#I only wrote this as a response to a poem Giulia posted this morning

[almostsomewheremaybe]

they’re asking how’s Italy

But what they want to know is if my balcony in Verona wakes in the morning to overlook a sunny Roman Coliseum and Dolomites and Amalfi Coast while I eat a carbonara pizza breakfast cornetto in a cafe. They don’t know what Italy is but neither do I. E inverno, and in Verona the morning is cold and humid and sometimes I could mistake this sky for Ohio. Until the thousand wrinkles in the city’s skin remind me that Veronese have been here for millinea. And no, I don’t want a cappuccino sera or fettucini flambeed in a cheese wheel. I want passione, o certo, but the kind where the flames engulf your heart without injury or insult. I want caffe from a blackened Bialetti. I want Estathe in a plastic cup, and two packs of Pocket Coffee. When I walk in the morning the people all wear black, but cover their dogs with blankets. The dogs shit everywhere and no one picks it up. This is love. Even the dog's shit has a place here that I never will. In my favorite bar, an old woman whose voice heats the cold air with the warm rasp of too much tobacco greets me with her dog, Jenny. A queen and a princess more beautiful than any Giulietta. The magic is gone as I walk to class preparing to duel with articles and prepositions who all agree that I'm a false friend. Americano. The only romance I see is the way Verona embraces her river, lover, Adige. The two never letting go. That is real love I think. That’s what Italy must be. The people and the river and the city and hills tracing a curve like outlining a lover's face. Running your finger down the slope of her neck till it reaches something bone deep. I spend all day looking at ancient bonds with children's eyes and a baby's cry, never knowing if any Italy will ever be mine. I respond, "ma, o certo! Italy has been great. Ottimo. Perfetto." Purtroppo, lei e troppo buona per me.