OK, this is a bit of a slacker post...I'm going to add my piece for Creative Writing this week, because it was inspired by a party I went to with my Uncle Bob this past weekend when I visited him in Rome. I just want to emphasize: THIS IS CREATIVE WRITING, NOT AN EXACT ACCOUNT OF ANYTHING. I actually had a
great time at this party, and got to meet a great girl who's doing an internship in the art-restoration wing of the Vatican, and who's going to visit me at some point in Siena! It was also just really fun seeing Bob doing what he does in Rome--I've only ever gotten to see him doing the side of his job which takes place during large family get-togethers, and isn't nearly as glamorous!
Anyways, tomorrow I head off for Fall Break! I have to give a 5-minute oral presentation in Italian class on a subject of my own choosing (which will be the TV show "Glee!"), and then I'm free! I'm having a good-bye lunch with my host fam, then catching a bus to Florence to spend the night with Erikka, and then flying out to London for the weekend! Much Indian food will be consumed, and then I will be in Dublin and Belfast for the remainder.
Tonight's Gonna Be A Long, Long Night The doorbell sounded over the murmur of voices, and several more people trickled from the hall into the apartment foyer. It was a spacious apartment, reminiscent of a recently-converted hotel room: gold-framed watercolor landscapes broke the monotony of bland walls, and a wooden table with a vase of fake flowers sat in the entrance. The hostess fluttered between kitchen, door, and dining room, monitoring the food and the people.
The new arrivals shrugged off their coats and scanned the scene, deciding how to insert themselves. They were a mismatched group: a tall, worn-looking man with graying curls and thick glasses (who several of the guests approached with recognition), a mousy-haired woman who introduced herself with great seriousness and urgency in a heavy Polish accent, and a girl apologetically wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and an uncertain expression.
The partygoers were of a distinctly Catholic set; there were five priests in collars as well as journalists and writers brought to Rome by the tantalizing buzz of the Vatican hive. The t-shirt girl had heard the phrase ‘all roads lead to Rome,’ and saw that within her uncle’s sphere, all roads lead to the Vatican. Standing tangent to a circle immersed in theological debate, the girl assumed a benignly interested look. After twenty minutes of polite listening (and no offer of a drink), her expression collapsed from interest to boredom, and then dissolved into discomfort. She slipped away down a side hall lined with shelves of books which offered a desperately-needed distraction.
Sadly, her solace did not last.
“Excuse me- are you doing all right? Can I offer you an appertivo?” inquired the fluttering hostess, brandishing a tray of what looks like pasty grey brain atop star-shaped French fries.
The girl stepped back quickly from the shelves she had been making a show of perusing, exclaiming “Oh, thanks- um, can I ask what this is?”
“It’s brain on stars! Haha! Mother and I made them!” the hostess twinkled. She was in fact the same age as the girl, but wearing heels and popping out of a low-cut cocktail dress, and relishing the part of the benevolent hostess.
“Oh wow,” the girl quavered before taking the plunge, “Sure I’ll try one, thanks…” She slid a star off the tray and tried to balance it with her plastic cup of water. “I’m just, you know, looking at the books here…are they, I mean, do you…”she fumbled the brain-star, almost dunking it in her cup, as she struggled to figure out who exactly she was talking to. As far as she can tell there were at least three other women playing the hostess at this party. “Do you live here?” she finally blurted out, trying to maintain her cool.
“Yes, I do. I am Italian. Italian-American, actually. Of Boston.” That explained her impeccable English, but not the extremely proper diction.
The girl’s eyebrows flew up in relief, “Oh, really? Where? I mean, I’m from Boston too!”
“Hmm, fancy that. My grandparents have their property in Chestnut Hill. I summer there each year. And why are you here?” the hostess inquired coolly, glancing over her shoulder with disinterest, reluctant to join in the game of mutual knowledge. The girl was reminded again of her appearance, her clear deviance from the rest of the partygoers. “Oh, well I’m just visiting my uncle for the weekend, but I’m spending the semester studying in Siena. He didn’t tell me we’d be going out anywhere, you know…I haven’t even had a chance to drop off my stuff at his apartment,” she explained, then plunged on, still searching for some friendly common ground. “I’m actually from Somerville, right next to Cambridge, like on the Red Line? The Porter Square T stop is near my house? There’s an Anna’s Taqueria there, I’m sure you go to the one in Chestnut Hill when you’re, uh, summering. God, I miss Mexican food!” the girl blurted, immediately cringing as the G word popped out of her mouth.
“No, I don’t think so…please excuse me, I really must deal with some things in the kitchen. Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can get for you.” She smiles indulgently, pleased by her own poise and generosity, and waltzed off with her tray of brain-stars.
The girl looked back at the shelves of books, and then into the stagnant soup of priests and journalists, and took a small, brave bite of brain-star. Turning slightly from the room, she deftly spit it into her napkin and tucked it into the empty cup. It was going to be a long, long night.
