In Italian, because when in Rome Amalfi … La fontana:
And then we were in Amalfi. Okay, fine. It wasn’t exactly that simple. Before we reached the little city on the coast, there was a lot of driving involved, much of it taking place on narrow streets not built to accommodate two lanes of traffic (but this is Italy, and so: two lanes).
At nighttime, the village glowed yellow as the light bounced off the stone walls and roads. It felt like the set of a movie. And I kept chasing the leading man through the shadows.
Going to the castle made me sad. Not because I didn’t have fun. I had a lovely time. But I knew it was all going to be over soon. My aunt and uncle and cousin had to drive back to their village, and the next day we’d leave for the Amalfi coast. I’d be back…
My family has trouble following directions. I’m not entirely sure if it’s a my family thing, or an Italian thing. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Like their total disregard for warning signs. Is it a countrywide epidemic? Or is it just that my family is nuts?
I suppose I should have warned Rand. Honestly, though, I thought he knew. That is why I didn’t lean over and whisper, “Pace yourself. There are four more courses to go.” I mean, why else are they called primi and secondi? They are referring to courses. What they don’t really mention in Italian restaurants…
I wish I had taken more photos of the archaeologists in my aunt’s yard, but I was too busy marveling at the fact that there were archaeologists in my aunt’s yard. She was completely used to it, of course. Her village, my grandfather’s own, is ancient. I knew this. The area is full of artifacts…
Yesterday, I may have exaggerated slightly when I said that I found my aunt’s home all by myself. I was caught up in the poetry of it, of the idea that I could wander the same ancient streets that my grandparents did, and find their loved ones’ homes without needing an ounce of help. But…
“What’s the address?” Rand asked. I shrugged. “No idea.” “Is it on this street?” “I think so? The door is green.” (I feel it pertinent to note that nearly half the doors in the village happened to also be green.)
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
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