mercoledì, giugno 06, 2007

Generosity

“I’m starving. I thought this was a restaurant, but he did not give us a menu.” I comment to Debbie and Tammy. It is my first night in Cagli. I glance at my watch. It is about 10:30 and I’ve been traveling since 5:00 a.m.

“I don’t know how to ask for a menu.” Debbie replies, so we approach the bar and attempt communication. After a few moments of hand gesturing along with a mix of English, Spanish, and Italian phrasing—we order a couple of glasses of wine. The wine is great, but it does little to satisfy my growing appetite. I find it impossible to concentrate or contribute to the conversation between Debbie and Tammy.

“Oh my god! They have a pizza.” I blurt out probably more loudly than necessary. I openly stare at the pizza just placed on the bar. The pizza the bartenders begin to eat. My stomach screams in protest to the possibility that it might not be fed this evening and forces me to stand. I approach the female bartender and begin a repeat of speaking in a mix of Spanish and English while gesturing toward the pizza.

The woman nods and smiles and I assume that I have just placed an order for a pizza. Then the woman proceeds to get a small plate and approach her own pizza and remove a few slices.

“No. No. No….I don’t want to take your pizza!” I attempt to explain that was not asking for a piece of her pizza. However, she looks completely confused. Debbie comes over to assist. Finally, I just shake my head and say no thank you, smile and return to my table. Furious, my stomach makes a few punches against my spine. Oh well, it is going to be a hungry first night in Cagli.

Suddenly a plate with four small slices of pizza is placed on our table. I look up and the woman just smiles and quickly walks away. Speaking to her back, I mumble thank you and begin to devour the pizza. Clearly, the bartenders were sharing their dinner with me. I, unlike my stomach, felt guilty. “What if they felt obligated to give me some of their pizza?” I think. I don’t want their first impression of the new batch of American students to be that we are inconsiderate or rude. I decide to try and pay for my pizza.

Debbie and I approach the bar and the bartender gives us a tab that contains only our wine orders, so I try to ask about paying for the pizza. He shakes his head no, but I give him two extra euros. He smiles and I again bumble through some form of thank you from saving me from starvation communication.

“That was so nice of them.” I comment as we exit the bar. Debbie and Tammy agree. They leave to go to the bus stop to meet our roommate, so I slowly walk back to the apartment I’ll be calling my home for the next month. I observe all the people sitting and talking around the fountain area. There is such a sense of community. I feel a slight pang of envy. “What does it feel like to be a member of this quaint little village?” I suppose that is what I’ll be attempting to discover over the next few weeks…
--Cindy Dew

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