin collapsed under my desire, so vibrant it tasted like purple. With the onset of an eastern wind, I was surrounded in the aroma of fermented grapes and Pecorino Romano. I followed the smell to the doorstep of a small, overcrowded restaurant.
         The boy at the door spoke to me in unintelligible Italian, welcoming me, I assumed. Noticing the bewildered look on my face he politely switched to broken English and shuffled me to a small table by the window. The name on the menu read Asino Cotto.  Considering that it might be important, I diligently searched for the words in my pocket bit-of-sanity, also known as an English-Italian dictionary. Finally eyeing both, I placed them together: Cooked Donkey. I laughed, but edgily, and made sure to thoroughly examine the menu before ordering.
         A young waiter came over to take my drink order.  He looked exhausted – droopy pants, looping shoulders, and turned in toes – but also quite handsome.  He missed my glass while refilling my water, dribbling iciness down the front of my dress that made me feel as if I was freezing from the inside out.  Apologizing profusely, he attempted unsuccessfully to sweep the spilt water into his apron and shyly offered to help my dry.  I laughed, and, feeling my face grow hot, fluttered him away with one hand while ineffectively attempting to dry my dress with the other.  I excused myself and just as I was about to ask where the restroom might be, the waiter pointed to a corner before walking silently away with his head turned down.
         After spending a few minutes patting the front of my dress down with a paper towel, I returned only slightly damp to my table by the window and was unexpectedly welcomed to a tall glass of deep maroon wine.  Whom I presumed to be the owner soon joined me with a deep bow; he was very tanned and smiling like a Cheshire cat.
         “Signora,” he said in a low vibrato.  “My deepest apologies for Alessandro’s unfortunate blunder.”  His English was perfect, with only a slight hint of caramel Italian that reminded me of my grandmother voice.  It made me suddenly miss home.  “I do hope you’ll accept this glass of wine along with my sincerest apologies.”  He bowed again, and his smile never broke.
         “Grazie Senor!”  I held up the glass of wine, thinking that this must be what Italian people do to emphasize thanks.  At least, I knew I’d seen them do it in the movies.  I put the glass awkwardly down.
         “Are you enjoying your stay in Rome?”
         “This is actually my first night, Senor,” I replied.  I was consumed with his large, round cheeks.  My own begin to ache in response, so I rubbed them hoping that he would get the hint.  Unfortunately, he didn’t.
         “Ah, then let me recommend some places for you to see, of course.  You must visit the regular places, el Campo de' fiori, Piazza Navona, the Colosseo, and so on.  Those are important for you – how do you say – tourists.  But I will also tell you to visit the city most of tourists do not see.  Alessandro!”
         His vibrato echoed back into the cavernous kitchen where I assumed Alessandro had taken refuge.  However he reappeared instantaneously on command and bashfully joined us at my increasingly busy table by the window.
         “Alessandro,” the Cheshire host turned and said.  “This young lady would like some assistance finding her way around the real city of Rome.  Would you be so kind?”
         I spoke up, “Oh no, really that won’t be necessary Alessandro.  I’m actually here with my boyfriend.”
         They looked around, assumingly expecting to see him.
         “Oh, no, he’s not here right now.  He was tired after the flight, and so I came to dine solo.”
         “Well then, I’m sure he wouldn’t be apposed to a little moonlit tour of Italia, no?  Alessandro’s really an excellent tour guide, Signora,” he replied.  “He is happy to be helping you in your travels.”
         “Well,” I considered.  I suppose Robert wouldn’t be apposed.  I could always show him what I learned tomorrow in the sunlight.  “Ok,” I said.  “An insider’s tour would be delightful, Alessandro.”  I smiled and felt a sense of anticipation mixed with foreboding about the remainder of the night.
         “Signora,” Alessandro said, while simultaneously refilling my water and my wine glasses without spilling a drop. I looked up at him in wonder, imagining that this could not be the same waiter from before.  “I would enjoy to show you around Italia.  After you complete your meal we will go.  Grazie, and enjoy your meal.”  He placed a plate of steaming pasta smothered in a milky cream sauce, and my taste buds sang praises to scents of sautéed mushrooms and braised lamb.
         “But I didn’t order yet!” I called in response as my meal found its way onto my fork and into my mouth, which reduced my voice to a muffled moan of aphrodisiac appreciation.  I closed my eyes and let the savors rush through my veins.
         The morning air was sweet like Italian rolls.  I laid in bed without stirring and let restfulness wash over me.  Deep rejuvenated breaths filled my lungs and I breathed out happy.  I was in Italy.  Finally I opened my eyes without moving and felt the sheets around my body stir.  Suddenly, I remembered Robert, and I felt my way up the other side of the bed for a warm body or warm sheets.  But his half was neither.  Unease pulled me up out of bed by my torso and I looked around our modest hotel room for any sight of a warm body that reminded me of him.  There he was on the floor in the form of a Lacoste T-shirt and brown leather shoes, and I spotted him again near the bathroom in the form of an orange toothbrush and his new Italian cologne he’d bought for the occasion, but no warm body was to be found.  I laid back down and, suddenly feeling the cool breath of mid-morning, I wrapped the sheets tightly around me.  They rapidly felt too thin.  I told myself that he was probably just out for a walk, after all, he did go to bed rather early.  But guilt slowly crept unwelcome into my happy mid morning yawn.  How late had I stayed out last night?  I remembered the darkness of night, but without a wristwatch or a care I hadn’t even considered that Robert would be angry.  But perhaps he was.  I bolted up again and completely out of the now hateful bed of my guilt.

         I looked at my wrist expecting to see a wristwatch and, noticing it was strangely absent, became melancholy at the sight of my lonely wrist.  It felt so cold and naked, as if all the cold of the day had settled down on it, burdening with its hollow sadness.  And so I rubbed it to commiserate, to make up for the coverage I had so foolishly deprived it of.
         And then it began to rain.  Thick, heavy drops poured onto my uncovered auburn curls.