Ciao!

Our van wreaks of Philip Morris cigarettes and the sea.

We arrived in Sanremo, Italy at midnight and pulled into an RV camping lot. We decided “upstairs” would be mine – the roof pops up into a roomy loft. When I peered out of my little mesh window in the morning, the sea greeted me from not 500 meters away. Maia and I strolled over to her under palm trees to say good morning.

We drove for a bit before stopping in a small, obscure city; I experienced my first Italian coffee (even smaller than a French coffee) at a café called Café Maxxini. I ordered a café allongé, like in France, but in Italy it is un café lungo. When we had finished our coffee – in, like, one minute - we crossed the street to a tiny market. An old man and two old women took orders in Italian behind a long case of cheese, pasta, olives, pesto, and meat. The workers slicked a wheel of gorgonzola like a pie. Ham legs the size of my torso hung from the ceiling. A floor-to-ceiling shelf displayed twenty brands of olive oil. In Italian, Maia ordered prosciutto, bread, smoked mozzarella, pesto, olive oil, and tomatoes. We ate all of this in a salad while overlooking the Mediterranean from atop a cliff – a perfect Italian picnic.

Coasting down streets in the Italian countryside is like jumping into a romantic film – every shot is art and there is no such thing as a sad ending.

Fields of sunflowers stood at attention in the summer sun, some of their heads drooping from having bloomed too early in the season. Sometime last year my desktop background on my laptop was a field of sunflowers; I never imagined I’d see one in real life.

We passed vineyards, abandoned white-washed houses with no windows or roofs, and signs for Milan while Matthieu gave me a French grammar lesson and answered my incessant questions.

“Comment dit on ‘I don’t care?’”

“What’s the difference between ‘J’ai besoin’ and ‘Je dois?’”

“How do you spell ‘rire?’”

Verona

I always thought the story of Romeo and Juliette was stupid – two teenagers meet one time and are suddenly madly in love, and then they both end up committing suicide for no reason at all; however, I’m now convinced that anybody who grew up in a city like Verona would be engrossed in this wonderfully tragic spirit of romance like these two cross-ey’d lovers.

The little streets were lined with stores named after Shakespeare’s most famous characters. Maia, Matthieu and I followed a flood of people to a stone tunnel leading to a courtyard. The tunnel walls were caked in layers and layers of inked initials encased in hearts. Some couples had been smart enough to paint their names on band-aids before sticking them on the stones so they were harder for the next lovers to paint over.

A statue of Juliette kept watch over the courtyard beneath Juliette’s balcony where Romeo apparently crept all the time in the night like a little stalker. Legend has it that touching the stone boobs of Juliette brings good luck in love; tourists took turns violating the poor lady, but I had the feeling she liked it.

A man had climbed onto a ledge in the tunnel to carve something above the entrance – his lover watched from below. As I exited, I was overwhelmed by all the emotions people poured out to Juliette. So much love, desperation, and heartbreak. The city of Verona had turned Juliette into a goddess of romance. I teared up, feeling the weight of the paint layers.

Besides enveloping me in a bubble of romantic sentiments, Verona also gave me my first experience of an Italian cathedral. I’d seen photos, of course, but until you plant your feet beneath those immaculately painted ceilings, you don’t realize how magnificently small they make you feel. La Santa Anastasia was another religious experience that almost brought me to tears.

Then there was the sacred experience of my first real Italian gelato. I read the long name on the tag with an accent that was probably ridiculously exaggerated, but the lady got the point and handed me heaven in a dish.

We left fair Verona at dusk. Lightning illuminated the clouds over the city as we turned our attention toward Venice.

Venice

By midnight we had parked our van in a campground right outside Venezia. The next morning, as we waited for our boat to the city, Matt and Maia explained to me in French the incredible construction of this old city built on water. It seems the most beautiful things are always the most vulnerable.

Anyone who has been to Venice won’t be surprised that it’s my favorite city so far. The “streets” are so narrow I could touch the buildings on either side at the same time with my elbows bent. Clothes hung on lines across tiny balconies like veins running through the city. Scarlet flowers hung from almost every window.

Venice is so quiet. Every other store sells sparkling masks and the most intricate glass pieces, from lamps covers to glass figurines. The “taxis” and “buses” are boats rowed by handsome Italian men in striped shirts who sing as they row you around their city.

I had my first real Italian meal in Venice – spaghetti and red wine. After we ordered coffee, the waiter brought us limoncello and little cookies. The limoncello was too strong for me, especially after the wine, but I have some friends who would have appreciated it. (Ehem … Ben.)

At 3 p.m. we had a half hour to catch our “bus” back to the van. Despite having a map, we were lost. European streets are not designed in grids like the oh-so-logical New York City. This is endearing and fun until you need to catch a boat on the other side of the city in thirty minutes. And it starts to thunder.

The three of us started running through the almost silent streets of Venice, trying to beat the oncoming raincloud. Alas, it started to pour, and we weren’t going to make our boat, anyway. We took cover under an archway with some others. One of the men, who was a few years older than me, kept giving me the eyes, and when Maia told him I was American he asked if I knew where Ohio was. I laughed. Apparently he is getting his Ph. D. in law at Kent. He started showing me photos of him on television – I guess he presents films on t.v. or something. I don’t know. I stopped paying attention immediately. I hate when guys meet you and right off start telling you all about their accomplishments. Humility is underrated around the world, I suppose. I was happy when we finally said Ciao.

When the rain gave up, the three of us sat a café by the boat stop and enjoyed yet another coffee. When the next boat came and we finally sat our tired butts on the seats, Matt remembered he left his jacket at the café. Maia and I watched from the water as he bolted back up the street like a gazelle running from a lion in the Sahara. I wished Kelsey was there because she and I would have died.

Sailing back through the city, I was full of Italian coffee, spaghetti, wine, and romance. It’s probably good I’m not moving to Italy. My body and my heart would transform to mush faster than I can say “Con te partiro.”