~ That's How Women Die ~

by

Emily Payne

I take the first scary steps from my building to the sidewalk. Okay. I did it. I’m on the sidewalk. I am in Italy, and I’m on the sidewalk. I’m really, truly here. I breathe deeply, trying to discern some difference between here and home, but it seems the same.

I peer tentatively up and down the street before setting off. There are no other pedestrians that I can see, for which I am grateful. I’ve been warned repeatedly about pickpockets and beggars, and I’m terrified I’ll be targeted as an American straightaway. I’m blonde, after all.

But there is no one about and I set off toward what looks like civilization. It’s different than most cities I’ve been to. There are no skyscrapers; most buildings are less than five stories tall. All the walls are stone, and the sidewalks are stone—real stone, not pressed concrete.

But while it’s different, it doesn’t feel sacred, or, really, all that special. I want something to let me know I’m in the right place, some sort of giant cosmic sign, the equivalent of a flashing arrow that says “You Are Here,” but it doesn’t come.

So I wander. I take a left when I reach the end of my street. It occurs to me that maybe I should have charted a course before I left the apartment, but it’s too late now. Knowing that the map is tucked safely into my purse will have to be enough for now.

Instead of a bank, I find an Italian ATM, called a bancomat. I withdraw money, only to find that the euro is only slightly kinder than the pound. The amount I receive in Euros and the amount deducted from my account in dollars is vastly different. Annoyance swarms around me like an angry hive of bees; I shouldn’t have to worry about something as mundane as money.

I try not to remember how my father told me I don’t have enough money to do this. I will be responsible. I will have to be, if only to prove him right. And to not starve for a month. And to still have enough money to bring back souvenirs for Alice and Sister.

A telephone booth sits on the corner of the street in which the bancomat is set. I take note of this. Though I dread having to do it, I know I will have to call home tonight. I’ve worried my parents enough already. I cheer myself up by promising myself I’ll give Alice a call, too. She’s good at putting things into perspective. And if that goes well, maybe I’ll call Sister.

The bancomat is on one end of a narrow road, the other end of which I cannot see. I’m not ready to wander that far yet. Instead, I turn to go back toward my apartment and find myself at a little courtyard. There is a big arch and a statue in the center of it, but I have no idea of the significance of either.

Surrounding the courtyard are little shops: a tabacchi, a pharmacy and what looks like a little restaurant. I cross the street, being careful to avoid the careening Vespas, and find myself in a pizzeria.

With trepidation, I enter. This will be my first interaction with an Italian person. I am determined to make it count. The door is already wide open, no doubt to take advantage of the sunshine and beautiful late-spring temperatures. Inside, the walls are a textured beige. The tables are made of dark wood. I am satisfied. It looks like a local joint, not like the overly commercialized Italian restaurants back home, with gaudy flags and polished fake-wood tables and pictures of the countryside and wine bottles.

A young man heads toward me. I presume he’s the host or maître d' or whatever you call them here. I throw my shoulders back and start to open my mouth, but he cuts me off.

“Table for one?” he says, his English heavily accented but sure.

“Yes,” I mumble. I didn’t even get to try saying, “Ha una tavola?” meaning, “Do you have a table?” It is one of the phrases I’d studied while waiting in the London airport, and one of the few I consistently say correctly.

The host leads me to a table by the wall. Then he hands me the menu, and I see what the real challenge will be. It’s in Italian. I move to discreetly extract the phrasebook from my purse, but a server interrupts me.

“To drink?” he asks, also in accented English.

“Acqua,” I say confidently. I am proud to at least be able to say that.

He gives a curt nod, and turns on his heel. I continue digging through my purse for the phrasebook. Some words I can figure out—basil in English is basil in Italian—but salsiccia? Pomodoro? Prosciutto? My Italian is woeful.

The server returns and places a green glass bottle on the table in front of me, along with a glass that looks more like a wine glass than a water glass.

“To eat, ma’am?”

I glance at the menu one last time, then turn to face my server. “La pizza di prosciutto e fungo.” The ham and mushroom pizza.

“Si,” he says, which I know means yes. He turns on his heel again and walks away.

The water fizzes a little when I twist the cap off the bottle. I pour a healthy amount into my glass. When I pour, it bubbles like soda, but I don’t notice. I haven’t had anything other than snacks, fast food and airplane soda in a long time. The idea of a cool glass of water and a hot pizza is nearly enough to make me swoon...

...at least until I take a gulp of what’s supposedly water. I fight my instinct to spit it out. It tastes like a cross between salt water and what you get when the syrup runs out of a soda machine.

When my waiter wanders near, I wave him over.

“Um,” I begin, looking around nervously, “L’acqua?” I don’t know how to ask, “Is this the water?” Instead, I say, “The water?” and gesture quizzically, hoping he understands.

“È il frizzante,” he replies.

“Frizzante,” I repeat slowly, not knowing what that word means. I get the general idea, yes, but I don’t know how to tell him I don’t want this stuff, I just want plain water. My phrasebook is on the table. He watches impatiently as I rifle through it. It doesn’t occur to me to just try speaking English. The phrasebook doesn’t contain the word frizzante.

“No frizzante?” I finally ask meekly. I don’t know how to ask him for regular water.

The server mutters a string of Italian, something along the lines of “Stupid American,” I’m sure, as he turns to leave again. Now he decides to stop speaking English?

I fight the urge to have a panic attack. The soda water stuff is vile. The server brings my pizza, which looks and smells delicious, but I am afraid to eat, knowing it will only make me thirsty. I stare at it sadly for a few minutes, looking at the browned bits of ham and the marinated mushrooms, sprinkled with only a little bit of cheese and sauce. The crust is thin, and it looks utterly unlike any ham and mushroom pizza I’ve ever eaten in America. It looks crisp and fresh and delicious.

And lest I dehydrate, I can’t eat it. Where do you get water around here? I’m afraid to drink water out of my apartment’s tap. Adam’s voice echoes in my head, reminding me that I should have taken Italian classes. I can see my father’s smug smile. He will simultaneously be self-satisfied and disappointed I’ve wasted money on food I can’t eat. I want to be brave and smart, but I am too stressed. I am paralyzed by my own incompetence, so I just sit.

I am out of ideas of what to do and nearly ready to cry when the server finally returns to the table. He places another green bottle down in front of me, along with another glass. He takes the others.

“Acqua naturale,” he says slowly and exaggeratedly, gesturing to the label with my used wine glass. Natural water.

“Grazie,” I say, pronouncing it “Grat-zee.” This means “thank you.”

“Grat-zee-ay,” he corrects with a lilt.

“Grat-zee-ay,” I repeat.

“Buono,” he says at last. That, I know, means “Good.”

I finally let myself dig into my first Italian meal.