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.