Two Cappuccinos
“Due cappuccini. Mille grazie.” I follow behind with her helmet tucked underarm as Alessia balances our coffees to a table overlooking the Tiber. In the distance, a group of middle-aged Americans are getting their photo in front of Castel Sant’Angelo. It’s Monday after Easter - Pasquetta as they call it - a public holiday for them but another full day of sightseeing for me.
“It’s a good habit.” I’ve put her on my insane schedule and she lets me know it. “Getting up early. I need to study,” She tells me, absentmindedly stirring the foam before she sips. Italians have such a peculiar way of doing things.
We met six months prior in the remote mountains of northern Vietnam. The Ha Giang loop draws riders of every stripe. Young Israelis celebrating the end of their national service, German students on sabbatical, a British couple or two, and the occasional clueless American. Present.
During the day, you navigate mountain roads in either blistering heat or torrential rain. My prior motorcycle experience consisted of three hours in a Harley Davidson parking lot. By the time the third old lady on a scooter passes me, pride dictates falling off the mountain would be preferable to being overtaken by a fourth.
At night, you pray there’s room at the guest house in whichever town you stumble across. Any respite from the hours of engine drone and unending rice terraces. Dinner is served family style. Everyone gets a rice bowl and an unlimited supply of happy water - fermented corn wine. Strong fermented corn wine. Stories from the road are exchanged.
The Israelis inevitably fall back into indecipherable Hebrew. The German leaves for an early bedtime. The British couple go off to do what couples do. And I’m left sitting across a lady with a cigarette. Italians have such a peculiar way of doing things.
Alessia’s a medical student. My American brain tried to categorize her. Either she was so brilliant she could take time off, or so terrible they let her. Her riding stories make mine sound trivial. She’s been passing those old ladies on dodgy scooters. We talk late into the night. Kindred spirits find each other. Even in rural Vietnam.
Back to Rome. “Did you know they used to fill this place with water and have ship battles?” I look around Piazza Navona. “How?” She shrugs. “It’s something they told us in school.” An indictment of the Italian public school system. We walk down more cobblestone streets. “I would like to road trip in America one day, but my boyfriend is in the military and he’s not adventurous. He doesn’t care to go anywhere.”
“You should definitely do it while you’re still young. Before children.” The words fly out of my mouth. I was a new uncle. I would not meet my niece for another year. Polite convention be damned. “I cannot imagine wanting to bring children into this failing world,” she says softly. I’ve hit a nerve for both of us.
“You want to shape the world for the better. This is one way to do it.” I’m playing conversational jazz and praying the spirit backs me up. “None of my friends want to have children. But I’m not sure.” A moment of tension. “I can see you’ve given it much thought. Not enough people do that.” My attempt at diplomacy.
We pass white marble. I sense another opening. “Is it true that Italians no longer go?” I prod. “The last time I went was for a cousin’s communion. Maybe ten years ago.” We stop to look at the faded angels and unrecognizable saints. “I like the smaller ones. Fewer tourists.” She nodded like that made sense.
“You know what that stands for?” She gestures to a manhole cover with the inscription S.P.Q.R. It’s the first time I’ve noticed the letters. “Sono pazzi questi Romani. All these Romans are crazy.” I’m looking at a future doctor.
We arrive at the steps of the Pantheon. “Tell me when you make it to America.” I hand her the helmet. “Hopefully one day. There’s so much to plan.” I open for a hug. Alessia leans in. The sound of a kiss by my ear. Italians have such a peculiar way of doing things.