Solo in Italiano

Just two days ago I finally sat and wrote, wringing out part of a short story that's been closed up in a travel journal. Today I saw the #MWWC26 prompt hosted by The Drunken Cyclist and thought it serendipitous that this was what I've been wanting to write for five years. The best experiences can - and sometimes need to - rise from solitude. *All names have been changed except for my own, of course.*

Five minutes before the event was due to start the dining room was empty, outside a banquet captain and the host. The banquet captain approached, and in my third-grade level Italian I told him my name. He showed me to my table. “Where is everyone?” I asked, doing everything I could to blend in. I wore black (in Spring) because that’s what they do. I was nearly late, that’s what they do (although apparently not late enough). This was slight progress from the year before when my Italian wine teacher had actually given me an assignment to be late for class, as my freshly retired military rigidity drove the Italians crazy. “They are late, Antonio is angry. Eccola.” He’d found my table. On it was a card reading “Caruso, 1 PAX” with a single place setting and six wine glasses. After ensuring him I would have absolutely no problem sitting da sola (alone) conversing with myself, and that everyone in the room would think I’m crazy, I asked if it would be possible to join a table where, perhaps, there would be wine conversation. After all, I also ensured him, I spoke better wine than Italian.

He guided me to the host now raging mad because no one had yet arrived. “Ah, yes, your table is here, next to mine!” Another sad little table, set for “Caruso, 1 PAX,” elicited another audible sigh and another expressed desire for wine conversation. The winemaker entered the room just as it was arranged to seat me at his table. Introductions were made and the evening was looking up.

Let me clarify why Val had two tables. When I first called to make the reservations I did so solo in italiano (only in Italian) and never received confirmation for the dinner or hotel room. So I called again to confirm my reservation, probably making another one. And there you go. I wish I’d taken photos of the only two tables set for one, both with my name on them, in a sea of eight-tops. Meanwhile, 70 or so Italians started rolling in nearly 30 minutes late (seriously, I’ve got to master getting late to things if I'm going to blend). For giggles I watched as some stopped and looked at the first tiny table. The other Caruso one-top was cleared once it was determined I was moving on up to the big table to sit with the grownups.

Three of us sat at the table that held all the power: the bottles for presentation, the winemaker, the host/magazine editor, and the microphone. We conversed (remember, I speak fluent vino) about grapes, wines, land, and lovely food. The winemaker would talk about each wine as it was poured. The host would then stand and guide us through each tasting and dish as the food was served. This happened with a brief intermission before the two dessert wines and accompanying courses. As people milled around during the break, I sat alone taking pictures of bottles and glasses - typical eye-rolling blogger behavior. It also was a chance to relax. If you’ve tried to function - and truly listen - in another language it can enrich and suck you dry at the same time. A gentleman from another table kept approaching me and asking questions about the wine in Italian, normally about the alcohol. Bene (good). I can read a bottle and regurgitate the numbers. Ask me something else!

Just me and the stems around 1 a.m.

Whoa, I didn’t stand out as the clumsy American with a clumsier tongue? The more wine I sipped, the smoother the words flowed (in my mind). The event ended at one o’clock in the morning ... with espresso! I couldn’t eat another bite, take another sip, or spew forth anymore factoids for the table betting on how much alcohol was in each wine. I thanked my gracious host and the winemaker, and wished a buona serrata to the gentleman who interrupted my pity party on the patio earlier by asking if I was a
“weatherperson.”

Solitude on the patio

It was an odd question but I had been lost in efforts to nurse a migraine earlier that afternoon with a doppio espresso and, simultaneously, my ambivalence regarding a brief love affair with a bamboccione (dude still living with mama) I knew would never work. Alone on the patio as the late April Umbrian sun was just shoving its way from the clouds, I splattered my heart, sanity, and cuss words all over the pages of a worn journal in two languages. My lips sprouted a small smile as the espresso took effect, and earlier regrets of how I should have stayed in bed (a story for another day) subsided. I alternated between sipping, writing, wallowing, and basking. “This is how I do life now. It’s not always pretty but it’s beautiful nonetheless.” He must have seen me look up at the sky way too many times for confirmation, comfort, or some combination thereof. "Sei una meteologa?" I felt obliged to give him the weather report anyway, which I had diligently researched back in my San Frediano apartment in order to adequately pack my black. Then I outed myself as just a crazy American woman who studied wine, here on vacation. "No. Sono un'Americana pazza in vacanza. Studio il vino."

The next day at another small table in the corner of the hotel’s breakfast room, I prepared to bury my face in the local newspaper, cappuccino, and pastry. This is a beloved, indulgent ritual that represented more pleasure than solitude, and to which I believe I'm blissfully entitled when traveling da sola. The winemaker asked if he could join me, and we talked more about wine and his crazy day ahead. My crazy day involved two-hour train trip back to Florence, but without the shameless wallowing, with zero regrets, and a little more reflection for the woman who apparently now crashes Italian wine dinners as the only American in the room, asks for what she wants, and sometimes gets it … twofold.

Snapped as I waited for my train in Perugia the next day. I felt like that flower, living where & how I chose.

Back in Florence I emerged from the station and navigated streets I knew so well. I also knew where to go to bask in the solo - yet not so lonely - experience I’d have totally missed out on had any friends been able to join me. Still toting my overnight bag I popped in to Maria's place to sit at my usual table and enjoy (more) wine, some lunch, and lighthearted chatter with the owner who indulged my need to speak solo in italiano.

 
So what now? Now, you can go over to visit The Drunken Cyclist, a funny guy I first heard on the We Like Drinking podcast - and read the other entries and vote. I won't tell you my favorite entry (it's not mine), but there is some seriously good stuff posted! It's exciting because after not being 'bloggy' for so long it felt good to be back at it. I hope you'll check it out! 

Peace, love, & wine scribble ~