Today I woke up to the sound of construction workers drilling, the Africans that live above us screaming at each other, and dirty pigeons cooing at my window. The most painful sound between the broken English/Italian/Swahili screams and slaps was the sound of a little boy crying. I lay in bed looking at the ceiling thinking about how I would call the police if I was a legal citizen... and then I began to question whether my thoughts were in the 1st or 2nd Conditional form. Irritated with my grammatical tendencies, I got out of my sticky humid bed and made Jon a cup of coffee.
2nd memory of today:
Listening the hum of tired Italian voices on the bus, swaying ungracefully into the greasy graffitied window, and then looking out into the countryside at the large round haystacks glistening on the open field like golden clouds floating on a vibrant green sea.... and then an unquenchable smile.
3rd memory:
Listening to Jarett teach his student Marco Manfrandini “Git your shit together.”
Memory 4:
Smiling as my beginner at the end of the lesson waved and said, “Hello, Laura. You good weekend,” as he left the room.
Memory 5:
Waiting in line at factory cantina behind a curly mulleted man amongst the blur of blue Barilla uniforms, playing a game in my mind to guess what the pasta shape will be in store when me and my plastic lunch tray are close enough to see the prima piati.
Memory 6:
Getting off early and being very excited to ride my bicycle.
Memory 7:
Being very disappointed with myself when I fell off my bike into an old crabby man wearing a cabby hat as I was leaving the Asian market.
Memory 8:
Sitting in lawn chairs by the fountain in the little square on my street with my friends, a transvestite from Cuba named Luigi, a decrepit old Italian women with lung cancer who has never spoken a word (I'm not sure by choice or by ability), and my favorite: Gloria, a round French-Italian in her late 60s and her two mangy dogs, Sorbo and Jimi. She runs the show, but I think I'm her favorite too. And besides, I'm kinda obsessed with Jimi, her slobbery, lame, deaf french-bulldog that follows me around the park with his three working legs (and one dragging behind) pathetically panting and begging for attention.
Memory 9:
Picking up fresh produce (that I was going to buy!) with my hands in a little vegetable market (our local one is closed for holiday), my hand being smacked and a man screaming, “No! No! No!” to me. Then a women screaming and shaking her fist at the owner of the shop, then the owner of the shop trying desperately to defend me... “Americani... no, non capito....” and then two snobbish Italian women stomping out of the market with their noses turned up at me to add to their melodramatic demonstration of disapproval.
Memory 10:
Being very excited after grocery shopping to make fajitas with Jon, and then remembering that we forgot to buy tortillas.
Memory 11:
Rolling out a flour mixture using a beer bottle as a rolling-pin and then handing these experimental pancakes to our neighbor Leonardo to fry up what were meant to be tortillas.
Memory 12:
Cioccolato and cocco gelato. Strolling down a narrow cobblestone street licking my gelato behind the laughter of Jon and Leonardo, a sort of nervous laughter as they discussed the mostly absurd but slightly possible chance of waking up in a bathtub of ice with a kidney missing, a lesson that would be learned from couch surfing across Europe with people we've met online or an unbelievable travel package found on the internet (something that both us and Leonardo have committed to for our summer plans).
