Italian Hospitality Part 2

Ravioli, Acceptance, and Kentucky Bourbon

Our first taste at Barbara’s: puff pastry stuffed with goat cheese, Calabrian chiles, caramelized onions, and a balsamic drizzle.

Before I continue with my story from last week, a travel confession: I was quite afraid to go to Italy.

There were plenty of reasons to be afraid: it had been six years since I had traveled overseas, twelve since I had been in a non-English speaking country. The pandemic had left me unsure of airplanes and terrified of being stuck in quarantine in an Italian airport hotel. The uptick in mass shootings and terrorist crowd attacks made me fearful of train stations and busy streets. These were all serious, legitimate things to be afraid of.

A less serious, questionable fear I had was the fear of appearing as the "ugly American." At best, it's a desire to be respectful of the country and people I'm visiting. At worst, it's trying to guess what everyone around us might be thinking and being unnecessarily embarrassed of plain, regular, American behavior.

This fear causes me to do a few things before I go on a trip:

1. Google "how to not dress like an ugly American." Lecture everyone around me on the dangers of wearing Columbia Fishing Gear shirts.

2. Learn a few keywords in our host country's language so that I look like I at least tried a little. "Grazie," "prego," etc. in this case. See also: be horribly embarrassed when my husband accidentally speaks in Spanish on Italian soil.

3. When forced to speak in English, figure out how to do so in a nondescript accent. I've even been known to try to pick up local language tics, like saying "ya" after every sentence when I was in Wales--I don't even know if this is a thing.

4. I always always eat the food. Even if you ordered the wrong thing because you thought you were saying "pasta" in French only to receive liver. (Les pâtes is not the same as pâté, ask me how I know).

Of course, all of this fretting is completely useless. Americans are immediately identifiable, no matter where we go. I have always been dedicated to making myself as invisible as possible when traveling.

But here we were in Barbara's apartment on our second day in Italy. I was still desperately trying to fit in. But I had struck up a friendship with four retired Georgians, and guess what--they seemed to violate ALL of my rules. 1. The men were wearing khakis and golf shirts. (I had yet to see an Italian man wearing khakis and golf shirts); 2. They were twanging and aww shucksin' left and right. I think SEC football was discussed. No prego or allora was attempted; 3. As Barbara served our first course (Puntarelle alla Romana a crisp, bitter lettuce in a bright, garlicky dressing), I noticed that the two Southern gentlemen were not eating the food.

However, as our dinner went on, so did the outright delightfulness of these four. They were so incredibly kind, inclusive of the other eight people at the table, and fantastic storytellers. Over eggplant lasagne, they regaled us with tales of trips the four of them had taken together all over the world. Our host, Barbara, absolutely doted on them... even though she spoke very little English and they spoke zero Italian. They seemed to have a beautiful rapport built on laughter, smiling, and gratitude. As the third course arrived (handmade ravioli filled with gorgonzola and ricotta, topped with broccolini and pork cheek), Barbara brought the two gentlemen--who had still not eaten anything at this point--two large bowls of plain buttered noodles. Plain. Buttered. Noodles. I blinked a million times, trying to comprehend what was happening.

Yes, their travel quirk was revealed. The men only ate buttered noodles. That's right--all across Italy, and during their repeated visits to Barbara's house, they only ate PASTA WITH BUTTER. In the land of parmigiana, tortelloni, prosciutto, artichokes & melon, guanciale, balsamic vinegar, San Marzano tomatoes... it's enough to bring tears to your eyes! Yet here they were, sitting in their golf shirts, laughing with our beautiful Italian hostess, swapping stories with strangers, clearly having the time of their lives. They were not embarrassed. They told us how they had just always been this way... had bonded over it. They just were the way they were. They made it work.

When it was time for dessert, Barbara brought out two servings of plain vanilla gelato while the rest of us had a trifle of mascarpone, cherries soaked in rum, and whipped cream. I just tilted my head back and grinned. What would it look like if I let go of my rules, and my fears, and allowed me to be just me, quirks and all? Would I find acceptance? What would travel look like? What would life look like? Our new friends were not ugly Americans--they traded on universal values like kindness and gratitude. These had at least gotten them enough to befriend our Italian host. What had my rules gotten me? I just blended in and became unmemorable, inoffensive, and forgettable.

We finished our outstanding meal and Barbara joined us for after-dinner drinks. Someone pulled out a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. I'm still not sure if it was a joke or if Barbara liked it, but I'm pretty sure I said "hell yes," when offered it instead of the limoncello. Judgment be damned.

Paid subscribers, scroll down to see more photos from our dinner!

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Other Topics:

1. In James Clear’s newsletter this week, he poses this question:

Imagine you are at the end of your life and you are granted the ability to repeat one day. Which period of your life do you choose to repeat? Which phase of life would you want to go back to? Does that tell you anything about how you should be spending your time today?

I can’t seem to shake this question and keep running through various days of my life. I’ve narrowed it down to a couple, including a day touring the art of Florence, or perhaps the day my daughter was born (each child’s birth is equally impactful, but I was so much more confident and understanding the second time around). What day in your life would you choose?

2. What I’m Reading This Week:

   

   Ann Patchett and Amor Towles are the two greatest living American writers (in my humble opinion). I’m about halfway through Ann’s latest offering, and I just don’t know how she can weave so much meaning and nuance into this story of a family. It’s something special to behold.