Dinner in Cortona

After a shower, nap and reading time, I head down the hill toward the center of town for my one task of the day: dinner. I’m going with a RS recommendation (are you sick of reading that sentence yet?) that appears to be close by. I find it (and it is) and am seated in a large room with only three other parties. The first is a group of four that, the best I can tell are a dad, step-mom, daughter, and daughter’s friend. It’s clear they’re new to Italy because they don’t know how to order or any basic phrases other than an ill-pronounced “grazie.”

Watching them for a while, I’m embarrassed to be an American – as they so clearly are. Something about their demeanor exudes an oblivious kind of confidence. But when I say confidence, I don’t mean in a positive, believe-in-yourself kind of way. It’s more like a whiff of smug bravado, only they’re unaware that they stink. I suppose it’s really more likely that I am identifying their lack of humility or gratefulness at being allowed access to another culture, but I don’t like it. WE’RE GUESTS HERE! Why don’t we act like it? Instead of seeing Americans appreciate and admire the differences in our cultures (and embracing something new for a change), I feel like I see them expecting their hosts to acclimate to their needs and wants. It makes me cringe. Readers, if you travel – do me this one favor and make an effort to learn about the place you are going before you visit there. You don’t have to apply for citizenship or anything, but be respectful; learn at least a cursory amount about their culture/language/country. It’s the least you can do (in my opinion). But I’ll get off my pedestal now. :)

The second couple is too far away (and behind the noisy Americans) for me to make any real observations. The last couple is seated just to my left and they too are Americans, but I can tell they’ve done their homework. They order more than just the primi piatti (pasta) and seem to understand the subtleties of Italian dining. I amuse myself by watching the ballet of waiters as they flutter from table to table. I love the familiar, inter-changeability of it all.

As I’m having a lovely sit after my pasta (but before my dessert) I look over to my left and begin chatting with the couple there. Pam and Larry are from Texas and spending Pam’s 50th birthday in Italy. They’ve just arrived in Cortona a few days prior. Next up, perhaps Florence – but they’re taking their time. I can appreciate that.

Soon I begin sharing about my trip and they are wide-eyed and eager for details. They are proud of me, excited for me, and wish they had the time to spend as I do. Pam remarks that my trip is like The Alchemist, by Paulo Coehlo. I’m struck by this comment because she’s the second person to say this to me during my trip (the other was Barbara in Florence – the ferocious sleeper who turned out to be a writer). It’s not so much about the destination as it is about the journey. Pam bestows the compliment on me that I am more than just a vacationer; I am a traveler.

We chat through the rest of our meal and our respective desserts (about Rick Steves, accents, Florence, travel) and before I know it, it’s time to go. I catch the waiter’s eye for the bill and he says, “These nice people have paid for you.” My mouth drops open in shock and I look over at Pam and Larry and tell them that I’m genuinely touched. Again they repeat their encouragement until my cup runneth over. (What a contrast to the other table, eh?) Before they leave I give them each a hug and then sit for a moment to contemplate just how blessed I am. It’s moments like this when I KNOW this trip was the right thing for me and that my next step will be clear to me when the time is right. After all, if He provides for the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, how much more will He provide for me, his daughter.