17 May Espresso and Latte Meet
“Selfie? Selfie?”
A folding basket closes. A heavy whack.
“Selfie? Shakira, Shakira. Shaka laka boom boom. Lady Gaga.”
A child chases an array of dancing lazers.
Lighted propellors twirl like toddlers in new dresses.
“Tour?”
Gelatinous balls with googly eyes. Cooing sounds come from ventriloquist mouths.
Street vendors line the streets of turista Italia and I try to maintain my manners. “No grazie, no grazie” slips and slides down my tongue so smoothly like water from a fountain. It’s routine. “No grazie.” Their skin is dark like espresso or coffee, and I am latte white. I walk on, forgetting each vendor one by one. Mumbled Italian replies fade out behind me.
When I was younger, my mother used to fall prey to the vendors in the mall. “Do you want to try this Dead Sea salt exfoliator?” “Do you want soft nails? I have the perfect nail buffer for you.” Too nice to say no and too impressed to reject it, my mother bought most of the things being pushed on her.
This time is different, I know. But I keep thinking about the mall vendors in America. Those that probably don’t have to worry about whether or not their products will sell. Those that don’t have to worry about not providing for their families. I feel bad for the Italian street vendors, but their lackluster products leave me with empty apologies.
After an exhausting morning at the Vatican participating in two of Italy’s most prominent sports, walking and climbing stairs, a group of us went to lunch. At the end of our meal, the group split into three. One group planned on going to the Spanish steps. The professors went out on their own. My friend Shelby and I decided we would visit the Capuchin Crypt.
To get there, we needed to find the metro, wherever it was. Our sprightly and spirited tour guide Roberto gave us directions, and we set out in our search for the metro.
We walked up to the pillars surrounding St. Peter’s Square with our destination in mind. As we approached the pillars, a man clutching a map stopped us. Annoyed at the excess of vendors in all of Italy, I said “no grazie” and tried to walk away. Shelby hesitated behind me, as he said, “Wait, wait, I give information about the Vatican,” in the clearest English I’ve heard so far during my stay in Italy. Trying to mind my manners, I told him we already had a tour, but thanks, grazie. We locked eyes. His espresso skin made his eyes stand out. Daring and a little defeated, he looked at my latte self, “Is it because of the color of my skin? Are you afraid?” “No!” I replied, “It’s just we already took a tour, we’re trying to find the metro.” He helped us find our route, and I walked away, uneasy.
I can’t get this out of my mind. I can’t stop seeing the whites of his eyes. The crema on espresso.
It’s like getting burned by the first sip. You know it’s good but it burns you regardless. How many lattes have burned his tongue?
