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Anthony Bourdain I Am Not
"All I know about Italy is that everyday you're gonna eat something that makes you happy to be alive." - Herb Eckhouse
My hosts and I startled each other the next morning. I emerged from my bedroom at 7AM with my shoes on and my shoulder bag slung across my body, intent on finding a cafe somewhere for my long-fantasized-about cappuccino and cornetto (the Italian version of a croissant). I nearly collided with Mario in the hallway, who immediately began prattling something about "la calazione". Breakfast.
"Si," I agreed. "Okay." I guess I could have breakfast out another day.
Mario sat me down at the wooden island in the kitchen and proceeded to empty the entire contents of their pantry, placing them in front of me along with a plate and knife while I removed my shoes and shoulder bag. "Caffe?" He asked, and I nodded.
"Si, grazie."
"Prego."
By the time Filomenia, his wife, appeared in slippers and a blue bathrobe, I was cherry-picking my way through a stockpile of pre-toasted bread, packaged jam-filled pastries, butter, honey, tahini, nutella, homemade jam and, for some reason, an orange. Throwing both hands in the air, Filomenia flew into a hysteria over what she apparently considered to be an insufficient calazione. She scolded Mario for not heating the milk for my coffee properly, then promptly snatched the orange from my plate and pitched it across the room, laughing at Mario's inclusion of "la frutta."
I flashed her a commiserative smile. "Regazzi, no?" Boys, am I right?
Filomenia looked at me as though I'd sprouted a second head. "Lei dice Italiano!" She marvelled.
We then launched into a faltering conversation over breakfast. She wanted to know if I was a student. "Si," I replied. "Di literatura." She wanted to know what my "programma" (plans) were for my time in Rome. "Niente programma," I shrugged. I had to admit I was impressed with myself. Without once slipping into English, I was able to communicate modestly that I'd studied Italian in University, but only one semester so I wasn't very good, that I was from Windsor, the Southernmost part of Canada, just across the river from Detroit, that I thought I might visit the Vatican and maybe take a day-trip to Naples while I was here.
I was even more grateful for the Italian classes when I ventured out of the guesthouse again to explore, and it became painfully apparent that no one here spoke English. At least not in the Prati district, which was largely residential. Perhaps it would be a different story when I visited Centro Storico, where the Coliseum and Trevi Fountain were. But for now, it seemed, my English would just have to take a seat on the back burner. By the time I was asking a butcher in a local meat and cheese shop where Bonci Pizzarium was and deciphering his directions more or less fluently, I was beginning to wonder whether it was possible to forget how to speak your native language.
The Pizzarium, which I'd heard about on a No Reservations episode about Rome, turned out to be just around the corner. Seeing no written indication of the ingredients in the mosaic of pizza toppings behind the glass counter, I asked the server for a recommendation. Without missing a beat, he replied that the codfish pizza with tomato sauce, olives and pine nuts was, without question, the best. Think it sounds disgusting? So did I. Bonci makes it work. There is a reason this pint-sized hole-in-the-wall with no seating was on the Travel Channel.
The pizza-maker uses a pair of scissors to trim off whatever amount of your selection you want, weighs it, and charges you accordingly, like at a deli counter. Waiting for my surprisingly delicious codfish pizza to be heated in the oven, I ordered a very full plastic cup of their homemade red wine, because why not?
After lunch, I started walking. Finally confident enough in my lay of the land to be able to find my way back to my guesthouse, I decided to branch out on my exploration, and I kept walking. And just for a little change of pace, I walked some more. Rome - at least this part of it - wasn't so scary and unmanageable after all. I stopped at the bistro where I'd had cacio e pepe yesterday and ordered a negroni, because that's what Anthony Bourdain drinks whenever he's in Rome. I opened my guidebook to consult a map. I thought I might visit the Vatican tomorrow, if I could find it. It was the most frustrating thing - the distinctive dome of St. Peter's Basilica was clearly visible from the rooftop balcony of my apartment, not a couple of blocks away. I'd spent the majority of my walk this afternoon looking for it, combing the narrow vias between apricot-coloured villas and trattorias, and had still come up blank. How the hell do you miss Vatican City? It was an entire country for Christ sake! AND IT WAS RIGHT THERE!
I made it through two thirds of the negroni (an apparently lethal cocktail consisting of one part gin, one part Compari and one part sweet vermouth), and promptly decided to stop trying to emulate Anthony Bourdain every opportunity I got. The man may have been my personal hero, but he was also a six-foot-two, fifty-year-old ex-drug-addict and alcoholic who had cleaned up just in time to televise his travels of almost every country in the world. I was seriously delusional if I thought I could keep up.
My wanderlust beginning to wane for the day, I made one more stop at La Tradizione - the snack shop I'd discovered earlier - for some stinky cheese, local prosciutto, black olives and homemade focaccia, figuring I wouldn't have the energy to go out again for dinner. On the way back to my guesthouse, I ducked into a small supermarket for a half litre of red wine (€1.50). I didn't get to any of it until after my two-hour siesta, around 8PM.
As I artfully arranged prosciutto on a small side-plate next to the round of cheese, a few olives and bread, I caught a glimpse of the elusive Vatican out the window, celestially spotlit from below in its parallel universe in the gathering dusk. If I couldn't get there in person, I decided, I was at least going to enjoy my antipasto and wine looking out at it from my rooftop.
I carried my plate and Italian-style wine tumbler down the hall toward the balcony. Mario stopped me at the door, protesting vehemently in Italian as he steered me by the shoulders back to the kitchen and sat me down at the island where I'd had breakfast, still ranting. "Okay," I grumbled. "Or not." I wasn't sure if he was concerned about me catching a chill in the fifty-degree evening or if he was upset that I didn't eat with them. Best I could understand, it was a little of both.
Once I was seated safely at a bar stool, Mario placed in front of me an apple and a kiwi, wagged a disapproving index finger in my face, then returned to the living room to continue watching his soap, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I looked down at my plate. Why does this man keep giving me fruit?
- comments
Dad I am laughing out loud...hahaha. I will have to buy you more fruit!
Kaycee S You have an amazing way with words, I am very excited to keep reading about your travels!! <3 Rome sounds so lavish and beautiful, or maybe it's just the way you write about it ;)
Julia Just caught up on the blog entries and I am jealous to say the very least. Have a wonderful adventure! I can't wait to see how your journey unfolds.
Shannon C Love the entries so far! My husband is Italian and his grandparents as well as his dad were born in Rome. He still has a ton of family there, and he's been there many times. I'm looking forward to finally getting there to meet them all someday! Just wanted to mention though that I've learned over the years that Italians LOVE to feed people , its almost like a religion to them, lol! To my Italian family , absolutely nothing beats gathering everyone around the table with some excellent Italian food and homemade vino :) I have a feeling Mario will not rest until you are stuffed full of food after every meal, lol! Sounds like you're having fun, keep the entries coming!
Aunt Connie enjoying reading this--brings back a lot of memories from when U. Frank took me to Rome!! ENJOY IT ALL