Eggs Please?

Gulia and I have been at the grocery store for over an hour. Our shopping cart is full, my head is aching, and my four year old companion is loosing what little patience she had. There is only one thing left on my list, eggs. I've searched each cooler and every refrigeration unit in this lousy place and so far I have had no luck. Do Italians not eat eggs? I contemplate this for a moment. No, not possible. The main ingredient of pasta carbonara is eggs. Sigh. There is just no way I could have missed them.

Next to me, Gulia whines something unintelligible and stomps her foot. “Really?” I snap back, “Really?”

Super, I'm taking out my frustration on a little girl. Real classy. In my own defense, however, she has been fighting me every step of the way and I have just about reached my limit. Trust me, it's hard enough shopping alone in a foreign country. It's exponentially harder shopping in a foreign country with an angry child who can't verbally communicate with you. Just sayin'.
I have absolutely no idea why Gulia is so upset with me but her angry little body looks like it's about to crumble to a heap on the floor. I need an escape so I scoop up my exhausted companion and head for the meat counter. “Excuse me. Ma'am?” She looks at me like I've grown a second head. Oh, right. English, bad. Italian, good.

I deposit Gulia on the floor and try again, “Mi scusa.” She looks only slightly less disturbed by my presence but I continue. “Where are the eggs? Dove...” Great, I have absolutely no idea what an egg is called in Italian. “Uh, eggs?”

Well that was totally lame.

The woman behind the counter breaks into a string of words that I can't help but feel aren't very nice (though fortunately I can't understand them).

I shrug, wishing I had remembered my pocket translator book. Gulia is still crying and latches onto my right pant leg, tugging at me. Words tumble out of her mouth and I feel so hopeless. I can't even understand a preschooler. I feel defeated. Stupid. I audibly groan.

Gulia stops talking and looks back and forth between me and the irritated woman behind the counter. All I want is a cartoon of eggs but now I am debating how important they really are. The woman is pursing her lips and looks entirely too uppity for my liking. Just because I can't understand what she saying doesn't mean I can't read her body language and right now what she is saying is all kinds of nasty!

I quickly realize I have two options. Option A, walk away and forget about the eggs. Option B, find a way to communicate my need. Right now option A is looking pretty good but no eggs means no chocolate chip cookies. No chocolate chip cookies means, well, no chocolate chip cookies. Need I say more?

I feel a plan hatching (no pun intended) and realize that if I want the eggs it's now or never. Purposefully facing away from Counter Woman, I kneel down and look eye to eye with Gulia. I brush the hair from her wet face. “Gulia,” I say with as much calmness as I can muster. “Como si dice...” (how do you say...) I pause for a split second and reconsider my decision to totally throw my dignity out the window. Oh well, what's a little dignity anyway?

Stuffing my hands up under my arms, I flap like I have wings and make ridiculously bad chicken noises. Guila's teary eyes get huge. “Pollo?”

“No, not chicken.” I gently shake my finger back and forth for clarity. “Non pollo.” I motion for her to wait. Then, pantomiming picking up an egg, I crack it into an invisible pan, and make sizzling noises. Gulia giggles and I half consider joining her. Instead I smile and pretend to eat my fried egg.

“Uovo!” She claps, delighted in our little game.

“Si! Brava mi Gulia!” I congratulate her with a pat on the head and stand up.

Now to face Counter Woman. I tilt my head, summon my most distinguished air, and turn back around. “Dove uovo, per favore?” (Where are the eggs, please?) I could swear she snorts but I maintain eye contact and smile with elegance. After all, I now have a happy little girl to back me, don't I?

“La,” she jabs her finger in what must be the relative direction of the eggs.

“Grazie.” I nod. “Come on Gulia... andiamo.”

I walk towards the eggs and she skips along beside me. Half way there her warm, little hand reaches up and tentatively takes mine. Her tiny fingers nestle into the center of my palm and she smiles up at me. “Molto buona, Zizi,” (Very good, Auntie). My heart melts and I blink back a tear. Eggs are the farthest thing from my mind. Today this sweet little girl and I have finally become friends.

Writing Exercise

Hey guys! So I went to a writer's group today (super fun) and we had to do a writing exercise. Since I don't really know what to do with what I wrote I figured I'd post it here for your reading pleasure (or torment). Enjoy.

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Excited for my first taste of Italian coffee I step through the door and head straight for the espresso bar. Can I remember enough Italian to order? Scusi? Grazie? Per favore? Darn it. Where are the right words when you need them? Working to fasten the tie on my umbrella I continue to rifle through the dozens of words in my head. Giallo? What, yellow? No. I mentally throw it out. Lavoriamo? Seriously? I don't even know what that means or, come to think of it, if it's even a real word.

My feet keep walking towards the coffee as my mind keeps searching. BAM! I stumble back as blinding pain explodes in the bridge of my nose, filling my eyes with tears. What in the world? I groan and blink trying to clear my vision.

“Mi scusa,” a smooth baritone breaks through my haze and I feel a hand slide up my arm settling on my shoulder. Ugh, a touchy Italian male to console me. Great.

“Va bene. Va bene. It's okay.” I try to brush him away but so much good that does. He not only keeps his offending hand on my shoulder but he grabs my other shoulder as well and firmly turns me towards himself. My nose still throbs but my eyes are clearing up and I finally get a good look at Mr. Baritone. Oooeeee... and a good look it is.

Up until this moment I have never believed in a jaw "dropping”. But right here, right now, my jaw turns to Jello and wobbles open threatening to fall to a gelatinous puddle on my chest. If Christian Bale had suddenly become taller, darker, and more Italian I was looking at him right now.

“Uh... um... non parlo Americano.” Wait, what? 'I don't speak American?' No, that's not right. “Uh... I mean I... I don't speak Italian.” I feel the red rushing up my neck and settling in to stay. “No I mean... Non parlo Italiano. I think.” I wish I could smack myself in the face but I don't think my injured nose could take it.

Baritone smiles and massages my shoulders with his thumbs. Ugh, Italians, always in your personal space. I decide that just this once I won't mind.

“Is okay, Principessa. I speak 'Americano' too.” He chuckles. “Or as most of the world says... English. No?” His accent is charming. Dangerously so.

“No. I mean yes. Si.” I feel so lame right now. “Okay, well I guess I should go now.” I turn to go. Correction. I attempt to turn to go, but Baritone's vise like grip on me hasn't loosened and try as I might I just can't make myself move.

He ignores my declaration of departure. “Mi dispiace. I am sorry for hitting you with...” he pauses looking slightly perplexed. “With this.” He points to the back of his forearm.

He hit me? Now I am perplexed. “Say what?” Baritone's eyebrows draw together at the use of my idiom. I rephrase, “you hit me?”

“Si. And you ran into me. It is very... how do you say? Complicated.”

Not so complicated. He clothes lined me. “Like I said va bene. It's all good. I'm sorry to have bothered you I can just leave now.” Again I turn to go and again my body refuses to budge. This man has me entirely too flustered and I do not like feeling so out of control.

“No bella. I insist, I shall buy you a macchiato and perhaps something sweet? Si?”

I sigh my defeat. How can I say no? I can't. “Si.”