Mango and Text Messages

            by Joe Shemuel

 

            Florence is a city known for its churches, art and women. Portraits and guidebooks suggest a thriving mélange of commercialism and religion. The airport, however, seemed just like any other, especially after passing through SFO, JFK, and LHR in the same 24-hour span. Jamie, my traveling companion and best friend since diapers and sandboxes, seemed not to care, mesmerized by the signs and advertisements he couldn’t read.

            “They sell everything here with sex,” he said, pointing at a billboard-sized woman holding marinated artichoke hearts over voluptuous, Italian breasts. “It’s genius,” he concluded. I had to agree. We managed to pull our eyes off her artichokes, and then looked at each other, still perplexed and still very lost.

“Where are we supposed to meet this guy anyway?” he asked. I shrugged.

We wandered through terminals, arriving at the taxi stand - where we both snickered as travelers asked the employee for a “tassi” - baggage claim, and finally the public transportation center. There, a smiling, middle-aged man held a sign bearing the names “Jamie and Jonh.” Jamie and I turned and looked at each other with identically skeptical expressions. “Jonh?” we asked. As we walked towards him, the letters on the sign didn’t rearrange themselves into “Joe” as I had somehow hoped, nor into the correct spelling of “John,” so we again shrugged and awkwardly stopped in front of him. We stood silently, each expecting the other to blurt out something Italian-sounding, but luckily, the man saved us the trouble.

“Siete Jamie e Jonh?” he asked.

Recognizing that yes, those were our names, as Jamie prodded with his elbow me to say something, I gave a “Si.”

“Va bene! Sono Paulo, (Great! I’m Paulo)” he replied, folding up the sign as he lead us to the parking lot. Just as the van came into view, emblazoned with “Istituto Michelangelo” (the name of our language school) and a small headshot of David, I called out, “Shotty!” and ran to the front door.

The drive back was filled with scenic Italian countryside, surprisingly slow driving, and equally slow conversation, as he realized that his English was better than our Italian, despite the year of bi-weekly 7:30 AM Italian classes I insisted I had taken. Entering la periferia (the outskirts) of the city, one-way streets became two-way as our driver navigated into the obscure, residential neighborhood of Le Cure. (Italians have an innate sense of direction, Jamie later informed me.)

We dropped off Jamie first and then drove the two blocks to my apartment in reverse, where I hopped out and managed to say, “Grazie infinite, Paulo. À domani, (thanks a lot, Paulo. See you tomorrow)” Balanced on the narrow sidewalk, I stared straight up. The ubiquitous green shutters jutted out in all directions from every window, forming a vertical labyrinth on the ancient plaster. I buzzed number twenty-one and began the long ascent up the church-like marble staircase to floor seven. Inside, the smell of olive oil and burning onion aroused my starving palate as a thin, unbelievably tan woman of about forty beckoned me inside with her cigarette-pinching fingers.

“Ciao!” she said. “Sono Adelina.”

“Buona sera,” I replied. “Mi chiamo Joe.”

We exchanged Italian small talk and then switched over to French, which I spoke much better. “Va bene, Jonh” she concluded after a few minutes, deciding that my attempt at conversation had gone on long enough.

“Il nome è Joe, no John, (the name is Joe, not John)” I corrected her.

“Sì, John,” she replied, unfazed.

“No—” I started, but then gave up.

She then gave me a tour, which was brief both because of the apartment’s small size and her apparent indifference to its architectural quirks. This struck me as odd because it seemed that Adelina had spent hours modeling the apartment after the cottages on Home & Garden television. The kitchen/dining room seemed straight out of a rustic bungalow in the Mid-West, complete with a small, hand-woven tapestry of Mickey Mouse. The only difference was that the inscription at the bottom read “Topolino.”

Finally we reached my room, which was about as I had expected and hoped it would be. I had a chest of drawers, a bookcase of Italian children’s stories, a desk, and a cozy-looking bed. Two windows above the headboard looked out over the neighboring red terra-cotta rooftops that I recognized from the covers of tourist brochures about Florence. I had a small veranda over-looking an empty, verdant courtyard and even a chair on which I could sit and watch nothing. I dropped my suitcases and collapsed into bed for the next two hours.

“Cena! (dinner)” Adelina shouted through my door.

“Vengo! (I’m coming)” I responded. Soaked in sweat, I put on a polo and jeans and went to wash my face as Adelina scolded me for making her wait. I walked into the kitchen, still groggy, and olive oil and roasted vegetables overpowered me once again. Seated at the head of the table was a handsome guy who seemed to be in his early 20s. He got up from the table and came to hug me, excitedly introducing himself and asking me questions I didn’t understand. “Mi chiamo Gianluca, Sono figlio di Adelina, (my name is Gianluca. I’m Adelina’s son)” was all I got. He wore a skimpy yellow tank top and seemed to have just returned from a jog, his sharp cheekbones rising and falling as he drew deep breaths. His shoulder-length dark brown hair was shiny, but I didn’t know if it was sweat or pomade.

Dinner was exactly as I had smelled it. “Carota, carciofi, peperone, e altri verdure, (carrots, artichokes, bell peppers, and other vegetables)” she explained. I had given up on French for the mean time, as I hadn’t flown 5000 miles to Italy to not learn the language. Everything was dripping in hot olive oil, just the way I wanted it, and I used the same-day-baked crunchy bread to soak up the remaining oil after the veggies were gone. I savored my wine, a robust Montepulciano. Over dinner, in an excruciatingly slow English-Italian hybrid, my new family told me about Florence, questioned me about California, and asked me to confirm their perceptions of California, most of which were based on dubbed re-runs of MTV shows. I had to explain that no, we didn’t all surf like the cast of the O.C. Gianluca shared that he had just returned via train from a Dolce & Gabbana fashion shoot in Milan and that he had brought with him a special treat. Flashing a goofy grin that I doubted he’d ever show on the runway, Gianluca took out a small, ripe-looking mango. Adelina looked confused. I was just surprised that he’d kept it intact over the 150-mile trip.

“Che cosa è? (what is it?)” she asked.

“Non so,” Gianluca answered, equally baffled. Finally, the naïve American could show the Italians something.

“È un mango!” I said, visibly pleased with myself.

“Un mango?” they repeated, scrutinizing the small fruit.

“Si, un mango,” I affirmed. Gianluca shrugged peeled it with the edge of the knife. Thoroughly sticky and starting to look dubious, he mushed it into slices and doled them out. From the resulting looks on their faces, I couldn’t tell if they liked it or hated it, but Gianluca soon gave that tell-tale grin again, and I knew that I hadn’t led them astray. I left them the rest of the flesh and took the part I really liked - the fibrous, juicy pit.

I thanked my new mother and retired to my balcony with another glass of the leftover wine. From the obscure Italian instructions, I inserted and activated my Italian SIM card and called over to Jamie’s apartment, but he had already fallen asleep. I set my cell phone alarm and did the same.

“You’re a shining star, no matter who you are. Shining bright to see, what you could truly be!” Someone was singing Earth, Wind, and Fire at 8:30 in the morning, but I was the only one who spoke English. The tiny outer screen on my cell phone broke into a psychedelic LED light show and I pushed the snooze button, halting the singing mid-verse. I called Jamie’s apartment to make sure that he was awake, knowing that he often slept through fire alarms, but he didn’t pick up.

“Bongiorno, Jonh,” Adelina cooed through my door, “Devo partire ma ti ho lasciato colazione. Cuando sai dovè mangerai cena, mandi mi un SMS. (I have to go but I left you breakfast. When you know where you’re eating dinner, send me a SMS)”

Un SMS? I asked myself. Is the woman who’s never seen a mango really asking me to send her a text message about my dinner plans? And why can’t she get my name right? “D’accordo, Adelina. Grazie, (OK, Adelina. Thanks)” I replied, a little confused. I gathered my scarce toiletries as I scampered into the bathroom. I heard the high whine of Adelina’s motorino as she sped off to work. The ancient stone floors were freezing, so I did a jig until the water warmed up in the shower. I hopped in and began to wash, noticing the several Camel butts in the drain and soggy half-full packs in the soap dish. Where the American cigarette packs bore the tiny and cryptic message “Surgeon General’s Warning: Cigarette Smoke Contains Carbon Monoxide” that meant nothing to those without two semesters of chemistry, the Italian packs read: “Il fumo uccide (smoking kills).” in a large print that covered up more than half of Joe Camel’s dapper, sunglasses-sporting face.

Slightly disgusted, I got out and put on one of the outfits I had designated as “Italian,” in order to make a good first impression at L’istituto. My new, constrictively trendy jeans fit a little more snugly than expected around the olive oil-inflated waist, but their clean, dark wash looked great nonetheless, especially with the fluorescent green polo I had picked to maximize exposure of- and contrast with my non-existent chest hair. I called Jamie again and we agreed to meet at the 1 bus stop at 9:05.

In the kitchen, I found what I thought was a mess before I realized that it was breakfast. A jar of cornflakes, Nesquik mix, milk, jam, hard mini-bread, instant coffee, a bowl, a cup, and a spoon took up almost the entire table. Did Italians really think Americans ate cornflakes and drank Nesquick for breakfast? I’d have to bring up the breakfast fare over dinner, I thought, already worrying about offending Adelina. And hadn’t I become Italian enough for an espresso or a cappuccino instead of the instant stuff? At least it‘s not Ovaltine, I thought, stirring up my ‘quik.

 

Jamie was not at the bus stop at 9:05, or even 9:10, but luckily neither was the bus. I knew better than to call him, and sure enough he arrived, panting, at 9:12.

“How’s your host family?” he asked.

“OK,” I said, “but I’m not really sure. We didn’t really get to talk that much. How about you?”

“Awesome. I have a single mother who meditates and loves to cook. She’s a Buddhist,” he explained, pointing up the street. “Bus is here.”

We got on, paid our 85 euro-cent fare, and found two hard, plastic seats next to each other, facing sideways. We swapped stories from the previous night before, but having stayed in and gone to bed at 10:00, there wasn’t too much to say, so we decided to stand up and watch the city we had barely seen. The bus was packed but the ride short and we jumped off right in front of the Duomo, which seemed to come out of nowhere compared with the bars and soccer boutiques that clung to most of the bus route. Vendors mingled with fellow tourists who were already standing around gawking and taking photos. A man in square glasses wearing a papoose full of Italian newspapers handed us copies, apparently convinced by my outfit that I could read it. Though we were already late to class, we paused in front of the Duomo, necks tilted to the sky, fixed by its leviathan majesty and architecture.

“This is how Italy shows off,” Jamie said. “We have Costco and Great America and they have cathedrals.” He was right.

“You know we saw this thing two years ago, right?” I asked him, referring to the two days we had spent in Italy two summers before.

“Oh, right.”

We untangled ourselves from the throngs and then consulted my map to find the green dot by which I had marked L’istituto.

“88 Via Ghibellina. This way,” he said, pointing across the piazza. We wound through cobble-stone alleys so narrow that I assumed they were solely for pedestrians until a Fiat gave a polite toot and I hopped onto the equally narrow sidewalk. The decaying engraved street signs at every corner told a tale we longed to understand of names like Dante Algheri, Proconsolo, and Pandolfini. When we finally made it to 88 Via Ghibellina, it was 9:45 and our shirts stuck to our backs with sweat.

No one noticed we were late. The multicultural, multilingual crowd appeared to be attending a United Nations cocktail party. Over a hundred students from all six inhabitable continents chatted and drank espresso out of tiny plastic cups, seemingly unaware that they were there to learn Italian. Listening to their conversations, we heard Spanish, French, Japanese, and lots of Italian, but no English. Jamie and I isolated ourselves against a wall, searching for an American or two. Finally, we noticed a girl who looked nearly as lost as we must have, too pale to be South American or African and too round to be European. We struck up a conversation with her as she went to the machine for another espresso.

“You must be American,” I said, smiling.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked defensively. I put 1.20 euro in the machine and ordered my own espresso with a series of buttons and beeps.

“Who else would put three sugars and two creamers in one shot of espresso?” I asked. “I’m just kidding. That shit’s bitter.”

“Where are you guys from?” she asked. We talked back and forth for a little while, and learned that Elizabeth was in the Opera program at Julliard. Though she had grown up in New Jersey, she knew California well enough to not ask us if we surfed.

Before we could run out of things to say, I heard Paulo’s cheery voice announce over the din, “Studente, ‘scoltate! (Students, listen!)” The crowd shifted and we listened as Paulo introduced us to the program’s executive director, Nicola, who gave a completely unintelligible speech and then handed out a stack of papers that looked suspiciously like a test. Needless to say, Jamie and I didn’t exactly ace the placement exam; he ended up in level two and I made it into level three, out of six. Nicola barked another instruction in gibberish and the crowd began to splinter off into classrooms.

Luckily, seated at the head of my class table was Paulo! Going around counterclockwise from his right, we had Kiumi, a 24 year old Korean woman, two Spanish women named Gloria and Sandra, age 28 and 42, respectively, Barbara, a Brazilian beauty of 29, a 27 year old Turkish woman named Gokce, and Jacques, a Parisian, also age 29. Somehow, Paulo had less trouble with “Kiumi” than with calling me “Joe” instead of “Jonh.” He suggested an icebreaker and we went around the circle introducing ourselves in Italian. Kiumi, whose native accent clashed with the long, smooth Italian syllables, had the most trouble with her introduction, but I didn’t sound much better, and I didn’t have a good excuse besides being American. The rest of the group, especially the two Spanish women, spoke like naturals with perfect accents. Or is it just that I can’t tell the difference between a Spanish and Italian accent? I wondered. While I felt proud to say I spoke French, English, and some Italian, Jacques and Gokce spoke five languages each, in addition to solid Italian. It isn’t fair, I thought. If I wanted to hear a language besides English, Spanish, or French, I would have to cross a huge body of water, while they could just hop on the 240-km/hr trains.

After the formalities, the class settled into a full hour of grammar until 10:50. Though the grammar was easy because of my knowledge of English grammar, I suffered my usual, brief bouts of ADD. I noticed that the walls of the classroom were all covered in ancient paintings depicting everything from Cristo to innocent farm animals and landscapes. I enjoyed learning in a museum. When Paulo announced break time, I followed the crowd across the street to buy my first real espresso. Unfortunately, after waiting and paying, all I got was a receipt - no espresso.

Sure that there had been a mistake, I showed the cashier lo scontrino and said, “No ho preso il mio caffé. (I didn’t get my coffee)” Annoyed that I hadn’t learned the ins and outs of coffee-ordering, the cashier snatched my receipt and pointed to the barista, telling me to “take it there,” like he knew I couldn’t speak Italian or something.

Jamie found me standing at the bar. At his suggestion, we sat down with one of his new friends. Jorgio, he told me, was a 27 year-old Spaniard who enjoyed racquetball and had a sense of humor that was frighteningly similar to his own. Like all hip Europeans, Jorgio spoke English, but not as quickly as Jamie and I could, so Jamie let me know that Jorgio lived with some quite attractive lady friends three floors directly above the L’istituto. To me, he seemed like a well-traveled gigolo. Before we had to return for our next hour of classes, Jorgio invited us over for a post-class espresso party. Jamie gladly accepted, gracious for some entrance into the seemingly impenetrable social circles of those who were ten years older than we were, but I was unsure.

The next two hours of class were based on conversation, and this time it was Paulo who got distracted. Every time one of us revealed some personal quirk or detail about our home countries, Paulo became entranced and peppered the speaker with questions. When I told the group I didn’t drive, Paulo asked me how much gas was in the states. He couldn’t belive the answer.

“È veramente solamente due euro per quattro litri? (It’s really only two euro for four liters?)” he asked, making him the only person that had ever called American gas prices low.

This period of the class actually sounded like a meeting of World Travelers Anonymous as we followed the textbook’s formula for mind-numbing conversation: “Bongiorno, sono Joe. Vengo di Estati Uniti. Di dové sei? (Hello, I’m Joe. I’m from the United States. Where are you from?)” After the fourth repetition, Paulo felt like we had it down pretty well, so the discussion took on a more free form. I asked Gokce about the shisha for which her country was famous and Miumi asked me about the American pop stars whose faces decorated her binder. At 1:00, we dismissed for the day.

Jorgio’s function turned out to be conveniently postponed so Jamie and I took out my laminated map and pointed at a random street corner halfway across the city. The objective, we agreed, was to reach that point on foot and to get lunch on the way. Detours were to be expected, and even the final destination itself might have to be changed if necessary. With that in mind, we set off to explore our new home.

We first headed due south down to the Arno, the aqueduct that bisected the city, and then went East along its 5’ high barrier, occasionally peering over to look at the murky water and what lay beyond it on the other side. The other side of the street we were on constantly changed as we walked, a moving picture show of high-end fashion boutiques, overpriced Trattorias which charged more for their obstructed view than for their food, and oddly decrepit museums.  It was criminally hot at this point so we stopped for two cold bottles of Moretti, the Italian Budweiser, at a generic caffé and sat on the retaining wall to drink them. Over the opposing side’s barrier, we saw dozens of steeples and more red terra cotta rooftops.

“I can’t really speak Italian,” Jamie muttered, out of nowhere.

“It’s only the first day,” I said. “I can’t speak it either.”

“Whatever,” he concluded, before draining his beer and jumping down off the wall impatiently.

Back on the sidewalk, we continued along the river for a few more blocks before turning left up a street we guessed would take us to our destination. High-end retail melded into high-end villas and apartments in a beautiful residential neighborhood with wide streets and tall trees. Trees! In a big city! We rounded another corner and a park came into view. Jamie and I were giddy at the prospect of a park in the middle of the terra cotta jungle, especially after he spotted a soccer ball lying at the grass’s edge. We looked at each other, astonished, and our eyes told each other that a quick session of shooting and passing was in order. Despite my tight-ish jeans, I held my own. A game of soccer on a hot day was more than enough reason for another cold drink so we stopped at the nearest caffé and, over a game of chess, drank Orangina and ate the lunch we had been waiting for.

With a satisfied burp, we took out the map again and realized with joy that we were nowhere near the original destination. It was more of an adventure this way, we decided. Unfortunately, we were also nowhere near home, and my feet ached with dull pain. Jamie said he was up for the walk, but he gave in to my laziness. We caught the 58 at the corner, which let us off near downtown, and then took the 1 home from there. I collapsed into my wonderful bed again and didn’t wake up until dinner.

This time, Adelina skipped the formalities and just banged on my door. Barely awake, I didn’t understand why she disliked me. Did I seem like a good-for-nothing American, sleeping all day and wolfing down my food at night? I put on a t-shirt and shorts and sat down at the table alone.

“Dovè Gianluca? (Where’s Gianluca?)” I asked.

“È ancora partito per Milano, (He left for Milan again)” she replied, finally sitting down. Dinner was the same delicious sauté as we had eaten the night before, but this time it included chicken! “Comè l’istituto? (How’s the institute?)” she continued. “Ti piace? (Do you like it?)”

“Sì,” I said. “Ma sono troppo giovane. Tutti i altri sono molto più vechi.  (But I’m too young. All the others are much older.)”

“Ah,” she said, seeming to understand, “E cosa fai stasera? (And what are you doing tonight?)”

“Boh… Vado in bar, credo, (I dunno… going to a bar, I think)” I said as I got up. “Grazie mille per cena, Adelina.”

“Certo, Jonh. (Sure, Jonh.)”

I cleared my plate and went to take my second shower of the day. I took my time in the warm water, then pondered my wardrobe intently before changing and doing my hair up in a faux-hawk. Clean and fresh in a colorful dress shirt and black jeans, I didn’t bother to call Jamie, but instead walked over to his apartment and buzzed number four. His apartment was as quirky as mine, but in a more cultural, refined way. A bamboo curtain separated the living room from the kitchen and stacks of Italian LPs lay next to the couch, which doubled as his bed, now covered in Italian worksheets and tourist guides. Not surprisingly, Jamie lived in Italy the same way he did at home.

“What’s in the backpack?” he asked, pointing to my Jansport, whose green hue clashed horribly with my shirt. I showed him the contents: two Birre Moretti and the laminated map.

“We’re doin’ it big tonight,” I announced, “So shower up and get ready.”

“F’sho,” he said, smiling. We high-fived and then he went into the bathroom to get ready. After checking to make sure his host mother wasn’t home, I rummaged through the records on the floor and put on Revolver by the Beatles. Then I went over to his host mother’s bookcase and found a book on Buddhism, which coincidentally was written in English. I sat down on his bed and read contently.

When he came back into the living room, I took a folded list from my back pocket and showed it to him, pointing at the first two entries.

“What’re they?” he asked, reminding me he couldn’t read Italian.

“Capocaccia and Central Park,” I read, “Our plan.” Jamie raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask any questions. He put on his version of the Italian-looking outfit, a pink polo shirt and flared jeans, and with that, we left the apartment, beers in hand.

We returned to the Arno the way we had gone earlier, catching the 8:15 number 1 to the Duomo and then walking South. This time, we walked West along the river until we heard the tell-tale house music coming from Capocaccia. The crowd bubbled out the doors onto the street, where sexy red cabanas lined the sidewalk and attractive college students from all over the world stood around shooting the breeze. We spotted Jorgio and his harem on the retaining wall. Inside, I showed Jamie what I had read about on the Internet: expertly mixed drinks and an Italian buffet. While Jamie loaded up plates for us with cheeses, breads, pastas and salads, I ordered us due mojito from the bar and shelled out 16 euro. Normally, twenty dollars for two mojitos would’ve been outrageous, but when we finally settled on the retaining wall, washed in sunset, and sipped the rum, seltzer, mint, lemon, and lime, the price didn’t matter. I was in love with my drink.

Much to our delight, Jorgio introduced us to his friends, some of which Jamie had met from class, and we chatted on the wall for an hour or so. At 10:00, we decided to stretch our legs a little, which for us meant walking back into the bar to order two more drinks. This time, Jamie ordered a Martini, but I just got another mojito. The crowd had thinned a little, so we managed to get our own Cabana, and Jamie motioned to Jorgio and the others to come sit with us. Sipping a 10-dollar Mojito, surrounded by friends new and old, I was in bliss.

Unfortunately, the crowd continued to thin, and at around 11:00, Jamie and I left as well. We headed back towards downtown and joined the masses, deciding on Amadeus Bar, where we ate cocktail nuts and felt welcome among the other intoxicated tourists. Our waitress was gorgeous, and when she announced that Jamie and I could split five shots for five euro, each of a different flavored vodka, I could’ve married her. The raucous group at the table next to us, we learned, was also from California, so we told them we went to Cal and things went relatively smoothly from there.

However the similarities ended there and Jamie quickly grew tired of the obnoxious Americans from which we were supposed to have escaped. I was just warming up to our new friends, but again, Jamie was right: even though we ostensibly had the same goals - to inebriate ourselves and roam free in a foreign city - they were different. Nevertheless, I already missed my American friends, so I put our differences aside and tried to convince Jamie to do the same.

“Non sono si cattivi, sì? (they’re not that bad, right?)” I asked Jamie in slow Italian I knew he’d understand. “E è un po bella, lei? (and isn’t she kinda cute?)”

His scowl told me that no, they were that bad and no, she wasn’t cute. “Andiamo, (let’s go)” he said. “Fuck them.”

I didn’t understand what his issue was, so I hesitated and came up with a devilish compromise. We would all go to Central Park. Jamie could lose himself in the attractive crowds, and I could stay with our new American “friends.” Jamie and I got up to leave and as we were putting on our jackets, I proposed the plan to everyone. Jamie didn’t say a word, so I knew he was furious. It was a warm night and we couldn’t fit seven of us in a cab, so after briefly consulting my map, we decided to walk. Of course, I underestimated severely, so it took 45 minutes. Jamie walked ten feet in front of the group the entire way.

It was well worth the trek. Secluded in an old commercial neighborhood West of downtown, Central Park is the biggest and most famous club in Florence. My surprise for Jamie was that, as international students, we got in free. But even after saving 8 euro he refused to split the 3 euro cost of coat-checking my backpack with me. Instead, he pushed past me and quickly lost himself in the crowd. I felt like I was losing him, too.

Where the club’s exterior had been mundane concrete, its interior was breathtaking. Four dance floors - two outdoor and two indoor - pulsed to their respective DJs and every last surface was awash with a blur of multicolored lights that seemed to gyrate in time to one central beat that could be felt but not heard.

Central Park was a little intimidating, even with my new friends, so I went to look for Jamie. From afar, I noticed that he had taken a liking to the female members our new “friends,” especially one girl who had told him he looked like Josh Hartnett. Maybe that’ll cheer him up, I thought. In the middle of the main floor, I soon found myself paired off, dancing dirty to Holla Back Girl by Gwen Stefani with a brunette named Alice who told me she too went to Cal. When she asked what dorm I lived in, I thought for way too long and then replied, “Applewood.” She had never heard of Applewood, but it didn’t seem to bother her. I looked around and saw Elizabeth in the crowd, but we didn’t make eye contact. As the beat faded out, a white guy with dreadlocks came out on stage, serenaded by yet another thumping house song.

“Chentral Park, eet’s Friday night!” he yelled into the microphone, “Eet’s Friday night! Chentral Park!” The Italian rasta repeated this phrase several times, jumping up and down to the music. I saw Jamie crack up. Then I cracked up. Three hundred drunken twenty year-olds, locals and tourists alike, were cheering their heads off at the date.

The rest of the night is somewhat of a blur. I remember dancing with Alice in one of the stripper cages before being pulled down by security. I remember losing my drink punch-card and having to wait until security wasn’t looking to make my exit. I remember taking a cab with Jamie at 5:30 AM, as the Italian paperboys were just starting to circulate. Jamie had apologized, and I knew he meant it.

The next morning, I awoke at 8:30 for class. Adelina was still home.  I forced down some cornflakes, but I wasn’t hungry. Jamie was late again, but who could blame him?

 

And so the days went on, the routine the same: Up early for class with a brief shower and odd breakfast. Two surprisingly fun hours of grammar lessons and rushed espresso at the crowded caffé across the street. Two discursive hours of conversation, followed by an exploratory afternoon walk to parts unknown. A refreshing afternoon siesta in sweat-soaked linens, then a home-style Italian dinner in or an overpriced meal out. A binge of touristy bars and clubs scattered around downtown, culminating at last in an all-night spectacle at Central Park. The day-to-day similarities were theoretical, the differences practical. It was always the same, but never monotonous.

While Adelina and I grew closer, my Italian improved with the increased contact, and Jamie seemed to benefit as well, opening up to the other tourists with which we shared the city, though he still had trouble with the language. I no longer needed my laminated map to get around, nor an awkward pause before responding to questions in italiano.

We left the way we had come, in the back of the white Econovan. The drive seemed shorter in reverse. Curbside at the airport, Paulo told me, “Arrivederci, Jonh,” and I understood.