Gianni

Gianni is the owner/manager of the delightful hotel I’ll be staying at for the next two months – my home away from – , well, for now, it’s just home.  He is a nice-looking man of 50+ years, always crisp in a Ferragamo shirt, watch, and tie, the color pallette complementing his pale skin and freshly shaved head.  He was, when I checked in, a little serious.  Hesitant to speak English, he politely passed the task to his front desk agent, Frederico, who is at least ten years younger and has an easier time communicating.  While Gianni was all business at first, I have begun to wear him down, as I make it a point to talk to him every day, forcing him to practice his English, and me, my Italian, or lack thereof.  I will even go as far as to say that I think he’s started to enjoy our short, simple conversations, even appearing from the back office to chat when he hears Frederico and I exchange greetings, sharing with me stories of his family, his past career in waste management (hmmm…), and his trips to the US many years ago.

Frederico caught me on my way down to breakfast this morning and told me that Gianni wanted to move me to the biggest room in the hotel.  “It will be more room-eh for you and your dog, ehm, Koda.  If this would be good for you, if you waaaant, we move your things for you.”  I assured him that while the offer was extremely thoughtful, it was unnecessary, explaining that I didn’t think they knew how much luggage I had.  But, Frederico insisted, “Gianni said this room will be much better for you.”  Oh.  Well, if Gianni said so.  “Donnnn’t worry, Gianni, himself, say he is going to move you.”  OK, well, thanks, I’ll just, uhh, go pack my suitcases, then.

Twenty minutes later there was a knock at my door.  “Ciao, Brynn!”  When Italians say my name, it reminds me of a vintage telephone ringing.  Italian is not a language for the lazy tongue – every letter is meant to be articulated, and if you fail to do so, it will likely change the meaning of the word, which is sure to be followed by snickering.  In Spanish, the double “rr” is rolled, but in Italian, E-V-E-R-Y “r” is rolled, and the double “rr” is emphasized by extending the roll.  Italians cannot pronounce a lazy “r” that is so common in Texas, so, if you can imagine the piercing “rrrrrinnng, rrrrrinnnnng” of a telephone in an old black-and-white classic movie, you can understand how the Italians pronounce my name: “Brrreen.”  How charming.

Gianni loaded my suitcases on a trolly he had brought up and assured me that the new room would be much better for me, saying “it is much more fresh.  There is doors to balcony you can open that will be good for your dog to get some fresh air.”  He turned and looked at the 16 pairs of shoes I had lined up against the wall and let out a long, slow whistle, followed by a chuckle.  “OK, we make two trips.”  I laughed and said that he didn’t know I was going to work him so hard.  He replied, “I’m used to work hard – I have a wife and three daughters.”

I followed him to the new room, one floor down, pulling one suitcase behind me with one hand and holding a bag in the other.  He opened the room and let out a sigh of relief.  “Ah, here we go, much better!” he said, satisfied with his decision.  He went to the balcony doors and pulled them open, scratching Koda’s ears as he trotted over.  “Ciao, piccolo.”  He turned to me.  “Do you like it?”  Si, Gianni, molto bene.  Grazie.  He smiled.  “Prego, Signorina.”  He left only to appear moments later with my shoes.  What a saint. 

Tonight was the first night I ate alone.  I’ve been by myself before in Fort Worth, but being alone there is not the same as being alone in Italy. 

There is a restaurant in my hotel called L’Ocera Nera, or, “the black goose,” that I decided to try.  I followed the signs pointing the way to the restaurant downstairs.  A red sign with big white letters spelling RISTORANTE was posted above two plain white doors that blended in with the hallway, save for the red crash bars across the length of the doors that gave them the appearance of an emergency exit.  I stood still for a moment looking at the doors, perplexed and a little doubtful that I had the right entrance.  I considered turning around and going back to my room, but instead I held my breath and prayed that the alarm would not go off as I slowly pushed the doors open.

I was surprised to find the restaurant extremely busy, as I had barely seen anyone in the hotel except for employees.  The buzz of Italian chatter filled my consciousness as I awkwardly stood just inside the door, not sure if I should seat myself or wait to be seated.  I made eye contact with a young man in a suit across the restaurant, who presumably recognized my look of bewilderment mixed with embarrassment as a universal plea for help, and he rushed to my aid.

“Just one?”  He didn’t even have to ask if I spoke Italian.  Si.

He sat me down at a nearby table where I was facing two couples sitting directly in front of me.  After he explained the menu and left with my order, I found myself staring straight at the empty chair across from me, hands folded neatly in my lap, denying my natural instinct to watch either couple seated no more than ten feet away.

You can only awkwardly stare at an empty chair for so long.

After a few minutes, I allowed myself to look around the restaurant.  Parties prattled and hummed with laughter, throwing their heads back and cheering with gaiety.  I strained to hear any sign of familiarity, but they all spoke too quickly for me to understand anything.  I snatched an “otto” out of a conversation, but, realizing I had absolutely no frame of reference, dropped my hopes of any triumph. 

I let my gaze drift to one of the couples in front of me.  A man and wife in their late 50s, they spoke quietly and with the ease and comfort that comes from years of marriage.  The man reached his hand across the table to let it rest on hers.  He glanced in my direction, and I quickly shifted my intruding stare back to the empty chair across from me.  Caught me.  I looked back up for a moment to search the restaurant for the young man in the suit.  Surely my meal was ready by now…

I felt a warm hand touch my right shoulder.  A bit startled, I looked up to see Gianni smiling down at me.  “Buonasera, Signorina.  Tu come stai?”  My self-consciousness melted and suddenly I wasn't quite so alone in the world.  He asked me what I ordered for dinner.  “Ahh, gnocchi…a good choice." 

If you think you have ever had basil pesto, you are wrong.  I can say this with confidence, because I was sure that I had had good basil pesto before, but I had not.  I was wrong, too.  Don’t feel bad, we can both be wrong together.

How do you describe delicious?  There was a mound of gnocchi scampi before me.  The tiny dumplings were perfectly gooey on the outside with what I’m convinced must be the richest, freshest basil pesto sauce in the world, while still maintaining a warm doughy inside.  Delizioso.  I actually let out an audible “mmmm” with the first bite, almost in disbelief that such a magnificent flavor is in existence.  I took another bite to ensure that my palate hadn’t deceived me.  It was just as good, if not better, the second time around.  My glass of vino bianco was the perfect complement to this delightful dish, and I sipped it slowly as I enjoyed my gnocchi. 

I made it about halfway through my meal before I put my fork down for the first time, and I decided that that’s where it should stay if I were to have any hope of walking out of the restaurant instead of having to be rolled.  I looked around to see if I could find any sign of a waiter.  Peculiarly enough, throughout my meal, I had seen several different members of the wait staff attend to the tables surrounding me, but no one had said anything to me.  I looked to the front of the restaurant and saw a cash register.  Do I pay there, or do I wait here?  I decided I would try to follow suit by observing the Italians, but in true Italian style, all the people surrounding me were there when I arrived and didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. 

Finally, a waiter noticed me looking around in confusion, once again, and came over to my table.  I realized that none of the waiters had stopped by my table because they didn’t speak English.  The man looked at my half-empty plate and looked concerned, saying, “is not good?”  Surprised, I replied, “no, no, molto bene!  I’m just full.”  I could tell he didn’t understand.  “It’s just a lot of food.”  I touched my stomach with both hands to try to communicate the message.  “I get my boss,” he said.  Oh- okay.

The young man in the suit came back to my table.  “You didn’t like it?” he part-asked, part-accused.  “No, I liked it very much!  It was delizioso.  I’m just full because it was a lot of food.”  “But there is still half a dish,” he looked at me inquisitively, “are you sure?  I can get you something else…?”  I smiled, almost feeling guilty for not finishing the meal.  “No, grazie, I’m fine.”  He smiled, so I knew I had him convinced.  Phew.  “Do I pay here, or at the register?”  He replied, “if you put it on your room bill, I can bring you check for firma.”  I agreed this was the best way to pay, and he returned with the check momentarily.  He opened the book and pointed at the bottom line.  “Your signature here,” he paused as I signed the line, and then pointed below it, “and your phone number here.”  I looked up at him, not sure if he was serious or not.  He burst out in laughter, “I’m just kidding you, I’m just kidding you!”  I laughed and snapped the book shut, handing it to him and shaking my head as I stood up.  “Buonanote, Signorina,” he called after me as I walked toward the door.

Buonanote.