Story 18: Elvio

You'll all be happy to know that I did the classic cliche, American-girl-abroad thing and found myself an Italian lover. His name is Elvio. He speaks little English to my count-up-to-five Italian. And, when we can't understand each other, he just calls me, "Bella." He even sings to me in Italian. He's 90-years-old, but I can tell he was quite the lady killer back in his day. Meeting Elvio solidified my own fable that I died young in the 70s in a previous life, with the minor modification that I died young in the 70s with Elvio as my lover in Italy. Now, fate scooped me up in her hands, shook me like a pair of dice, and rolled me across Venetian canals to reunite us at Paradiso Perduto. Even if it is just for a three-hour dinner.





The restaurant host is baffled when I asked for a table for one. I don't blame him. Italy, after all, is as people-oriented as a European country can get. The host ushered me past tables spilling with people and wine and dancing and laughter to get to Elvio's table. The restaurant is giving off the look-at-my-big-Italian-family, we're-all-drunk-on-a-Sunday, who-can-talk-with-their-hands-the-most, we're-having-the-best-time-ever vibe. I'm happy I'm not alone; I'm happy to sit at Elvio's table.





"Buono sera," I awkwardly said as I sat down next to Elvio and his... Actually, I'm not sure who the woman was. She could've been his daughter or niece or live-in nurse. All I managed to comprehend is that she was Romanian, and the rest was, well, lost in translation.
He spoke Italian back. Lots of Italian back.
"Io non parlo Italiano," I made an apologetic face. "Americano?"
Elvio welcomed this news. He gestured and invited our dining neighbors to tell them about the Brownish American girl sitting at his table before the waiter returns with my wine. He's asking for translations to see exactly where I'm from, how old I am, why I'm in Venice, and how come I wanted to eat alone. When the information started to be too much for him, he just started singing instead. I wasn't sure how to react to this, so I laughing to his singing. Then, my laughing turned to swaying. Eventually, my swaying turned to mimicking his dinner companion's in-place, table dancing with my fingers snapping like Carmen Miranda. Without the giant hat, of course.















I can't believe how much fun I'm having with Elvio. It's fun to be treated like a pseudo-celebrity. So much fun, in fact, that I almost forget to snap pictures of my delicious first course. I pull it together--just like anyone would pull it together--once the table-side pasta comes my way. Just like how Mexican restaurants make guacamole by your table in New York City, Paradiso Perduto makes pasts by your table. It was one of the best dining choices I ever made. I watched my waitress scoop and scoop pasta into a boiling pot. It cooked just a minute before she dropped it into a vat of cheese and cream and--oh, yes--about a stick of butter.




















Did I just have dinner with a 90-year-old man? How much butter was really in all that pasta? Maybe I shouldn't leave Venice ever? Why did I deserve such a wonderfully memorable meal? It all leaves with with this unexplained energy. I scoop up every bit of this energy--an energy that just makes me want to laugh and cry and ache and jump. All at the same time.

Story 17: Mangia? No.

So, I managed to miss dinner, but of course that meant I got to make friends. Oh, and substitute my dinner calories for approximately 1 liter of Chianti, three beers, two glasses of Prosecco and the gloomy feeling of an inevitable next-morning hangover. Oh, and I made some Italian friends to join my lush life.






(I stopped for a photo-op on my way to dinner. I didn't go in.)





(a little piece of home in Venice.)






(yes, that's a Budweiser in honor of the American girl. Salute!)

Story 16: Pesce! Pronto!

I can't remember the last time I traveled this long for a meal. I had already scheduled some getting-lost-in-Venice time, but around noon, I started getting antsy. It was almost time to eat. Plus Google maps told me it would take about 15 minutes to get to Pronto Pesce, factor in some more getting lost time and deciding what to eat. That meant I could get a meal in front of me
by 1:00.

I should've known better.

By about 2:00 p.m., I've exhausted all my resources. I searched for free wifi to get directions, which only got me more lost. I asked locals, showing them the map, and no one has even heard of this place. Years of the tin syllables of Arabic and English saw through the beautiful Italian language, "Dov'e Pronto Pesce?" Nothing. I asked tourists who seemed like they're somewhat in-the-know, but I only received blank stares. I even considered paying a shop owner to use his phone, but I don't even know where I am. The hunger is wearing me delirious to the point I'm considering eating at a place with a tourist menu. But I wanted the freshest seafood right away, and Venice has a reputation for over-priced, low-quality food, and the thought of a "tourist menu" just made my bones ache.

I have to get to Pronto Pesce. I needed to get to Pronto Pesce. And, eventually I do. I'm not even sure how I got there. I made a right then made a left from the fruit market by the Rialto bridge. Or was it a left then a right? Whatever. I was there.







Pronto Pesce is in front of the fish market by the Rialto bridge. It has no name on the front, but you can spot it by the overflow of Venetians outside the door, eating, drinking wine, using their hands. I was on overload when I walked in. I wanted to eat everything. So, I ate everything. I had no idea if I was ever going to make it back.

"It's impossible to find you," I claimed to the shop owner.
"That's because we don't want to work too much," he laughed back then told me I must try the mixed seafood plate. I didn't put up much of a fight.



I managed to find an empty seat behind a friendly Italian family, and devoured everything in about 10 minutes. Then, I went back for another round....






Besides the fact that this and two glasses of wine all cost me about 25 euro, I have to say my favorite part was the glaze of butter I could taste in every bite.



(Navigating through Venice, poorly.)

Story 15: Vienna in Pictures

Love and ice cream in Vienna




















Naschmarkt in Vienna...

Story 14: Dear Vienna

A hangover and a picnic in the park...








I paid only 1 euro for that falafel sandwich after I spoke Arabic with the guy at the Naschmarkt. It was the best euro I ever spent.








Of course, the money I saved on the falafel sandwich, I spent on dessert... Austrian creamy buffalo cheese with figs! yumm.




Then, a nap!

Story 13: My First Espresso

A few people tell me that the best cake in Vienna is the Sacher Torte. So, when I peel my hungover self out of bed, I plug in the Fiest album on my iPod and make the 20-minute walk to eat the Sacher Torte.

It's about 70 degrees in Vienna, but I still manage to steal a seat outside. I'm sad to admit that this is the very first non-americano espresso I've ever had. What can I say? I like a little milk in my coffee. But, I'm told this cake is jammy and rich and incredibly sweet, so I figured this is a good opportunity to start. I ordered the espresso.

Story 12: Dinner and a Show

We met Eduardo on Samantha's last night in Europe. We had been in four places in one week, and honestly, this left us weathered and with a few battle wounds. We said we'd inhale whatever little bit of Vienna we could in her last 24 hours--window shopping, people-watching, and of course--eating. Sam planned dinner. She read me some description that described Restaurant Bauer, where we'd have dinner, as "dimly lit" and "romantic" and "hidden treasure." I was sold.

Just as we're getting ready for our pre-dinner cocktails, Eduardo asked me, "Where are you from?" I responded with, "New York," which doesn't yield a reaction. "Where are you from?" I asked back.

"Eet-alee," Once I decipher his over-enunciated word, I squeal. Italy!

Eduardo is a hyper-exaggerated version of myself on about three months worth of steroids in the middle of some wonderful party. He is exhausting and opinionated and will interrupt his own sentences to tell you about the best thing he ever ate in some fantastically far country while he was washing dishes in order to afford all his traveling. Not only that, he has this theory. It's about italian food. He says, "if you hold the fat from the pig between your fingers, it melts. If you hold the fat from a cow, it doesn't melt. This is why you only see skinny people when you walk around Italy. It's just my theory, don't know if it's true."

He tells me he's from Bologna, which makes my eyes grow wide. I tell him I'm going to eat my way through Italy, which makes him confused. Although, he somewhat understands because he claims all the food in the United States is shit. "In America, I suffer. The food makes me suffer. There is absolutely no good food in America," he finishes this sentence, like the one before it and the one before that, with, "Bastardo!" He warns me about gaining 3kg (or about 10 pounds). But then, immediately, he insists I stop in Bologna, and continues to draw out this elaborate meal at his favorite restaurant.

I haven't even agreed to stopping in Bologna, but he's already saying, "You go and get the house antipasti for one. Usually it's for two people, but they will make it for one. Then you must order the tortellini with the prosciutto. This tortellini, it's the best in the world. They stuff the tortellini with prosciutto and roll it around their fingers to give it the tortellini shape. Then the put it in the brotto. Oh, this brotto. They take the chickens with the vegetables and cook it forever with zee spiciness to make the brotto," He actually makes kissing sounds with his hands. "After this, I will tell you where to eat the gelato," I'm dodging his hand gestures, which look like he's opening and closing invisible drawers or whisking eggs or simply being very stereotypical Italian. "You must try three different flavors, but not this pistachio or this chocolate. That's boring. You try the due torri, bologna ride, and the lord of the rings." This future meal is supposed to end with ambascciatore and espresso. He hesitates, "It's just regular but you will think it's amazing because you are suffering from the American food."

I wrote all his suggestions down, frantic. Of course I'm going. I was always going.

Eduardo came to dinner with us, and the entire time, I couldn't help but feel like this is an appropriate preview for the time I will spend in Italy. "Zee problem is that we are food-focused. The main comment is about the food and the wine. We don't want to work. We want to eat the food and drink the wine. We are passionate and that is why Italy is in a crisis," He is so extravagant, so elaborate, so over-the-top. It's fun. He stops between bites to tell us, "We just love women in Italy. Everything we do is for women. We buy the house, because women want the house. It's too expensive to buy a house in Italy! And, after the house, comes the babies. I can't afford a house and a baby. A Ferrari is cheaper than a house and a baby. So, we all drive Ferraris and we don't reproduce. Italy is in a crisis. Bastardo!"

The rest of the night continues like this. We cling our last glasses of wine, and Eduardo tells us, "you do this when you salute, so you can activate all the five senses while drinking wine." I don't want this commentary to end, because when it does, Samantha leaves me.

Story 11: Chocolate and Pizza

Budapest in pictures...




























(First salad of the trip!!)