Espresso the Way Italians Do It (Blog 3)

Sitting in Piazza Santa Maria Novella, I wait for Danny to show up. I met Danny (legal name Giovanni Salti) last Wednesday at the Red Garter, both of us enjoying the spectacle of Americans singing karaoke. After rescuing me from a potential stalker, I asked if he’d like to meet after I returned from Cinque Terre. I watch him walk into the piazza, wearing a blue button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, aviator sunglasses, and carrying an ever-so-Italian leather messenger bag.

“Danny! Ciao!” I call.

Smiling, he walks toward me and we do the typical two-kiss European greeting.

“How was Cinque Terre?” he asks.

“Gorgeous. I absolutely loved it,” I said. “Have you ever been?”

He says he hasn’t, then proceeds to question me about the activities there and why I liked it so much. He nods and smiles as I talk, understanding every word. Danny is a 26-year-old economics Master’s student at the Universitá degli Studi di Firenze, and spent his first year of college in London, which helped perfect his English (and provided him with his nickname).

Other than his year abroad, Danny has lived in or near Florence his entire life, though he is currently living an hour outside the city.

“The rent here is very expensive, so I moved home for the summer,” he says.

As we walk toward the Piazza della Repubblica for an espresso, we hit the area around the Duomo. He rubs his hand over his dark buzz-cut hair, then across his groomed “five o’clock shadow” styled stubble. The place is swarming with tourists of all nationalities. I ask him if the constant flow of outsiders bothers him.

“Only when I have somewhere to be,” he says, smiling. “Then I have to weave around them and their cameras.”

Arriving at the café, he orders two espressos (receiving the reduced rate of the local residents).

“I have coffee everyday, sometimes even three or four,” he says.

Standing at the counter, the barista places two tiny cups in front of us. Danny grabs the sugar bowl, puts a hefty spoonful in his cup, then passes the container to me.

“You will probably want this,” he says, after I confess to never having an espresso.

He watches me carefully as I take my first sip of such a classic Italian ritual.

“It is really good,” I say truthfully. “And so much cheaper than Starbucks.”

“I do not understand why anyone would pay six Euro or more for a coffee,” he says.

After finishing (which doesn’t take long) we walk into the piazza, and I mention my art midterm and the different churches and sculptures I have to know. When he tells me he doesn’t know what the Orsanmichele church is, I am surprised.

“I am an economics major, not an art major,” he says. “When you are in Kentucky, you don’t visit all the museums of your city or state. It is the same here.”

Passing a storefront filled with fruit, I ask him about the food culture. When he was in England, he tried ice cream, Papa John’s pizza, and “Italian” food.

“It wasn’t bad, just different,” he says. “I prefer the food here though. I know how to cook, but as a student, when it is late I will make those Chinese noodles—what are they called?”

“Ramen?” I offer.

His face lights up. “Yes! Ramen.”

We continue meandering through Florence, and I take him past the Orsanmichele church, to further his art education, as he directs conversation from movies to music, post-graduate plans to family, using hand gestures as only Italians can. Unlike American men, it isn’t hard to get him to talk, and I tell him so.

“Kaitlin, I am an Italian,” he says with grave finality.