Verona is such a gorgeous city; it's hard to imagine anyone finding reason to quarrel here. Well, unless a couple shoved in front of a hungry American traveler at a busy restaurant and they got seated, not her. That actually happened. Lunch, especially lunch in Italy, should be a time of comfort, a cease-fire situation, but no, today lunch was a battlefield and the pushy couple triumphed. That's probably how the feud between the Montagues and the Capulets got started. The Capulets cut in line at a restaurant and the Montagues said, "Oh, hell no."
Okay, I didn't actually fight the couple for getting between me and my gnocchi, although I did think about it. I actually just left the restaurant, passing the tourist frenzy under Juliet's balcony and went for a quiet walk by myself along the water, away from all the commotion. Tourism is at its peak right now. Restaurants were packed and gelato shops had lines snaking around the block. When I finally found a place where I could sit down and order something to eat, almost everything was sold out. I ate a sub-par panini and thought a day trip to Bologna, a town renowned for its food, might be in order. I can't imagine having my appetite disappointed in Bologna.
Anyway, I know from watching romantic comedies that it's tradition for women to come to Verona and write letters to Juliet. I don't usually ask 13-year-old girls for advice about my love life, or any aspect of my life for that matter. But if I did write a letter, it might go something like this:
Dear Juliet,
I packed light on this trip and didn't bring my laptop. That means I'm currently writing this blog entry on my phone. It's so annoying! How do teenagers use just their thumbs to type? And don't even get me started on autocorrect! I mean, really! You're 13, so maybe you are privy to the thinking of today's teenagers, even though you died young because of some miscommunication and your body has been entombed for hundreds of years. Well, today there was a slight miscommunication and it shook my confidence a little. Confidence is key because I'm going to La Scala tomorrow night and if I'm not confident, I won't enjoy myself as much. So this evening I was on the train heading back to Milan. I asked some unresponsive Europeans if I could sit next to them and when they said nothing, I said, "I'll take that as a yes!" It suddenly occurred to me that they may not have responded because I was a first class interloper. Before I could move to the cheap seats, where I should have been sitting, a conductor came and asked to see my ticket. He made me pay the difference and when he disappeared down the aisle, my head filled with worry. I thought, "I must look poor. That's how he knew I'm not first class. What if my dress isn't suitable for the opera? What if I look like some American slob who stuffed a semi-fancy dress in her carry on luggage?"
Pretty silly, right? I mean, he obviously was just checking the seats that were supposed to be empty. Sometimes my inner monologues sound like the hysterical ramblings of a 13-year-old girl. No offense. Okay, writing on my phone is driving me crazy. I will write more once I have my laptop. I'm pretty sure your advice will be to stop being so class-conscious and to put on my magical confidence cloak before I go to the opera. I will do that.
Sincerely,
Meriwether
Okay, I didn't actually fight the couple for getting between me and my gnocchi, although I did think about it. I actually just left the restaurant, passing the tourist frenzy under Juliet's balcony and went for a quiet walk by myself along the water, away from all the commotion. Tourism is at its peak right now. Restaurants were packed and gelato shops had lines snaking around the block. When I finally found a place where I could sit down and order something to eat, almost everything was sold out. I ate a sub-par panini and thought a day trip to Bologna, a town renowned for its food, might be in order. I can't imagine having my appetite disappointed in Bologna.
Anyway, I know from watching romantic comedies that it's tradition for women to come to Verona and write letters to Juliet. I don't usually ask 13-year-old girls for advice about my love life, or any aspect of my life for that matter. But if I did write a letter, it might go something like this:
Dear Juliet,
I packed light on this trip and didn't bring my laptop. That means I'm currently writing this blog entry on my phone. It's so annoying! How do teenagers use just their thumbs to type? And don't even get me started on autocorrect! I mean, really! You're 13, so maybe you are privy to the thinking of today's teenagers, even though you died young because of some miscommunication and your body has been entombed for hundreds of years. Well, today there was a slight miscommunication and it shook my confidence a little. Confidence is key because I'm going to La Scala tomorrow night and if I'm not confident, I won't enjoy myself as much. So this evening I was on the train heading back to Milan. I asked some unresponsive Europeans if I could sit next to them and when they said nothing, I said, "I'll take that as a yes!" It suddenly occurred to me that they may not have responded because I was a first class interloper. Before I could move to the cheap seats, where I should have been sitting, a conductor came and asked to see my ticket. He made me pay the difference and when he disappeared down the aisle, my head filled with worry. I thought, "I must look poor. That's how he knew I'm not first class. What if my dress isn't suitable for the opera? What if I look like some American slob who stuffed a semi-fancy dress in her carry on luggage?"
Pretty silly, right? I mean, he obviously was just checking the seats that were supposed to be empty. Sometimes my inner monologues sound like the hysterical ramblings of a 13-year-old girl. No offense. Okay, writing on my phone is driving me crazy. I will write more once I have my laptop. I'm pretty sure your advice will be to stop being so class-conscious and to put on my magical confidence cloak before I go to the opera. I will do that.
Sincerely,
Meriwether
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