Another writing assignment.
Four (very obviously) American girls trek through the pigeon filled Piazza de San Giovanni in search of a grocery store. We are already very late for our potluck and haven’t even bought the food yet, so we hurry. As we descend into the basement level supermarket I am overwhelmed by a strange mix of the familiar and the foreign. I am used to seeing crates of produce, but the cheese counter smells different than at home. Regretting that I don’t have time to explore this new world, I search for an aisle stocked with pasta since that is our designated dish for the night. A few frantic minutes of shopping and a long wait in line provide us with an odd assortment of food: 3 kiwis, 2 tangelos, 4 boxes of pasta, a box of Special K and some mozzarella. Our sustenance appears to be chosen at random, there are no evident meals here, but we walk home anyway.
The Metro is easy to navigate, if a bit dark and gloomy. We attract lots of stares, and stop talking so as not to draw more attention to ourselves (it doesn’t work.) Kelli says it’s because the people here aren’t used to seeing blonde hair, but I’m not sure if that’s it. Happy to be leaving the crowded train, we arrive on the street, carrying our pasta. We’re really late now, but can’t help stopping to admire the cathedral we’re passing.
“It’s like Greece,” I say, “But the statues still have heads.”
The walk isn’t fun. It’s getting dark and we’re lost. Navigating with our tiny map seems like using a single match to illuminate a palace, and I wonder how long before we’ll turn back for a meal of dry pasta and tangelos. Behind a parking lot, down a street we find the apartment we are in search of. Familiar faces lean out of the window, and an old woman lets us in the front door.
Almost immediately, the stress of the walk, of the day, of the year evaporates. I haven’t known these people long, but it’s funny how quickly you can build relationships when you have something to bond over; last week it was surviving Athens, right now it’s cooking. I grab a drink, and then begin shredding fresh mozzarella with my hands. It’s stringy on the inside, with a thicker layer surrounding it. It’s dripping all over everywhere, and I don’t even think it’s weird that the cheese is wet. I pull apart the white chunks, and think that this is nothing like what they use at home. When the bowl is full I steal a bite, and worry that this cheese might ruin other cheese for me. It’s salty and soft and mild, and tastes exactly like it should.
We sit down in the hallway, two desks serving as tables while folding chairs, stools and couches around them provide seating. It’s crowded and awkward and perfect. It had been brought up that we could eat in different rooms, since none of them were big enough to hold all of us.
“No,” someone else had said, “We’re a family. At least tonight.”
So we sit in the hall and drink and eat, and it doesn’t matter that I don’t know how to get back to my apartment or that I’ve spilled sauce on my skirt. It doesn’t matter because I’m in Rome, and because I’m eating the best cheese I’ve ever tasted, and because I’m with family. At least for tonight.
No comments:
Post a Comment