0451471075 (N) (32 page)

The longer I’m here, the more I feel a connection with Italy, and I marvel at having come from such industrious people. Until now, I always identified more with the English side of my heritage, mostly because of the history behind my last name. Rumor has it we’re descended from the Lancasters who date back to the War of the Roses. Then again, my paternal grandfather used to swear that every time any toilet flushed, the contents went to Moon Island, so it’s possible he wasn’t the most accurate steward of family lore.

We tool around the city with no particular
agenda, taking pictures of fountains and browsing in shops for a few hours until Fletch tires and needs to rest.

I want Fletch to have the best meal tonight, so we decide to visit the Trastevere neighborhood across the Tiber. I dress and touch up my makeup quickly and am halfway through an episode of
The Good Wife
in Italian (screaming with glee when Julianna Margulies says the name of the town where I live) when Fletch begins to pace between the closet and his suitcase.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“How do you not have anything to wear? You brought two huge suitcases. For four days. You have stuff to wear. I’m sure of it,” I reply.

He begins to pull inappropriate choice after inappropriate choice out of his bag. For some reason, he brought nothing but ratty old polos and weird T-shirts.

“Seriously?
Seriously?
You brought your
El Pollo Loco
shirt? You thought, ‘Hey, I’m going to one of the most elegant cities in the world, so I’ll be sure to bring my chicken T-shirt.’” I’m shaking my head as I dig through his baggage. I hold up a faded gray offering. “Johnny Cash? You brought a Johnny Cash shirt? What part of ‘
Don’t pack like a jackass’
was problematic for you?”

“I was confused. I didn’t know what they wore here,” he argued.

“So you erred on the side of
Johnny Cash
? Where are all those nice polished cotton oxfords I bought you last summer?”

“I didn’t think they’d be appropriate.”

“But a
chicken shirt
would be?”

“Shit. I don’t know. We probably need to go shopping. It’s still early so I’m sure the stores are still open,” he says.

And just like that, for the very first time in our relationship, Fletch actually Tom Sawyers
me
.

•   •   •

“You look very handsome.”

“I do, don’t I?” Fletch admires himself in the hotel room mirror because over the past couple of days, he’s learned that European-cut shirts fit him as though custom-made.

“You Tom Sawyered me. You packed like a jackass on purpose.” Much like Tom suckered his friends into whitewashing the fence, I have a rather unfortunate history of doing tasks wrong in front of Fletch so that his impulse is to jump in and take over, which is often my endgame.

“I didn’t pack badly on purpose,” he lies. (Such lies.) “Fitting so well in the shirts here is a happy accident.”

“Right. Like me convincing you to ‘teach me’ to paint the trim in my office was a ‘happy accident.’”

“Yeah. So now we’re even.”

Because we did budget for shopping here, I’m not mad. Instead I’m charmed—who’d have guessed the old dog had a few new tricks in him?

(Sidebar: You know who didn’t anticipate me shopping here? My credit card company. Despite calling card services before leaving, and verifying all purchases via their app, every single charge I attempt is declined, to the point it becomes comical. I return from Italy having purchased only a new lipstick and a pair of sunglasses for myself, whereas Fletch comes home with a veritable trousseau because there’s no problem with his card.)

(Additional sidebar: I guess the lesson here is to pack like a jackass.)

We take a taxi across to our new favorite place. Trastevere is only a mile away from the center of Rome, but must somehow be the difference between Brooklyn and New York. It’s blocks away, yet oceans apart. The buildings are smaller and closer together and it’s much more of a hotspot. Tons of bars ring the square and all the European kids in their twenties are drinking beer in the courtyards, while the older generations are sitting in overlooking cafés with their bottles of wine. The whole place feels like a polite fraternity party,

We pass by the street vendors and they all try to catch our attention as they hawk their wares. We walk up to a display of woven leather bracelets and the vendor says to Fletch, “Hey, British guy, you like?” At the next table, he’s mistaken for French. Fletch decided to go Euro on his first day here, so he’s been buying bracelets, saying that they’ll remind him of the feeling of being relaxed and on vacation once he’s back in the States.

I can’t argue with his logic, yet this is so out of character. He is not a man who wears jewelry. He also isn’t one to roll with the punches or enjoy adapting to his surroundings, but there’s something magical about this place that’s making him loosen up.

(Sidebar: Cute as he looks in his new accessories, my only regret is that I can’t mock him by saying, “Hey, Johnny Depp, nice arm party,” having already used that line in
Twisted Sisters
.)

Another table vendor starts speaking to Fletch in Spanish, assuming he’s a Spaniard. Argh. No one’s assuming I’m from anywhere but the US of A, I assume because there are no fat women here. I can’t buy any clothes because no one sells plus-sized items, so I decide to pick up the aforementioned sunglasses. I head into a nice designer optical boutique off the square and begin to peruse the selection. I want something Fendi because I’d like to support
their efforts to repair the Trevi Fountain. Also, anything Fendi costs half as much here, so, when in Rome . . .

The owner’s helping me select the right pair. At least, I assume she’s the owner as she’s the one in all the pictures on the wall. In each shot, she’s posed with a celebrity, some of whom I recognize. Those who aren’t familiar are likely European movie stars. I’m really taken by how service-oriented shopkeepers are here, and not in a way that’s pushy. Employees everywhere really take the time to figure out what’s best for the customer, offering honest critique on what works and what doesn’t.

After we find an extra-cute pair, I’m in the middle of paying (yes, in cash because my credit card company has somehow decided they’re my parents now) when an American kid wearing cargo shorts, a fraternity shirt, and a backward baseball cap bursts in the store.

“Y’all got Ray-Bans here?”

No
buona sera
, no hello, just a blatant interruption delivered with the absolute confidence that not only does the store owner speak his language, but that she’s simply dying to stop what she’s doing to assist him.

Far more politely than the situation merits, the shop owner points him to their selection and offers to assist the moment we complete our business.

The kid says, “Yeah, but how do I know they’re
real
Ray-Bans. How do I know you’re not trying to cheat me? See, I bought some Ray-Bans before in another place and they were fake. I still wear ’em, but I don’t like being faked out. I don’t want you faking me, you feel me?”

I want to shake this kid, saying, STOP BEING A CLUELESS ASSBAG; YOU’RE MAKING OUR ENTIRE COUNTRY LOOK BAD. Though he appears to be college-aged, he’s acting like he just downed fifteen Pixy Stix before breaking
away from the rest of his class on a field trip to the Children’s Museum.

“I assure you, sir, I am not a street vendor and I only sell authentic designer sunglasses,” the owner says. Never will I be able to muster similar amounts of forbearance, but something tells me this isn’t the first assbag in her night, let alone her career.

“I don’t knoooooow,” he singsongs, crossing his arms over his Theta Chi shirt. “How can I be sure? You guys can be pretty sneaky over here. Like, oily and stuff.”

I hold up my bag, glare at the kid, and tell the shop owner, “Thank you for including this certificate of authenticity. I really appreciate your service and I’ll surely enjoy my authentic Fendi product for many years to come.”

My words fly right over the kid’s head. He pokes around at the Ray-Ban selection, smudging up a whole row of lenses as his fingers are damp from holding his beer. “Your prices are kinda high. I can get these for a lot less outside.”

The owner shoots Fletch and me a resigned look, like,
can you believe this shit
, while in Italian, I promise the owner that we aren’t all this stupid.

We step outdoors, both of us incredulous, and Fletch says, “So
that’s
why they call us Ugly Americans.”

•   •   •

“I never knew it could be like this,” Fletch moans through a mouthful of pasta. “I want to bury every other spaghetti I’ve ever had in the backyard.”

We’re sitting outside at an unassuming pasta place somewhere in the Santa Maria area of Trastevere, eating one of the best meals of our lives. My driver from the first night has been spot on with his recommendation to cross the Tiber to find restaurants. Our whole dinner, including two courses each and a bottle of wine, will run a couple euros north of what my first terrible meal did. Our pastas have been simply prepared, his with tomatoes, basil,
and pancetta, and mine with Parmesan and pepper. What takes this repast from a meal to a memory is the quality of preparation and the freshness of the ingredients—that’s a theme we’re finding over and over in Rome. Nothing is complicated or overwrought, topped with foam or served with attitude. Instead, the food truly speaks for itself.

I’ve already inhaled my first course and I’m fighting the urge to lick my plate. I’ve always heard the term
al dente
in regard to making pasta, but I’ve never sampled an actual example of it before Rome. The firmness of true al dente is way chewier than I would ever imagine serving, but it really is perfection. The next time I make spaghetti at home, I’ll have to remind myself that what seems wrong is actually right.

After the waiter brings our second course, Fletch says, “How nice is it to finally have a meal without dogs staring up at us?” He slices off a piece of his steak, fragrant with garlic, oregano, and rosemary. When the waiter carried the still-sizzling dish out, we could smell it from halfway across the patio.

The universe must have heard us because at this exact moment, I notice a rustling in the bushes next to me and a pointy face appears on the other side of the fencing. “Oh!” I exclaim. “Look at you!”

A little fox dog is panting up at us in the way that almost seems like a smile.

“Clearly I spoke too soon.” Fletch laughs.

“Well, of course he smelled your steak. There’s a meat cloud of deliciousness hovering over our table. I’m surprised hungry people aren’t lining up at the fence, too.” I turn my attention to the dog. “How cute are you?” I ask. Fox Dog bats his long lashes in response, giving me that nose-down, eyes-up look that slays me every time.

I’ve noticed that the Italians have a different relationship with their dogs than I do with mine. At home, and like many Americans,
our dogs are our babies, our sweeties, our little girl or our big man. We hug them and kiss them and love them and never quite let them grow up. Over here, no one seems to infantilize their pets; dogs are treated more like companions and pets act much more independent.

For example, Fox Dog belongs to someone at one of the tables across the alley from us. This guy’s allowed to range freely without someone like me hovering over him, trying to determine whether or not hims needs him sweater. Also, because Italians will drive on any surface large enough for a Smart car to pass, there’s the occasional vehicle coming down this alley, and still, no leash. I would be having a million panic attacks right now, but it seems like all the Romans are having is wine.

“Look at him! So fluffy! Such big eyes! So hungry!” I exclaim. None of the dogs here are chunky, either. How is that possible? I have to monitor Libby’s every bite to keep her from turning into a full-on Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

“Do not feed the strange dog,” Fletch warns me.