Journal entry

Easy to remember are the days spent in the small coffee-bar overlooking the ocean in San Felice Circeo. The winding street that circled down the side of a hill to the ocean was canopied with trees, and we would always take our time as we walked along the cobblestones.

"Ehi, Americana". The voice pirouetted through the clatter of dishes and crescendo of other voices in the room as I entered with the wave of a hand and a smile. I loved this place. I loved these people. The elderly who lived in the neighborhood, friends of Nonno. Called upon, I’m certain of it, to keep an eye on me. But I pretended not to know they knew my grandfather, let alone deem them spies, and they, in return, feigned surprise at seeing me there.

As I took the empty seat at the table where we always sat, il Signore Bruno, who immediately began thumbing through my notebook before I was even settled, asked, without looking up from the pages he was perusing, “Americana, what are you writing about today?”

“Leave her alone, old man.” says a familiar looking woman from another table. “She’s writing about how old men in Italy make fools of themselves. What is she writing today? Leave her alone.”

Ignoring her, il Signore continued with a smile like a Cheshire cat, and thick eyebrows that moved up and down as he animated his words, “ I could tell you about my life and you could write it down in your little notebook.”

“Do you want her to throw-up?” interrupts the Barista from behind the bar. “Write about Italian food. I have a recipe from my Nonna...” and kissing his fingers, he gives me a wink.

“Zuppa di Pesce.” said another woman standing at the bar, and when I failed to obey an unspoken command, she peered at me over her eye glasses and said, “Are you writing this down?”     

Every afternoon, during my stay with Zio Arnaldo in his San Felice home, I strolled down the tree covered cobblestone street to that smoke filled noisy coffee-bar, and sucked the marrow of wisdom clean. Marrow which my friends would always oblige eagerly, offering up the bones voluntarily. We laughed, ate pastries and drank espresso as the afternoon disappeared, and I never, not once, opened my notebook.

~