The Runaway Cook

A diary of culinary adventures

Italian Men 101: IV PISS OFF!

Posted by Elizabeth Sunday, March 20, 2011 comments (0)

I stare at the fountain in it's grey granger simplistic beauty of providing a steady stream of water. Why is it that Italians are so obsessed with fountains I wonder. CRRRUNCH! I pause, slurp, wipe the sticky-sweet juice off my chin, and chew my apple as I ponder this question. Hmmmmm, maybe italians constantly fine themselves parched and decided to remedy this problem with a fountain round every corner instead of a starbucks or dunkin dounuts . . . Nope! There are cafes in every piazza. Ok, how about for the beauty of it? Italians love beautiful architecture don't they? I mean Rome is full of big beautiful fountains, but then again Venice is full of ugly little water squirting fountains that will never be photographed by a tourist.

Well whatever the reason is, I don't really care just as long as I can just sit here and enjoy my evening snack in peace. It sure is beautiful tonight. I'd hate to waste the my time waiting for the train when it's such a warm clear night. I think I'll just sit here and watch the bubble of life around me and maybe go for a moonlit tour of Romeo and Juliet's special places on my own. After all, this piazza is still pretty busy at 11pm. 

I see loves engrosed in eachother across from me, ha I think they will soon fall off that bench at that rate. In fact, I'm not really sure how they are staying on it in that position anyway. Oh goodness, time to look somewhere else this is getting a little too heated for my eyes. Wait! Maybe that's why there are so many fountains. The Italian obsession of love led to a need for inconspicuous landmarks that lovers could meet at. 

Mom: "Hey Marcello, where are you going?"
Marcello: "We are running a little low on water, mom. I thought I'd just go for a stroll and get some from the fountain in the Piazza."
Mom: "Oh, alright then be sure to get enough for my soup tomorrow."

Yeah, haha maybe that's it. . .or maybe not. 

Everything and everyone seem to blend together into this postcard-like evening view. the golden glow of street lamps seem to make it all seem like a painting, green, gold, taupe, black, blue and the flecks of color from the pretty dresses here and there. Holy Toledo! What the? To my left is a guy who really doesn't seem to fit in. Goodness, I pray he is a tourist. Khaki shorts and a short-sleeved, blue button up with an obnoxious red hibiscus print. Lord he can't be Italian. Oh shoot! He caught me staring. Look away and just keep chewing, Elizabeth. Don't look back, oh shoot he caught me again. Ok I'm getting up now and pulling out my map for that sight seeing.

First stop, ha-ba-ba-baaaa, AH yes castle bridge that's not far from here at all. I set out and notice that hawaiian man is now behind me about a block. Ok, think fast. Walk into that little restaurant and wait until he passes then go. 


Ok he is gone, I think. Onward to the castle, my friends!

The bridge walls are illuminated by dim yellow bulbs giving the sandy stones a Thomas Kinkade kind of glow.  It's almost erie out here, so quiet and still. I guess this kind of tourist hot spot becomes a lonely stop for staring after dark.







I stood at the edge of the wall here for several minutes simply absorbing the stillness and breathing. It's amazing how a small breeze can cradle a whole body with peace and how rippled bit of light on small waves can suck you into their small world with no troubles. The next 24 hours are going to be rough and sleepless so escaping all that if only for a few minutes is lovely.

What was that?! It sounded like scraping or shuffling along stone and I think it came from behind me. I turn quickly, and shaken out of that quiet peaceful place to see that the man from earlier has followed me and is coming my direction. Think, Elizabeth. Just get down off of this pier and walk toward a busy place. Ok, well, that means walking towards that guy. Ohhhh man! Be strong and don't seem frightened. You know this is more annoying that it is scary. Right . . . the damn jerk trying to get with me! What and annoying little poop!!!

A walk towards him and he begins to cross the street and walk to my side. He says "excuse me miss" in the sappy Italian accent. I keep walking and look at him with a perturbed kind of stare then say nothing. He says it again as he continues to walk toward me.  I shift my body weight and turn toward his direction and yell, "PISS OFF!" accompanied by a large whip of my hand in the air and a heavy next step forward. Then I hear a whiny "Hey" escape his lips as he stops walking. I don't look and he seems stunned by my outburst. Thank goodness.

I think I will return to the fountain to collect myself and see how to get to the train station from here. Perhaps that's what all these streams of water are for, collecting ones thoughts in a place that is somewhat normal to stop at and have whatever expression you want without getting funny stares. . . . ahhh probably wrong again, but for now that purpose works for me. I just hope that this time I don't happen to get pegged as fresh meat by another creepy guy in a Hawaiian shirt. 

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Madame Butterfly

Posted by Elizabeth Monday, February 21, 2011 comments (2)


I have just tussled and twisted my locks on top of my head in a combination of curls and braids with the few bobby pins I have left and a couple rubber bands. My cheeks are dusted with rosy blush and my lips look wet from the multiple layers of gloss. I think I am abut ready. All that's left now is to gently pack my red satin pumps and red dress into my giant purse and take off for the train station.

Why am I all gussied up and about stuff a gorgeous outfit in my purse? I'm off to see the Opera in Verona. I'm so excited. I've bought my tickets about three months ago and I've been anticipating watching my first opera in the city of Romeo and Juliet seated in a stone arena that's hundreds of years old.

I am here! The train ride was smooth and I think I was smiling the whole time. I probably freaked out the guy next to me, hehe. Oh well.  I have just gone into a fast food joint equivalent to a Pappa John's, found the bathroom and transformed myself into a classy-looking lady rather than a khakhi-wearing tourist. I'm pretty sure I got a double take from the people working there who were certain nobody in a red dress entered their establishment, but was now leaving.

Before I see this fantastic Puccini-written Opera, I have got to spoil myself with my last dinner in Italy. It's bittersweet to be heading to Germany tomorrow, and I have to make the most of these last few hours here.

I walk the cobblestone streets in my five in heels passing one fancy restaurant after another. The Verona Arena is surrounded by large piazza bordered by restaurant after restaurant. The menus here are pretty pricy, but I settle on a fancy al fresco seat just outside the pizza. The tables look nice, the plates of food look better and the menu has some items that sound to-die-for.

I received a pretty smooth invitation from a handsome waiter and well that was the figurative light to the sign telling me "EAT (blink) HERE (blink)." He hands me the menu and says hello. As he delicately pours me a glass of water, he asks, "So, what are you doing out all by yourself is such a beautiful dress?"

I sure that I'm blushing and as I look at the clear glass Of water I answer smothered giggle, "Oh . . .I am going to the Opera tonight."

"Ah, I see. Have you been to the opera in Verona before?"

"No, I've never seen an opera anywhere before. I am so excited!" he smiles at me and preceeds to take my order with a wink.

I ask or gnocci with porchini mushrooms.  What arrived to my table was beyond my expectations. the gnoccies were perfectly shaped and glisten with the sauce that just couldn't let go of them. The mushrooms are meaty and definitely fresh.  The herbs and mushrooms are so aromatic that part of me wants to just bend my head toward the bowl and breathe in deeply. Out of the fear that doing this may cause strange looks from my hot waiter, I restrain myself.



My first bite is pure heaven. This is the best gnocci I've ever had. The starch pillow resists my bite and yet slowly melts on my tongue. The buttery potato taste is distinct and not covered up by the rich earthy sauce but enhanced. The mushrooms are nutty and have a fleshy texture that is far to luscious for me to keep my eyes open while eating them.

Sadly, my bowl is now empty, and I'm wishing for just another delectable bite. As my handsome man, grabs my plates, he looks and me with a grin and sighs. "I wish I did no't have to work tonight."

"Oh? Why?" What a strange thing to confess to me right now. I am a little confused

"Well If I was not working, I could take you to the opera tonight." He looks away and smiles. I am silent, and smile as well. I'm not sure what to say to this charmer. He's probably just another Italian man who feels like the ultimate man since he is from Verona, Italy.  Yet, this is a nice compliment. I mean he could have just said nothing since he knew there was no way to go with me . . . then again, he could have thought I'd just give him more than the required gratuity if he flattered me. Either way, I have blushing cheeks and a smile that's hurting from overuse and I'm pleased to be having been complimented and even bamboozled.

The walk up the exceptionally steep steps of the Arena is a bit much for my 4 inch heels but I make it. Seating is by section here so one can sit anywhere that there's an empty slab of stone. The sun begins to set just as the performance begins. A tradition here in Verona is to light small candles and hold them once twilight hits making the curved stone structure twinkle as the orchestra begins to play.

I'm definitely in the nosebleed section here, but I can still hear the music as if I were on the floor. The violin section must be huge, but it sounds ad if only one is playing. Amazingly, I can see all five harps from up here. They looks so small next to what must be a stage the size of my town hall.  On top of that the stage is filled with fantastic costumed singers with flowing fabric as lovely as their strong voices.

Although I barely speak the necessities of Italian, I am able to follow the story quite well. A geisha falls in love with a military man. However, thier love is challenged and . . . I'll leave out the ending so I don't spoil it for you.

I do wish that I could have known the words the lovers sang back and forth to each other. It must have been beautiful. by the end of the night, I was all mushy inside. I guess love is a language that need not be restricted by words. . . .Now I'm getting sappy.

On more every-day type side note, I have just realized that I have gum all over the back of my dress. Apparently, someone placed a bit of gum on the stones directly behind me just before I sat down. Now from my leaning forward and back it has been smudged into a gum-tastrophy encompassing my entire back. How this is possible, I have no idea. I guess that's why people in the cheap seats don't dress up like people on the ground floor. . .another tidbit that would have been good to know before this evening. Ugg, thank goodness I have other clothing in my purse fro the ride home.


I'm so happy I did this, dinner was perfect, and well my life wouldn't be mine if some strange something hadn't have been part of tonight. We will see what the rest of this evening brings. It's only 11-something and my train isn't until 4:30am so this should be an interesting evening.

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Italian Men 101: Sigh . . .It sure is a beautiful view

Posted by Elizabeth Monday, December 27, 2010 comments (2)


So it's not just the city of Venice that's gorgeous  . . .so are the men

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Italian Men 101: Part III

Posted by Elizabeth Tuesday, December 14, 2010 comments (0)

How To Catch a Date In Less than 15 Minutes!

Step 1: Slip on a comfortable airy dress that makes you feel great in the heat and about yourself. Don't worry about how trendy it is or what belt to wear with it or even slipping on a pair of heels. Just wear your hear down and put on some shimmery sandals.

Step 2: Walk into a busy piazza just after dark and buy yourself an ice cream, just one scoop. 


Step 3: Now, simply walk and enjoy what is around you and the delicious ice cream. Within minutes a young Italian Man will separate from his hang out group just to talk to you. Now there are no guarantees on if you'll like the first one, but take heart my friends. After another 5 minutes you'll have someone else running after you just to say, "Hello."



The True Story:


I was antsy,  not looking to run into anyone. I just wanted to enjoy Florence by night and fill every second of being awake with experiences. Little did I know what would happen.

The pale-eyed, blond-haired fella that bumped into me came off a little nervous but sweet. Conversation and flirting soon followed his "caio." I tried to steer the conversation's focus away from where I was from, names, gelato, Florence, and compliments, but when I asked what his favorite food was the reply I got was, "What is Food?" Apparently, this was one Italian "stud" that just knew the survival guide to light English conversation. Strangely enough I couldn't explain to him what food really was. I said names of food and made eating motions with my hands and mouth but he just got more confused and 'm pretty sure he thought I didn't understand what I was saying in Italian. I mean what would you do if someone just said 5 random food and expected you to know they meant all edible things? haha.

The night was clear and still so agreeing to link arms and holding hands was fine by me. We walked through peachy lighted streets and came to the Ponte Vecchio.  The lights reflected off the black water and made warm glow. Just then my walking pall tried to lay one on me. I sweetly said no and he asked why. I tried my best to explain using simple words that I just didn't want to kiss him or well anyone. At this his brow furrowed and the expression of pure concentration was adorable. His answer was pause then a laugh and, "I do not understand." We both laughed and kept walking. When we were nearly to the  Piazza again he tried again and I tried to explain again that it really wasn't him. He seemed great but no thanks. The poor guy had the most innocent frown and let out a big sigh with, "I just don't understand."

Hahaha I think he got over it. His palls were meeting up to go clubbing anyway. I told him he'd find someone who'd love to kiss him there, but I'm not really sure he understood that either.

Hopefully you have better luck ;)

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Rapunzel Visits the Tower

Posted by Elizabeth Monday, December 13, 2010 comments (0)




This morning I slipped on my airy white dress, flung my camera into a rather large purse, and savored a prosciutto and arugula sandwich as I walked to the train station. 


The stone streets and rugged walls are so seductive. I can't help but want to run up to the sun-warmed, jagged edges and press my skin against it. I restrain myself to a gentle drag of my fingers across the stones instead. If I were to give in to my strange wall-caressing tendencies I'd have never make it to Pisa today.

After a short train trip, I stepped out of Pisa Centrale. I quickly found a map to the Leaning Tower which could just have well screamed WALK FORWARD. Apparently it was a couple kilometers straight ahead.

On my leisurely walk that crossed a river and passed by several pizzerias, I just had to stop for some gelato. I'm a real sucker for that sweet, smooth frozen treat. So, whenever I can find a shop that doesn't pipe in the pre-made goop into their tins but paddles in home-churned creaminess, I stop in for just a taste. I rationalized these indulgences with I may never again have the chance to waltz down the streets of Pisa, or any other city here in Italy, on such a hot day with such a good cone of gelato. Once in my hands the ice cream melted at what seemed an especially speedy rate so I quickly consumed the cone before it dripped down to my elbows. I ended up sharing a fountain with some fellow bathing pigeons.

Refreshed and just a little damp, I went on my way down the twisting streets. Just then, a very tall dark man in a trench coat approached me. Sometimes I think things here in Italy are so postcard, but then it's like I have to go back to reality by receiving a strange shot of odd comedic theatrics . . . I guess I should just be glad I don't get shots of horror and hysterics. HA! Back to trench coat man, so as he looked down the street toward me and slowly stepped closer. His arms began to move and in a vampire-like swoop. He grasped the center of his coat and began to pull it open (Dramatic jaws-like music builds) A mild and strongly twangy "hello" escaped his lips as I gave what I think was a wince. Then, I realized the inside of his coat was filled with watches and he was merely one of what I soon learned was many watch-pawning guys around here. Jeepers. You'd think that after a few thousand tourists wincing they'd have come up with a better way of approaching tourists with watches.

Past the many carnival type stands and strange men in trench coats there it was. The slightlycock-eyed tower I had stared at in history books was right there in front of me. Now it looked like pop-up book with a page where the paper just wasn't quite long enough to make the piece stand straight up.  If you squinted it sorta looked real.

 With a few steps closer, I could tell that this was't  paper. There was the tilted shadow and the duomo and that strange statue with the babies drinking milk from some weird-looking animal. The architecture was so incredibly intricate, and in some places even glossy. Everything together was seamlessly gorgeous, the thousands of people and strange salesman included ;)


As I walked the wide gravel pathways, I watched tuckered-out little ones find rest in patches of shade on the lush green squares of grass.  The beeps and clicks of cameras surrounded me as if I had walked into paparazzi. Except here the people were smiling and sweetly swapping cameras for pictures. Some poses were simple smiles while hanging onto their loves ones, while other more ambitious travelers were posing for the "look-ma-I'm-holding-up-the-tower" shot as their counterparts hollered "to the left dear."

Like a good little tourist, I wove through the crowds, purchased my tickets to walk up in the newly and permanently sturdied tower, and of course got a ticket to the duomo.

BELOW: photographs from inside the Duomo

Lingering in the strange chapel was pleasant and peaceful. The wooden pews were worn to smooth perfection by the many hands and tushies that had rested on them. Although some of the sculptures depicted the fall of man and terrors of life, other were soothing and emotional, my favorite being that of a mother and two children. The milky white complexion and smooth fluid shape of the curves lead my eyes into a long, dance of glances. It was beautiful, striking, and a somewhat unexpected pleasure of the day. 

After about an hour of holding my camera to my eye and throwing my head back to gawk at intricate designs on ceilings, it was my time to head into the tower.
I can't even tell you how surreal this was.  I have always been intrigued by this building. I remember researching Pisa and Pizza and staring at  the many pictures of this wonder. Now I was here. I was about to go inside those photographs and make my own. 

I never realized how just a few degrees to the right and an extremely worn and slippery spiral staircase could make such a difficult climb. It was almost nauseating. The higher we got, the teenier the stairwell. Not just teeny tight spirals, but small steps with deep worn footprints that made slipping inevitable. No matter the language we spoke, everyone knew what the one ahead and behind them was thinking, "Dear God, don't let them slip!" 

Once my tour group reached the top, all fears and worries were blown away by the endless blue sky, tall mountains and clay-colored scallops that formed the canopy of Pisa. The breeze cooled out warm bodies. Everyone seemed to just beam with the kind of smiles that make your cheeks hurt, even the Indian couple that had been fighting in Hindi and English the whole way up. 

I really wish I had a pause button in life, or just something to capture the fullness of this moment. I felt somehow outstandingly accomplished to have made it here. In some way ,my addition to the thousands of people in Pisa today was significant, if only to me. Maybe it was the childlike awe that came back to me, or just that the long-haired girl everyone joke is Rapunzel incarnate finally made it into a tower . . .Whatever the reason, the feat of making it to the top of such an ancient tower held a sense of belonging and destiny that no book, story, sentence or picture could ever convey. 



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PoSiTaNo At Last

Posted by Elizabeth Tuesday, November 30, 2010 comments (0)


Yes! We have not missed the bus. That pasta lunch was cutting it close so I’m pleased to see that we don’t have to wait another 30 minutes. 
Oh LORD! Beyond these folding doors is a mere 3 foot space up the steps, followed by a solid wall of people. Behind me are my two companions and many other eager would-be passengers. I step on the bus and brave the crowd saying, “scusa”  to them all as I press my already sweaty body against theirs. 
We are the last 3 out of 6 people who actually get on the bus. It’s so crowded and the people keep pushing us apart from each other and into other passengers. My fingers cling to the bars above us as the overloaded block of metal leans around the curves. There’s just no tasteful way to stand here. Why do they make busses with windows that DON’T open in a country that’s very hot and very overloaded with tourists when it’s at its  hottest?! I think I’ve already posed this question somewhere. . . But really! I think this is the Italian way to get rid of the weaker tourists. :/
It’s a couple stops before Positano and two people on my right have gotten off the bus after some local guy insisted that this stop was for Positano. He promptly stole their seats and invited an extremely blonde German chicky to sit by him. My outback buddies and I just rolled our eyes. 
Positano is straight ahead of us and down a hill, but I’m not sure if this is the right stop. That same guy insists this is the stop for Positano, but we don’t get off because who trusts some blonde-loving-bus-stop-lying Italian. Well he wasn’t lying, that was the right bus stop and we end up realizing this half way up the road and convince the driver to let us off. 
We are now stuck on this tight curvy road, left to hitch a ride or walk for about a mile. 
We try the first and get stuck with the latter.  To see a video of our journey from the top to the bottom click here.

After an entertaining walk down a gorgeous mountain to a rainbow colored town, we stop for some gelato. . . correction - get the gelato, melone, creme, and limone . . mmmmmm. It was delicious. After that we head to the beach. I realize that I’ve forgotten my swimming suit. Ahhh perfect, I guess I will wade into the water with my white dress and just enjoy it up to my knees rather than over my head. 
I spin my feet around in the hot gravely sand and just stare at the red, cream, blue and green buildings. They are better than the pictures and I can’t believe I made it here. After a bus strike, a lousy Italian that got called in early to work, getting sick and rearranging my interviews, I finally made it here. The view alone was worth it. 

On the way back to Salerno, we rode the bus and listened to Italian teenagers make fun of us In their own tongue, not know that we had a fluent Italian speaker in the group. OAF!! I guess all I can do is smile and laugh at the trouble of this trip and treasure the silly and special memories made. I love Italy . . . even when they don’t love me.


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Italian Men 101 part II: Play by Play

Posted by Elizabeth Tuesday, October 26, 2010 comments (0)

When I say the word “football,” I’m sure images of laced oblong-shaped balls, 50-yard lines, and giant men dressed in really tight pants with oversized helmets are filling your mind. Well, stop the filling. That’s not what I’m talking about. Try a round, black and white ball, nimble muscular goalies, shorts and shin guards. 
It’s “football” season for the world. As I’ve traveled from Asia to Europe, I’ve learned that if a bar/cafe/small restaurant want’s to have patrons on game night, they HAVE to show the game. 
Tonight, I think most of this small town showed up for the viewing of Germany vs Spain. My small, Atrani cafe was packed and even had people standing on the cobble stones behind the outdoor seats. I arrived about 20 minutes into the game, so my chances of being able to see the screen were slim to none. 
Despite this packed predicament, I was able to score a seat right in front of the screen next two a couple of blond Aussies. How, well it was all because the Fabio-blond (one of the owners of the cafe) saw me, moved a chair to the frond and curled his fingers in a wave to signal me over to him. HA! yes now I can cheer for those German boys with no large Italian men blocking my view
Here’s where the real game starts. This ploy by my curly-haired, taught-tushied man was just to get me within intense flirting range, and in line for “scoring” some sort of goal.  Note to all women. Flirting is a whole nother ballgame in Italy. Below is a play-by-play account of this sport.
zonal marking system - A system of play where each player is assigned a zone on the field. Each player is then responsible for covering any opponents that may enter his zone. 
This for of dividing up the playing field is nonexistent here. It is pretty much a free for all, any man can flirt, woo, and charm any woman, even the same women- no matter the depth of friendship between the two men competing for her.
First Touch- It is also quite literal as it is the first touch a player has on the ball when receiving a pass or cross.
Apparently it's “ok” for these men to just touch you as part of their excessive flirtations. This may or may not include “time-wasting” and or staring. I experienced this play soon after sitting to watch the game this evening. Our dashing "Cassanova"  brushed his fingers slowly across my cheek, looked into my eyes and closed the move in grasping my chin for a moment. 
Can I just day What the h***! Although he is as smooth as silk in that moment, it just all seems a little out of place to me. At a later time when the same debonair fellow tried to pull the same “first touch” on some of my new german friends, one of them about drop-kicked him. HA! ...culture shock?
time-wasting - A deliberate attempt to keep the ball out of play longer than is necessary. 
This tactic has many forms, such as small talk, unnecessary compliments and the like. My favorite instance is what I like to call “Fabio’s Question.” Beginning with a ballet-like swoop and spin he bent his whole torso around the back of my chair, placed is lips ever-so-closely to my ear and whispered (this is in a loud crowd of screaming fans mind you), “Who are you cheering for? [long pause and breath]” 
“Germany” I say with a nervous laugh- you see in a crowd even this big, I am the only one here cheering for Deutschland. Everyone else here either hates Germany for beating them or loves Spain so I am SOL. 
“Ahh...... I see. [long pause, again] I should have guessssed” he replies with a smile and a turn of the head.
Offside -A player in an offside position is only penalized if, at the moment the ball touches or is played by one of his team, he is, in the opinion of the referee, involved in active play by interfering with play, interfering with an opponent, or gaining an advantage by being in that position.
This is a risky act for anyone! Usually ending in a big penalty. Watch for those who think they have you within range. Too much pride and your Italian may just get a little too spontaneous. Examples include: Fabio taking a sip from my wine glass in a BYOB setting in an attempt to show off more than needed. Deflection- holler hay, now you owe me an ice cream or something (penalty) and you immediately get the offensive plus a big cone of fresh gelato from the shop next door :)
riding pine - A term used by players that are seeing very little game time. The bench is their friend
This is a guy who is a little desperate and persistently tries to win you. Examples of this go from asking the time and offering a coffee for the answer to men following women up steep walkways from one ton to another just to ask a few simple questions and offering a gelato. Beware the pine riders!
scoring - To have the ball pass completely across the goal line, between the two goal posts and beneath the crossbar of the opponent.
This is interpreted differently for each player. Many Italian men vs American women are shooting for what girls in middle school are told “what every boy wants” however there are a few sweeter players just seeking to score a kiss and an opportunity to just play the game.

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Italian Men 101

Posted by Elizabeth Monday, October 11, 2010 comments (0)

http://picasaweb.google.com/RoyFernley/AtraniItaly# -the bench and the beach
Have you heard the rumors? You know what I'm talking about, the ones about those tall dark handsome Italian men. . . I was warned that for every block there's about five men that will swoon over the sight of a woman and woo them with romantic words and an accent that is to die for. Are they true? Or are the rumors about sleaze-ball Italian men with cheesy lines and an excessive adoration for their mothers more true?
Reading the below may burst your bubble or encourage your fantasy. . . you have been warned.
This story all starts with food, of course. All my "men" stories start with food. I think it's some sort of uncanny gift I've been given- when I'm around food they flock to me, the good and the bad. 
It was sunny with a haze hanging in the air. It's the kind of weather that makes everyone more hungry and everything we eat taste better. I found looked for a semi deserted spot near the beach at Amalfi. I take a seat and prop my foot up under me and let the other dangle. Out the delicious gems come from their hiding in my purse. The mozzarella was moist, fresh and delicious. I struggled a little to get it out of the bag and up from the bath it was packed in. But after the first bit of smooth salty skin with a sponge-like inside saturated in the sweet and sour whey I was certain my effort was worth it. Yum. . . oh, but better still was the fruit. I can't even tell you how lovely that nectarine was. Crisp and sweet, the I swear that If I had not bitten that fruit, the juice would have burst right through the skin. The hot sugary elixir coated my lips and dripped down my hands and arms. The stickiness was no distraction to the loveliness I was experiencing. 
Instead I found my distraction in front of me. I was sitting there in my classy black bathing suit covered with a pale blue tank top and my durable olive shorts. It's a wonderful day and yet, I am hesitant to swim. What will I do just swim alone? I'm not so good at swimming, and fish give me the willies. I wonder if there are fish in there? I'm wearing a one piece. No one here wears these- even the 70-year-olds go bikini. Sigh . . . Will I look ridiculous or just feel ridiculous being alone. I notice people playing, taking showers. They are children, parents, grandparents, teenagers, families, lovers, they are together.
I sigh as my eye catches a glimpse of a tan and wonderfully thin couple kisses in shore line. He has his hand behind her back and the other dug into the dark gravely sand. Her arm coils around his neck with her fingertips ending in a mass of brown curls. They are so young. Ha! What am I saying? I am so young too. . .Eh, but this is puppy love. It's likely to end soon, yet the thought of no worry about the future, no thinking about where each of you will go to college or work, just ocean and each other makes me wish. I mean I can't help the little bit of jealousy that I'm feeling. 
Ahhh! I can't see them anymore. Some very tanned guy in a bright, turmeric-yellow cap is leaning against the black railing of the sidewalk just enough to block my view. Oh well, my stare was an invasion of privacy anyway right. Fine you crazy Italian man I'll look in another direction.
"Hello" I turn to see that this obstruction is no trying to talk to me. "Where are you from? England?"
I shake my head no.
"Germany?"
I shake no again and he pauses to think.
"Australia?" he says thinking he's figured it out.
I smile and nod again
"Italy?" he says with a strange squeak and tone of I-doubt-this-but. "Do you speak English?"
"yes." I say and laugh
"Then where-uh are-reh you-ah from?"
 Wow this accent is getting stronger as I utter my usual response, "The USA." 
Our conversation continues and he asks why I am sitting here alone on this bench and how long I am staying in this area. We exchange names, (for our purposes we will call my Italian acquaintance Emiliano- It's an italian name that means eager- quite fitting) argue about a few things regarding where I'm staying and my purse of all things. He does most of the talking. At this point, I am not sure if it was what he was saying or that he was saying it in a strong Italian accent that put an "uh" at the end of nearly every word, and a breathy lisp in the complicated phrases, but I found myself giggling at him. 
"Oh Elizibet-uh. I-uh cannot-uh look at-uh you. Your eyes, they are-uh too beautiful. When-eh I-uh look at-uh them I cannot-uh think-eh." (remember he has a bad lips when it comes to the "th" and sometimes "s" sounds, so these "sonnets" come out as slobber and tangled attempts to seduce me.
"What-ah would eh-you think if we just-uh jumped into the ocean right now?" 
"Right now? Uhhhhh, I don't know. . . I was just thinking of doing that." 
"Do you have-uh your-eh bikini on?"
"No, but I have a one piece."
"Hahaha well I don't want-uh to-uh know-uh which piece that-eh is."
"What?"
The funniest thing "have a" and "have-uh" sound just alike. So, I thoroughly explain I have a swimming suit on that is called a "one piece" not one piece of a bikini. This gets even funnier as we walk to the beach and he decides to just take off his shirt and jump in. I take off my shirt and begin to take off my shorts when he screams "NO!" This guy still thinks I'm only wearing one piece. Hahahahaha it was lost in translation I guess.
We swim out and I am a little nervous- there are no ropes and this water is really deep. Thank God I'm not out here alone. Oy! Oaf!! I am plunged beneath the water from a thump on the head. 
"Oh sorry. I better kiss it to make it better."
Oh yeah right buddy. This "oops!" game continues but with lighter thumps. I dodge him and eventually we make our way to the shore.  As we sat on the edge of the shore I couldn't help but think about how I sort-of got what I had wanted. How strange it was to be just where I had thought of. 
The worst part was that although Emiliano's rippled chest was coated in droplets of sea water and his dark wavy hair curled around his espresso-colored eyes, and well it even started to just barely rain- the only rain I saw in all my stay here in Amalfi- this all seemed like a comedy rather than a romance. 
I felt as though I had met a cartoon character. I had swam with a shirtless Italian man in his late twenties and instead of swooning over him, I kinda just liked laughing at him and the hilarity of the whole situation. What will this guy do next I wonder? 
This story will continue in later posts. To keep up with the Italian Men 101 look for new posts in the coming week.




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Ciao Bella ;)

Posted by Elizabeth Tuesday, October 5, 2010 comments (0)


http://www.panoramio.com/photo/12473875
Nose and cheek press to the warm glass window of this blue SITA bus as is leans nearly on two wheels with each tightly coiled corner. Hand hangs onto blue and red colored seat ahead to steady the awestruck eyes. Eyes gape and mouth gawks at the green mountains that disappear into the turquoise sea. Even from the high points of this ride, I can see straight to the bottom of the beach. Each tan and toasty colored stone looks like unrefined, rock sugar gleaming beneath colored water. 


http://www.indy.com/photos/21575/people/jaydjayd
AND the fact that when that heavenly bus ride ended, I got off a town too late for my hostel. OR that after taking the bus back to Atrani (which is basically up the hill and through a tunnel from Amalfi) I had to lug my suitcase down a two foot wide staircase that I nearly slipped on, then up another two foot wide staircase to get to the door of my hostel was not going to ruin this state of sleepless-heightened awe. Even the extremely odd innkeeper that had the strangest high pitched italian accent, did phase me. I now had a bed, a shower, a source of food not too far from me and it was all located less than a football field away from the 
                                                                                    edge of the water. 

http://www.cromwell-intl.com
After a couple hours of sleep I wandered down the white janga-style stacked steps the the Atrani piazza. Here one can find a grocers, general store, wine store, gelato parlor, and three places to eat. To those of you who have never been to Atrani, this town is teeny. That said this square is even teenier, smaller than a baseball diamond. Having all this in here is a little astonishing.     At this point I am ravished with huger enough to eat five pounds of just about anything. I pick the first table I come to. I sit in the bamboo-like outdoor chair under the shade of a square canopy, stare up at the mountain peeking above these stoney buildings hung with ornaments of laundry and shutters and wait . 
                                                                                         Italian Men
http://www.amalficoastweb.com/atrani/english/location.html
To me it's not any shocker that the man who is serving me looks like one of those guys on the covers of a sleazy romance novel. In fact I can't help but stare at the cliche that has placed the menu in front of me. His jaw had to be on steroids to look that chiseled. And the cheekbones on this guy, man they looked almost fake with their taut high curves and dark dreamy eyes above. His espresso-colored locks of shiny straight hair swayed in the ocean breeze as his rippled torso pulled back to an upright stance. Now he was just standing there in his shaggy jeans and a black t-shirt staring back at me. 
Somehow we stop looking at each other, and I'm certain that I've turned redder than those salamis hanging in the grocers. The worst part to all this, that this guy thinks he is the guy on all those romance novels. To me though he seems like Santa Claus, someone I never expected to see in real life. For our purposes aka future reference, we are going to call dark-haird book-man, Marcelo. 
I order gnocchi is tomato sauce. Unfortunately, this place is not the best for getting great food. I'm pretty sure that crispy gnocchi is a bad sign. Yes, sadly some of what should be delicate little potato pillows ended up being dried and a bit aged. Well, what should i expect for Italian fast food with  a guy running it that can't keep his eyes off the women. 

Despite the less than amazing meal, I am completely satisfied. I am safe, have food in my tummy, have actually slept and can see the ocean through the stone arches holding up the road. 

AND As the men here say Ciao Bella to you my beautiful Amalfi ;)

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