Every travel guide written suggests that, in Italy, you can save money by drinking your coffee standing at the bar, rather than seated at a table. FAHGETABOUTIT! It may be the case that you could save money, but it can't be done. I don't know whether we look different or smell somehow alien, but Italians know Americans on sight. It makes no difference what you say. They know you're American even before you speak. When you approach the bar, the regular patrons clear out like death itself had entered; and once you place your order, you're escorted to a more expensive table. You are not going to stand at the freakin' bar for cheap. Period.
And then there's the coffee itself: Coffee is to Italian coffee as silly putty is to C-4 explosive. When I returned from the Italian trip, I went to see my doctor and noted that my OCD symptoms had been really strong and particularly annoying while I was traveling in Italy.
"Did you drink the coffee?" he asked. When I nodded, he just smirked and shook his head.
Unless you're accustomed to downing triple shots at Starbucks, four times a day, seven days a week, you are not prepared to drink much coffee in Italy. One shot of espresso in the morning will take you to sunset and beyond.
I made dinner one night in our apartment. It was a particularly pleasant meal, one I thought really needed to be capped off with a nice, warm cup of cappuccino. Patti wisely declined. As a result, she slept through the night while I wrote the libretto for an opera, scored it, and choreographed it, without ever blinking once. It was as though I had done two lines of coke with a meth chaser. Then, fool that I am, a few nights later, after an outstanding meal at a local restaurant, I asked the waiter if I could get a decaf cappuccino -- very careful to be sure that he understood exactly what I meant -- and he assured me over and over again that they had decaf and would make my cappuccino with decaf. That night, I slept for one hour, then designed all the costumes and make-up for the aforesaid ballet/opera and outlined the screenplay, the novel and the themed Disneyland ride. Apparently trying to decaffeinate Italian coffee is like trying to neuter a six-balled alligator with a nail clipper.
Then there's the issue of time. We Americans are obsessed with time. In our home we have at least twelve clocks. There's a clock in the microwave, a clock in the stove, a clock in each computer, television, cell phone and car, and an alarm clock near each bed. It's difficult to buy anything that doesn't have a clock in it.
When we travel, Patti insists that, I wear a wrist watch. I hate it. I don't wear jewelery, except an earring occasionally and a fish hook necklace I got in Hawaii. I never wear anything on my hands and hate the feeling of something around my wrist. But apparently, there was some trip where she was driven "nearly to madness" by my "constant" requests for a time check. While I have no doubt that I can be annoying in a whole variety of ways, I'm sure it was not so annoying that I had to be shackled into a mini time machine for the entirety of every succeeding trip. Besides, watches stop functioning within days after I put them on my arm. (Which I regard as another one of those little miracles of Jesus.)
Speaking of time, did you ever notice that, when people reach a certain age, they seem to need to know the time every second of the day? And old people don't just have a lot of clocks, they have thermometers, and barometers as well and they actually look at them. My ninety-five-year-old father-in-law could tell you the time, interior and exterior temperature, and relative humidity any time you wanted to know, although I never actually wanted to know. I have fourteen clocks if I need to know the time; the temperature and humidity have no influence on any activity I do and I don't care about either of them. I know when it's hot and damp. I can sense when it's cold or dry. The number is irrelevant.
Time and its relationship to aging is interesting. Time really does seem to pass more quickly with each year. I suspect that it has to do with the concept of a day relative to your entire existence. For a one-year-old, a day is just 1/365th of its life. For a ninety-year-old, it is just 1/32,872nd ( I actually calculated this.) of an entire life. Maybe old people can really feel the time slipping away and try to slow it down by always knowing where the clock is at. I still don't understand the temperature thing.
Italians feel differently about time. No one in Italy seems to hurry to get anywhere or to do anything. The trains seem to run on time -- when they run -- though work slow-downs and general strikes can prevent them from running at all. But other things operate a little loosey-goosey.
One morning, I headed for the Internet cafè I had been frequenting in Rome. I got there at 9:05, only to find that the posted 9:00 opening time was just some kind of estimate. So, I decided to walk around until the Internet cafè actually opened. It's difficult to get exercise on vacation and it seemed like a good and simple way to get a little minor aerobic workout. Long story short, by the time the Internet cafè opened -- almost two hours later -- I had had a more serious work-out than I ever intended and had worked myself up into a real German lather over their failure to open on time. When I finally got inside, I was fuming. I strode up to the counter, intending to abuse someone over their failure of punctuality; but somehow between the door and the desk, Rome worked its magic on me, I became Italian and, by the time I opened my mouth, I just didn't give a shit.
I love this.
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