Little Italy

We accidentally ran into Little Italy last night.  If it could, it would probably ask us politely to not do that again.

It had been a beautiful day, and my first day with 10 hours to myself. I slept, I cleaned, I read, I wrote, and then Iembraced the beautiful day that was created outside my door. I wandered down alleys I had never seen before, trying desperately to not seem like the still-tourist I was, but my eyes drifting up up! to see the grandeur of the buildings I was walking beside probably gave me away, and will give me away for some time. I bought a few used books (though my dad would be ashamed at the price I paid for them.  I was desperate for literature!). I sat on a bench in a busy square, watching people get onto and descend from crowded trams.  All colors and ages pack together for brief moments, their lives drawn together to the metal tracks before dispersing to their own paths. Over and over and over again, trams grab a slice of community.  Jeremy was commenting on how many people meet up on the tram. Kiss Kiss! Then talk for 15-20 seconds, then Kiss Kiss! again and off to the next meeting.

I wandered into the cavernous St. Andre’s Cathedral.  I should have read more about it.  I think it was built in the 2^nd half of the 12^th century.  Its old, anyways.  They are working on restoring it, inside and out.  “Please be quiet and respectful, for this is a house of prayer” the signs warn us, while workers toss long metal pipes to the floor and scrape them a

cross the stone ground. I have seen many cathedrals across Europe.  To my very uneducated eye (read again the beginning of th

is paragraph, if you don’t believe me), this one looks similar to dozens of others I have wondered through.  I eavesdropped, though, to a petite Indian lady explaining some of the history of the grand ancient paintings to two British dudes. Apparently I’ve a lot to learn.

The outside is rain-worn yet still incredibly intricate.  ‘Whoah, are those really gargoyles??’ Jeremy asked incredulously, the first time we walked by.  These evil-warders of a drain spout have lost most of their features to time, but you can still see the teeth, gaping jaws, and grasping claws.  The restoration (cleaning) on the exterior is only partly finished, half of the stone gleaming cream and like-ne

w, the other half unshaven and gritty.  Though not catholic, we are planning on sharing Mass there sometime.

After more wanderings and people watching I found an outdoor seat of a breezy corner café.  It had been warm that day, but in the shade of the umbrellas and wrapped up in the curved wicker chair I felt perfectly at ease.  I broke out the pen I had awkwardly bought off an old man at a miniscule Tabac shop, fished out some post cards, and went to work. I ordered my $5.00 tiny machine-made Cappuccino.  A rip-off.  But perfect for the setting, and it bought me my seat for as long asI needed.  It took me forever to write any of the postcards.  My ears kept on wandering over to other table’s conversations, which isn’t difficult, considering how close you can potentially sit to a perfect stranger.  The chairs and tables and umbrellas and people are packed together to make enough room for more chairs and tables and umbrellas.

 I don’t know how the server gracefully winds his way through the collection.

As I had mentioned earlier, personal space doesn’t translate the same in Europe.  In the US, even in crowded cities, we are much more used to our own bit of privacy, no matter where we are.  We have giant booths at restaurants, individual cars, tall-backed seats in movie theaters, fences around houses, and general privacy rules of thumb, such as filling up every bus row with one person before you may feel free to begin to double-stack.  Here privacy is given while sitting at each other’s elbows.  

When Jeremy got home from school we decided to enjoy the purple evening air and take a gentle walk after a dinner.  Our idea was to find a little café, much like the one I had lingered at earlier in the afternoon, and watch the world pass us by. Evenings are generally a busy time here, but this night was especially peopled because of the perfect weather. All of the cafés and restaurants spilled out onto the wobbley cobblestone streets.  Again, an extraordinary amount of rows of chairs and tables smashed up against each other alongside each pedestrian street that we traveled through.

We wandered and wandered and meandered and chatted and marveled, with no goal in mind besides finding two open seats sometime during the evening.  We came upon one romantic and brightly lit narrow street, with an accordion player wandering among the  checked tablecloths. We sat down at a table that was American friendly (no one directly next to us in the other table-for-two) to sit back and enjoy the scene.  A young wirey waiter with bright white teeth and slicked black hair ran out of the indoor section and asked us quickly, and gravely, to move to a table that was next to two other girls, that way, if a table for 4 comes, “we aren’t out of luck.”  Not a problem, though we still felt slightly chastised and ridiculuous for even considering our original option.  It was easier to be moved to a squishy table, than to choose it on our own.

We decided to splurge and order dessert too: a caramel crème brulee (delightful!) and a pear tart with chocolate sauce.  We weren’t quite hungry yet so we asked for our drinks first; dessert a little later.  It would suit our ‘lingering’ attitude. He took a double-take. “Wait, you are not ordering dinner?” the quick young waiter asked me incredulously, obviously displeased with our choice. Uh-oh.  More scolding. He took on his stern manner once more. “Well you see, I can’t actually serve you your food later, if you are planning on getting drinks.  It is against the rules of the restaurant and the country. You must have food now otherwise all of us will get in trouble because we are NOT a café or a bar and...” and on and on and on.  Very very serious stuff we were planning on doing, apparently.  I was ready to do whatever he needed us to do, but I can imagine that his little speech was out of frustration for our tiny orders as well as our “against the grain” actions we were trying out on him.  We just wanted a quiet evening at a little café.  “Well then” I said pragmatically, “You can just serve us our dessert at the very same time.”  It made sense to me. Again, he seemed disappointed that the answer to our problem wasn’t a dinner order.   I was eager to get our dessert so he would leave us alone.

During our romantic and now quiet dessert we looked around a little more at our surroundings, now that a well-meaning waiter wasn’t reprimanding our every decision. Checked tablecloths, Accordion player singing cheesy Italian songs, waiters at other restaurants down the way dressed up like Luigi from Mario Bros. videogame, candles, pasta, wine, and espresso. Aha!  It dawned on me…we were in Little Italy!  All of the people around us were well-dressed and out for a long multi-course meal on the candlelit Italian town. We began to feel a little sheepish, underdressed, and under-ordered. But, no “party of four” was coming to claim our previously held seats, and we figured they appreciated some business (even ignorant Americans), over none.

We still managed to linger and people-watch.  We gave some of the little change we had to the new guitar player who was happy to play La Bamba and Gypsy Kings over and over. We spoke about our experiences thus far, Jeremy’s thoughts on school and business in France, and giggle a little at our waiter’s over-the-top attitude and our silly misunderstanding.  At least I had asked him from the beginning if he took Visa so that we wouldn’t be caught without a way to pay!  We were already expecting to give the poor guy a tip, because it was a nice restaurant, after all (uh hum..…NOT a café or a bar).

When we had enough of French LaBamba we asked the jittery waiter for our check and proceed to pay with our card.  At least we thought it ended pleasantly.  We looked for the tip line. Nothing.  Rien.  Nada. We asked him about it.  He looked at us, disappointed. “You needed to tell me beforehand.”  And walked off dejectedly.  We managed to scrounge up about 20 Eurocents.

Voila the way to endear our countrymen to the French. 

Pic 1: Cute little street 

Pic 2: St. Andre's Cathedral

Pic 3: St. Andre's Gargoyles