crump ova Italy III

11/15/06 Intima Roberts

I totaled the time spent traveling, from when I arrived in Charlotte to when I arrived at Maggie's villa. The total time traveled was a little more than 36 hours! Jesus Christ!

Maggie at the b&b

Maggie and I spent last night in a wonderful bed and breakfast down the hill from the Clemson villa. It had a clean, modern interior and our room, through a small window, overlooked a small, covered stone street with little shops. Our host was largely invisible—he appeared only once—but we woke to a nice spread of breakfast, evidence of someone working away behind closed doors.

(And before I leave the subject of the b&b, let me introduce you to Intima Roberts, one of the funniest features of the bed & breakfast. Ms. Roberts (or Mr. if you prefer) is a gentle soap, meant to complement the use of the bidet. Feeling a little saddle sore from thirty six hours, I was quite enthusiastic for Intima Robert's soft touch. As for the photos, does a product with so brilliant a name not deserve a few complimentary photos? Work with me here people.)

Maggie walking back up the steep rampo from downtown

After breakfast, Maggie and I walked through Genova's narrow streets, and climbed the long and steep brick rampo (essentially an old wide walkway) back to her villa. Her villa had a Thanksgiving dinner planned for the evening and many of Maggies best villa mates were in the kitchen working on various dishes. I iced my ankle for a while, and spent some time getting to know her group of girl friends, happy and jaded all. They had a great sense of humor. We all hit it off quite well. Soon some of the other students returned from a field trip and I got to meet them as well. I also met two Italian ladies, one the villa chef, the other the villa boss. Both were cheerful and welcoming.

The villa kitchen scene before Thanksgiving dinner

My ankle wasn't feeling totally optimal, but I went out in the late afternoon to walk around the city. I left the villa with two of Maggie's friends—one was determined to get her nose pierced—but I got side-tracked by a leather artisan's shop and they went on. This shop sat along the narrow brick rampo (I had seen it earlier). I hadn't brought a belt to Italy, plus I needed a black one, so I figured I'd look and see what he and his wife had. This turned out to be pretty fun, as there was definitely some creative communication going on. I'd try my Spanish, which offers some real overlap, he would offer a little English, and, with each question, we'd eventually understand each other. Sort of. Once, to point out what kind of leather a belt was made of, he oinked like a pig. Perfect. Then I asked what material another swath of leather was by pantomiming milking a cow. In a flash, he understood. After the dust had cleared, I had apparently ordered a black belt from cow leather with a silver buckle for pick-up tomorrow. This cost 20 Euro, which I thought was quite reasonable.

Later, after walking further down into the city center, I stopped by a department store to get a shirt for the Thanksgiving formal at the villa. I picked a shirt out, but the store clerks, apparently noting my meat-and-potatoes sized American football neck, had to measure for my collar first. Actually, I just didn't know my neck size. It turns out my neck size is rather un-American.

I walked back to the villa at dusk. Soon it was dark, and the more people I asked for directions, the more I realized I was lost. As it turns out, I had walked up the wrong hillside. This is fairly easy to do, as the city center is immediately surrounded by hills, all incredibly densely overlaid with multi-floored buildings and houses (there is nothing resembling a lawn anywhere—there just really isn't space for that). Once I traversed a maze of streets one neighborhood north, I got back on track.

The Thanksgiving dinner did justice to any notion of American prosperity. There were two giant turkeys, more than five pies, probably 100 deviled eggs, potatoes with marshmallows (this freaked to Italians out), green beans, artichoke hearts, tofurkey, gravy and so on and so forth. With a closet full of Italian wine, the giving of thanks got rollin' and then rolled right along 'til close to midnight. At certain points, it actually got quite raucous. The highlight for me was a certain dinner guest named Fabio. To destroy the image that may have popped into your mind, this particular Fabio had greasy black hair and a single, giant, long dreadlock running down his back (fortunately, I wasn't the first person to tell him that we call that a rat tail, and in this case, a big fucking rat tail). Save for that, he was handsome. No wonder he was the date of one of Maggie's discerning Clemson friends.

Fabio and I talked about a lot of things—the Sopranos, Godfather, leather shops, Bob Marley, Thanksgiving, the cruelty of aquariums and zoos, the meaning of corny humor, the tale of the boy who cried wolf, Dolce and Gabbana, Italian style, chest hair and many, many other things. Maggie was worried I was overwhelming the poor fellow, but when he shot back and asked me with some disgust why I wore an undershirt under my dress shirt while he went sans undershirt and three buttons undone, well I knew this guy was hanging on by more than a thread. Looking down for a moment, Fabio admired his dark chest hair billowing admirably from his undone shirt. Then, with a mischievous grin, he looked at me, gesturing forcefully, and said, "You MUST wear like this to show your Italian POWER!" I was convinced.

It turns out Fabio is also a climber. I put on my best game-face and told him I would love to climb with him, but that I climb at an 8b+, or 5.14a\n, level, on par with the world's best. He looked at me wide-eyed and genuinely afraid, said, "No, really!?" I confessed I was joking and he threw his napkin in my face. Poor Italian egos: all chest hair and no substance. Anyway, I'm happy to have met a climber who knows the local areas. When my ankle is better, we'll go climbing.