And So an Italian Love Story Began…

That was an unusual summer that would nevertheless remain not only in my memory but also in the memories of others. Suddenly, as in a dream, I found myself in the back seat of a car somewhere in northern Italy. My motionless body was, however, moving on an Italian highway. Wide, with different signs and colors, all confusing and new to me. The heavy rain that day made the last of June live up to the saying:

“May rains bring June flowers.” The flowers had yet to bloom.

And if there was an Italian proverb about it, it would fit perfectly. The sound of rain falling heavily on the windshield drowned out the voices of those around me, making the Italian language even more indecipherable to me. More indecipherable, more magical. Ridiculous ignorance because, for all I knew, they could also make jokes about me that I would smile anyway. And at the same speed, as that car moved forward, the rain washed away my past, rapidly receding from me.

“Italy in summer,” one thinks of the warm winds that spread the smell of hay rolling through the air. To the scent of the warm earth that almost scalds your feet. To the happy, indecipherable murmur in various languages of tourists scattered on terraces facing Lake Como.

Of a bench in a square and a blue hat on your head covering the sun as you greedily bring ice cream to your mouth before it melts in your hands. One thinks of a thousand and one things, the beaches, the Mediterranean Sea, olive oil, wine, friends yet to be made, and everyone around tables filled with mini pizzas, bruschetta, whatever, telling stories from here and there. Imagine as much as you can, but please, at least imagine.

Let us create the illusion of the country that has given so much history to the world. Let us think of its walls that tell us of the many famous lives they have witnessed. The stories they could tell us. And almost without ever having been there, there is an Italy that at least survives in a parallel universe, in our imagination.

But how much more exciting, beautiful and thrilling it is to actually set foot on that soil!

One thinks a lot, but one cannot conceive of Italy with rain in June. An Italian summer with thunder and hail falling and making us stay indoors. But that summer was like that, and the rain, which came and went, made the atmosphere more welcoming than one might have thought. Hearts would be more receptive. Time would drag on, and a youth that seemed eternal in just three months. Perhaps a blazing sun would melt us faster than all the ice cream I had wanted to taste.

The car had exited the highway, and as fast as it had gone in fast gear seconds before, so fast it was now stopping under a tree.

A tall-legged man had opened the door and, slipping out of the rain, had quickly entered the car. Before, only the rain and the back seat allowed me to see his silhouette and his jeans splattered with mud and rain. As I entered, the rearview mirror gave me only more details about him. Though indecipherable to me, the language seemed irrelevant. His voice stood out.

Warm, calm, and above all, optimistic. There was no sadness in his voice or seemed to be , so I thought. But what cliché is it to think Italians are nonhuman beings, equally entitled to sadness? But for the moment, this was not on my mind, even with that atypical rain falling.

Amid all the water coming from the sky and indecipherable noises, the Italian heat I had waited so long for had entered that car. He wiped his glasses, and I could see him better. Green eyes, like mine. A trim pear-shaped beard. Perhaps my imagination had also seen him looking at me.

“But who is this foreign girl in the car?” Maybe he could have said that. Who knows?

What an ego my trying to make me the center of attention.

We arrived at a specific destination for dinner. We got out of the car, the girl’s parents in the front with her on our laps, and we stayed behind. “It’s rainy and cold,” I thought.

He had looked at me and me as if guessing that the future would glue us together, so I remember.

There was no need for words or understanding. Everyone feels cold or hungry in any language, as long as we are human. He took off his jacket and told me to put it on in gestures or simple words.

The night was already long. Dinner had all been consumed and washed down with wine, maybe too much wine, or, I don’t know, perhaps too little. Who can measure the joy? There were long tables spread out in a makeshift tent, disposable plates, and unknown Italians. He, seeing my state of total joy — thank you, Barolo — had tried to teach me two simple words. Knife, “Coltello”; Fork “Forchetta”.

Laughing at my crude pronunciation and lack of memorization, he had insisted. “Forchello,” I said, quickly realizing my confusion.

He was laughing.

His laughter, unique and imprinted in my memory, infected the whole room, and I had been no exception.

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