Before I delve into the real topic of this post, a quick aside:
Was very tempted to get a kitten today. Then I realized I could buy two pairs of high heels for the cost of adoption, and not have to feed them.
I bought the heels. And 100 prints of my favorite Italy pictures.
Now then, onto the real topic...
As of Monday, I have embarked on the arduous task of remembering and chronicling every detail of my three trips to Cinque Terre. From the mojitos down to the color of the sunsets. And let's not forget Ivo's strawberry plant with its two flowers. Or the potted aloe.
By December 1st I will have created a narrative nonfiction journalistic tribute to the unique lifestyle of the people of Cinque Terre. They deal with crazy tourists tramping through their home virtually every day April through September, and yet they manage to respect nature and maintain their community values in the wake of great change.
It's a huge undertaking, and I can tell you sorting the notes is a daunting task already. So many irrelevant scribbles in Moleskine notebooks and on journalist pads (often written on Bar Centrale's patio with an espresso, as pictured), but added together the sentence fragments paint an amazing picture. I've caught myself reminiscing more than writing recently--not good for finishing, but very good for procrastinating.
Here's a taste from my notecards:
Bar Centrale looks and feels like a dive bar. A handmade sign stating “Order a Mojito… and NO we don’t have cigs so STOP ASKING,” makes me confident Lauren and I are about to experience something (good or bad, who knew).
A man with a goatee and “I chose to be” bald head expertly flips glasses and mixes cocktails. He is wearing a boyishly inappropriate shirt that borrows the brand name Hello Kitty and turns it into Hello [insert female body part that rhymes with Kitty]. Even with that, he exudes authority, and there is no doubt he is the man in charge.
“Ciao, mia amore,” the goateed bartender says to a little girl. She is probably three years old, and clings desperately to her father’s neck as the bartender extends his hand over the bar to give her the change from an order.
“Che le dice?,” her father says to her. “Che le dice?”
“Grazie,” the little girl says, brown eyes never leaving her father as she reaches out for the money.
The bartender smiles and places the Euros into her chubby little hand. As soon as they turn to leave, he is mixing up something in a martini shaker, pouring it briskly into a tall glass, and heading out the door of Bar Centrale to deliver it to the patio, even as he shouts over his shoulder, “Hey, Aussie! I haven’t forgotten you,” which gets him a nod and grin from a young guy.
Lauren looks over at me with a puzzled expression.
“Yeah, he definitely sounds almost American,” I say in response.
The bartender’s fluent American-style English and Italian had me curious, as did the self-ingratiating sign about the mojitos, so I approached the bar with a friendly conversation opener in mind. After helping the Aussie as promised, he turns to Lauren and me.
“I’ll have a mojito, per favore,” I said, followed by, “What made you come and stay in Riomaggiore?”
He glances at me, looking me up and down slowly.
“Just because I speak English better than an American doesn’t mean I’m not local,” he says bluntly, with a hint of humor. But not much. “Sucks when an Italian can talk better than you, eh? I was born here in Riomaggiore.”
“What’s your name?” I asked, enjoying the banter. I watch him mull the fresh mint leaves with raw sugar crystals inside a glass.
“Stick around and I’ll tell you,” he says.
That's all for now, but stick around, and I'll tell you more. : )
