203. Going with the flow

I’ve arrived!

And after having my ritual welcome cappuccino, the next step is planning. What now? What’s next?

Even though we slept pretty well on the flight over, we were a little too dazed to do anything too ambitious. But because it’s Italy, and because we’re us, we were not too dazed to start making dinner plans, if for no other reason than forcing ourselves to stay awake for the entire day.

As we were staying in Bologna, our plans revolved around finding a local trattoria to have two of its local specialties: tagliatelle Bolognese and tortellini. We had lots of recommendations of places to try, and at a respectable time, we set off in search of one. What we did not count on, however, was that it was a Saturday night, the first balmy one of the season, and all the places we tried were “complete” or full. Of course in Italy, the implications of this are worse than America, because once a table is booked, it’s held for the entire evening. Turnover is not a thing here.

We had walked miles at this point, and exhaustion was setting in. In the distance, I saw a lit storefront, and figured we could buy a snack, head home and collapse.

But the storefront turned out to be a tiny, two-table restaurant, staffed and apparently owned by an South Asian husband and wife. Not very promising. Certainly not what we had had in mind. But we had no choice.

The eight-item all-Italian menu offered both tagliatelle Bolognese and tortelloni, which are large tortellini, in butter and sage. Exactly what we had hoped for. The husband prepared our dinner on a two-burner stove right next to us. And we proceeded to have one of the best Italian meals I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something.

Here’s another thing. Italians have a thing about different foods touching each other on the plate. For example, if you order chicken, spinach and potatoes, they will bring it to you on three separate plates. When you order contorni, or side dishes, they mean that literally. They would find an American Thanksgiving dinner, with turkey, stuffing, green beans and cranberry sauce all piled on top of each other and covered in gravy, incomprehensible and a little nauseating. But our owner/cook/waiter knew his customers, and asked if we wanted each plate to be half and half, which was exactly right. It would never occur to an Italian to do that.

So we went with the flow, and didn’t get upset when things didn’t go exactly as planned, and ended up having the best meal, and a night we’ll never forget.

As we were about to leave, two slightly inebriated young men came in and joined the couple at the other table. One of them must have heard us, because he demanded to know where we were from. “America,” I said. In his high school English, he said, “We love America!” In my crummy Italian, I said, “Ora?” meaning “Now?” He shouted, “Italians love Trump!”

I turned on my heel and walked out. There are certainly flows with which I will not go.