Whenever I go to Italy, I have pictures in my head of what it’s going to consist of: warm, sun, pasta, and pizza so good that it could take the place of a meaningful relationship.
The problem is, I forget about the little frustrating things that Italy means too. Things move slowly at times, time is a rumor, and public transport schedules run on astrological forecasting. In restaurants, food moves faster than drinks. Waiters are usually pleasant but seem to need a lot of breaks in between tasks. They can be seen at a table breathing deeply in between the aperitivo and the first plate rounds.
Sure, the Italian lifestyle is known for being slowed down and easy. But if you are, hypothetically, a stressed-out type, a guy who loves nothing more than making schedules and then sticking to them, well, the la dolce vita can be a bit of a strain.
I spend the first day in Italy trying to make sense of the waiters’ strategy. So far, it seems to very attentively get us through the door and get a drink in front of us. Then, they bring us a little snack to keep us there (which works really well. Catching flies/honey). Then they disappear for a while as we try to divine liquid from the bottom of the glass and trying to catch the eye of a person wearing a uniform. Any uniform. It’s as though he wants us to want him. I would be annoyed if it weren’t so effective.
I know it’s my issue. Relaxation and I are like fourth cousins. I never see him and only on the rare occasions when I do am I reminded of how much I love him. It takes a while for me to unwind, even in Italy, where the very atmosphere tells you that you might as well chill out because nothing is going to happen very quickly anyway. Nevertheless, I move and think like I have things to do. When, in reality, my To Do list consist of these things: wake up, drink, eat, walk over there, find more food, maybe get tipsy, sleep.
It’s when I give myself over to la dolce vita that I will find some joy. It takes a while. I walk too fast and up hills, too. Burke is annoyed with my inability to chill. I look up bus schedules and metro stops. I am keenly aware of how long it takes me to get from one place to another. We walk up a huge hill to a city square and I do it like the Bataan Death March.
But then, something clicks on the third day. We drink beers at lunch and then head back to our apartment to sleep for a few hours. When I wake up, I walk to the local store for some supplies. No, I mosey. Yes, mosey. And then, I mosey back. We take our time. If we don’t do things, then it’s OK. We have a drink at a local pizzeria and order two pizzas to go. By the time they arrive, I have forgotten that I had ordered pizzas to begin with.
I slip into this wonderful state of mind and bliss for the remainder of our time in Genoa. So, about four more days. Four days of shrugging off bus schedules. Four days of not planning dinner. Four days of drinking in the afternoon and then taking a guilt-free nap. Four days of no email or work.
When I wake up in a mild panic on Sunday, I know the game is up. We have a train to catch and then another train. Tomorrow night we have a flight. Even if I enjoy myself to the fullest in Bergamo (today’s destination), I know that la dolce vita for me is a thing of the past. I clean our kitchen and check for things hiding in the bathroom. We walk out the door, my legs forcing me to move more slowly than usual when running for a bus. What I wouldn’t give for an aperitivo right now.
