So worth the trip
Vilmari:
For my Prez or your Mayor?
Lora:
“Good morning,” said Giada, placing a cappuccino in front of Lora. After ordering exactly the same thing for breakfast every day that she had been in Baia Santa, Lora didn’t need to actually say it out loud anymore. Giada also set down a bottle of sparkling water, a glass, and a piece of focaccia. A savory-breakfast kind of girl, Lora had veered away from the sweet pastries and toward the salty, just-oily-enough bread. There was something about it that reminded her of when she’d pick up a dollar slice of pizza and a small coffee before class when she first arrived in Brooklyn. Though this focaccia did not have cheese, the olive oil was so fragrant and savory it hit all the right flavor buttons.
“Buongiorno,” Lora replied, grimacing at her attempt at decent pronunciation.
“Ah, OK, are we speaking in Italian today?” Giada smiled.
“We are trying. Wait,” she said, typing into an app. “See sto provando.”
“That’s good! But you pronounce thec-ilikechee. So, it’sCi sto provando.”
“Ci sto provando,” she repeated. “It’s tricky. I can’t get the difference betweenc-i,c-h-i, andc-e. Ugh, I don’t know.” She took a sip of coffee.
“You know, the best way to learn is to make a lot of mistakes. You can’t have fear! Just say the words. People will help you, you’ll see!”
“Sure, and in the meantime, I look like a complete fool,” she said, laughing.
“Nooo. No one will think that. You know who is the fool? The one who don’t try. Then if you make a mistake and someone corrects you, you don’t forget. Ever.”
“Doesn’t try.” Lora smiled.
“Grazie!See? Now I will never forget.” Giada turned, hearing her name called. “Ah, this is my girlfriend!Vivi, vieni qui!Lora, this is Vivi. Vivi, this is Lora. She’s the one from America I told you about.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Vivi. She had a terrifically raspy voice and a short cotton-candy-pink haircut. Her chef coat was starched and ironed,CHEF DE CUISINE–VIVI ROSSIembroidered in black script on the chest. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing a cluster of intricate black tattoos: a hummingbird, a radish, a chef’s knife.
“No, no, tell herpiaciere, she’s learning Italian,” Giada corrected.
“Piaciere,” said Vivi. “You are Italian, though, yes?”
“Piaciere,” Lora repeated. “I am trying to be. I’ve filed documents to become a citizen and I’m hoping everything goes OK.”
“So you want to live here?” asked Vivi. “I’ve heard somany Americans are trying to move here now. It’s not strange, maybe.”
“No. I don’t want to live here,” said Lora. “I want to be a citizen, but for another purpose.”
Vivi screwed up her face, looking confused. “Are you sure? The food in America is…” She trailed off, scrunching her nose.
“Not all of it is bad.” Giada squeezed her arm. “You liked the hamburgers when we went to Chicago to see your cousin.”
“It was either that or starve to death,” Vivi sniffed. Giada rolled her eyes. Vivi picked up her head, focusing behind them. “Andre, please tell them that Italian hamburgers are better than American?”
Lora felt a hitch in her belly before she turned around to see him weaving his way through the café tables.Thatfeeling was going to be a nuisance if it kept happening.
“No,” he said. He was holding a tiny olive tree in a pot, some of the leaves threatening to scrape along the side of his neck above the shirt collar. She wanted to reach over and smooth them away just to touch him there. Andthatfeeling wasn’t helping either. “Well, maybe. It depends on what you want.”
“What’s your idea of a good burger?” Lora asked. “Buongiorno, by the way.”
“Buongiorno.It depends,” he said, shrugging.
“That’s not an answer,” Giada said, crossing her arms.
“Because it depends on the moment. Sometimes you want some gourmet Angus thing from a steakhouse and you reallyenjoy it. Sometimes you want a greasy mess that’s been pressed flat on a grill with onions and that rubbery orange cheese. Anything can be good in the right circumstance.”
