I was telling Henny and Suz over dinner at the Hare Krishna restaurant—
I had emailed Hens: “You will fall over and laugh but it is true, we are going to a Hare Krishna restaurant,” and she’d emailed back: “I am on the floor.”
—we were at dinner and I said, “I am for the Italians, because of Bar Italia and because I like their slogan.” “Forza Azzurri,” I said, “and there is a big banner hanging across Frith Street saying so.” “The Italians are always falling down!” Suz said, and Henny said, “Ya! We want the Brazilians.” “Oh,” I said, and considered. “Okay lah, can!” I said, “for Seu Jorge.”
Still, when Saturday night rolls around and Italy’s playing the USA and Bar Italia’s just down the street, I mean, COME ON. I was at home, on the carpet, surrounded by the weekend paper, and the boy called, and I said, “Sais pas s’il faut que je sois à Bar Italia,” and then I heard, in the background, his sister say that the Italians had just kicked the ball into their own goal. “Je pense,” I said, “qu’il faut que je sois à Bar Italia.” “Do it,” he said.
I heard the cheering and the whistle-blowing, like a dream carried on the wind, from two blocks away, but then I came up to Frith and the heaving mass of humanity made it clear this was no hallucination. The street was packed to the corners, everyone necks craned to the television in the window. And the ole oles and I-ta-lia!s and the spirit fingers. And the boys from Bar Italia selling sandwiches from a silver platter held high.
The second half just beginning, I found Luca, quick, in blue and a cigarette. Even at the front of the crowd, we were twisting our necks to watch the game from behind the dried chillies hanging from the ceiling at Nino’s Paninos. There were the oooo’s and the aaaaa’s, the oohhhhh’s, and then it was all over, beer cans on the tarmac, and the boy on the phone saying, “La honte.”
I was walking home past Ed’s Diner and there were four boys sitting at the bar in rockabilly hairdo’s and primary-colour T-shirts. I was just about to take a picture when one of them turned and saw me, and I got shy.
I had emailed Hens: “You will fall over and laugh but it is true, we are going to a Hare Krishna restaurant,” and she’d emailed back: “I am on the floor.”
—we were at dinner and I said, “I am for the Italians, because of Bar Italia and because I like their slogan.” “Forza Azzurri,” I said, “and there is a big banner hanging across Frith Street saying so.” “The Italians are always falling down!” Suz said, and Henny said, “Ya! We want the Brazilians.” “Oh,” I said, and considered. “Okay lah, can!” I said, “for Seu Jorge.”
Still, when Saturday night rolls around and Italy’s playing the USA and Bar Italia’s just down the street, I mean, COME ON. I was at home, on the carpet, surrounded by the weekend paper, and the boy called, and I said, “Sais pas s’il faut que je sois à Bar Italia,” and then I heard, in the background, his sister say that the Italians had just kicked the ball into their own goal. “Je pense,” I said, “qu’il faut que je sois à Bar Italia.” “Do it,” he said.
I heard the cheering and the whistle-blowing, like a dream carried on the wind, from two blocks away, but then I came up to Frith and the heaving mass of humanity made it clear this was no hallucination. The street was packed to the corners, everyone necks craned to the television in the window. And the ole oles and I-ta-lia!s and the spirit fingers. And the boys from Bar Italia selling sandwiches from a silver platter held high.
The second half just beginning, I found Luca, quick, in blue and a cigarette. Even at the front of the crowd, we were twisting our necks to watch the game from behind the dried chillies hanging from the ceiling at Nino’s Paninos. There were the oooo’s and the aaaaa’s, the oohhhhh’s, and then it was all over, beer cans on the tarmac, and the boy on the phone saying, “La honte.”
I was walking home past Ed’s Diner and there were four boys sitting at the bar in rockabilly hairdo’s and primary-colour T-shirts. I was just about to take a picture when one of them turned and saw me, and I got shy.
posted by stellou at 12:28 PM
4 Comments:
I wish I knew an Italian named Luca.
Maybe I should just come visit, and meet yours.
Luca is GREAT. He always kisses hello, and he always asks, like he really wants to know, how I'm doing. Sometimes he gives me a Bacio chocolate with my coffee. The first time I went in there with Olive, Luca raised his hands in the air and said "Ciao bella!" Olive may have raised his eyebrow, I don't know. Also, this may be a plus or a minus, but in his case it seems to work, there is an air of Vladimir Putin about him. You should come anyway, Luca or no.
What is the movie in which a line of Italian soldiers marches single-file past a woman, each man muttering, "Ciao, bella," as he passes, so that what you hear is a rat-a-tat-tat of ciao-bella-ciao-bella-ciao-bella-ciao-bella . . . ? I remember nothing else about it (did I even see the movie? was this in a trailer?), but I love that scene.
I think I get to take vacation around November. So keep Luca there until then, please.
Your dreams are interesting. Please. Tell me more.
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