I Eat My Pigeon

It took them six years to find me but by golly, they sure did find me. “Can the Dead REALLY come back to life?” asks this flier, dropped lovingly into my mailbox by the Italian Christian Right. Or, rather, I assume it was from the Italian Christian Right, as I didn’t actually read the thing. Because I already know the answer; the metaphorical answer, and that answer is, YES. THE (METAPHORICAL) DEAD CAN RISE.

The ex who keeps popping up again, like a fresh case of herpes.

Equitalia – just when you think you’ve settled all your tax disputes, here they come again.

And me. Humble pigeon eater, erstwhile blogger. Less nouveau expat stars in her eyes, more into food, language, and photography. More crotchety than ever after six years living in Italy!

Stick around. Be the herpes of this story.

The zucche are back in season – round squash with bright melon-like flesh and ivory-colored bulletproof rinds. I see heaps of them in a plastic milk crate at the market and think about it for a heartbeat, but then remember the toughness of that rind, my desperate awkwardness with knives and, above all, the fact that whether I carve a squash or not, no one will give a crap except for myself.

I see the ads on Facebook. This nightspot or that nightspot promotes a “Halloween” party that will – as I know by now – be, at most, half-full with people dressed as zombies or black cats, who haven’t the slightest idea what the holiday is about, and if the rains are too heavy, if Paolo suggests seeing a movie instead, if mamma makes a really heavy dinner, those people will bail on that ‘Allo-win party because in the end, the day means nothing, it’s just something stolen from American TV, just another excuse to drink, and no one will give a crap about it except for myself.

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I wrote this.

http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2012/08/22/i-heart-my-city-evas-terracina/

If you feel like reading it, you can.

So there’s this color virus spreading around the travel blogosphere, and apparently I’ve been infected by none other than Madame Ivory Pomegranate herself (thank you, Kristin. It is always a pleasure swapping pixels with you). Carefully selected travel bloggers are invited to post five photos that celebrate the colors red, blue, white, green, and yellow. It’s a contest you see. Run by the good folks at Travel Supermarket.

I live in a small beach town called Terracina on the West Coast of Italy. Loadsa color here, which I’m happy to bring to you. Except I keep thinking of the old ad copy, “Skittles: Taste the Rainbow” which, in turn, makes me hungry for preservatives and artificial coloring. My feet may be in Italy, but my taste buds are in America.

Without further ado, my five colorful photos.

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Eva, they say, you’re quiet tonight.

They get nervous when I’m quiet – these friends of mine – and they’re not wrong to be. I like to talk, and I can do it in twoalmostfour languages. It’s rare that I stop – What’s that? What’s that word mean? Conjugate this verb in dialect for me. Can I eat this? Can I eat yours, too? – and when I do, 60% of the time it’s because I’m upset. 30% of the time, because I’m writing in my head. 3% of the time because I’m feeling shy/awkward/don’t know what to say. 2% of the time because I’m ignorant of the topic and would rather not talk out of my ass.

But the last 5% of the time? Because I’m spellbound. Because there’s something coming out of someone’s mouth that leaves me speechless, and hungry to know more.

Like when my friends – in their 30s like me – talk about the good old days. The good old days of being children in an ancient city.

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In case anyone has been curious about the state of my novel – that thing which I came to Terracina nearly two years ago to write – I am pleased as punch to tell you that it is going very well. Very well indeed! I finished the rough draft a couple of months ago (huzzah!) and am now looking for agents (the opposite of huzzah!). Between teaching and travel writing, I’m deep into the revisions of said book; my routine at the bar still sacrosanct. For all intents and purposes, Caffè Girasole might as well be my second home, so deep is the imprint of my ass on the chair at “my” table. The staff tells my visiting parents that I’m “family” and routinely slip a gummy candy into my hand along with my receipt. My friends know that the bar is where they can find me, and they pop in regularly, unannounced, and when I’m not looking, pay for my Lemon Schweppes. My friend Andrea – prisoner in arms of the 7:30 A.M. commute to Rome – tells me, People see us together and they say, “We’ve seen that girl at the bar.” You have a reputation. Everyone knows you as that foreigner who writes at Caffè Girasole.

I can think of worse reputations.

And even as the summer heat wears on and I find myself stymied by revisions, even as I find myself fighting waves of icy fear – I’ll never find an agent. Nobody will like the book. This metaphor I thought I liked is derivative crap! – I can’t help but be proud of myself. Even if it’s true that nobody will like it, even if it’s true that I have only months of rejection ahead of me, I’ve still written a book. I made a commitment and saw it through. I created something. I kept a promise to my six year-old self.

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