The Accidental Lady who Lunches

Lorenzo went online this morning and found there was a Thanksgiving Day Celebration in a small town about half an hour from us. No, the Italians are not getting on board with yet another American holiday, instead the Thanksgiving Day celebration was about giving thanks for the harvest, with the farmers doing most of the thanking. Apparently there would be animals, farm equipment (my son loves farm equpiment) and people dressed like peasants from 100 years ago, and surely good food somewhere in there too. I said let's go, it was sunny and Lorenzo didn't have to work until 5pm which gave us a good part of the day. We decided to wait on having lunch, because, as I said, when in Italy DON'T they have good food, and we rushed around getting the kids ready, though at some point in there "getting ready" involved emptying the vacuum cleaner filter and lifting the couch and vacuuming underneath it and finding two books and part of Livia's tea set hidden under it in the process.
Finally though we were putting the kids' shoes on and Giulio is singing some song he has learned at school about "Indiani" as Lorenzo ties he shoes, and so Lorenzo wants to know if this song is about Indians as in from the country India, or the Indians one finds in North America. Or, Lorenzo tells him, as they call them in Italy, Red Skins (Pelle Rossa). I leap in at this moment.
"Uh, actually in the US they would be called Native Americans." I suddenly see Giulio is 20 years time visiting his Uncle and cousins in the States, watching "The Last of the Mohicans" and casually referring to the above mentioned ethnic group as "Red Skins." Having people think that my son was not raised by Mel Gibson is going to be an upward battle on my part. Not 6 years ago I taught English at an after-school program for first graders and the teacher had made and hung posters teaching the different colors. The Green poster had neatly labelled pictures of green peppers, grass, lizards, and apples. The Blue poster had the sky, the sea, and blueberries. The Yellow poster had corn, polenta, and "the little chinese girl", choosen for her "yellow skin". Actually Asian people in general here are called "Chinese", I have a colleague who was born in the Phillipines, raised in Canada and students referring to her will be like, "You know that Chinese teacher? what's her name?" How will I ever be able to have Giulio's blundering Italian racial teachings co-exist with America's politically correct ones? This isn't going to be easy.....
At any rate, we had planned a day of petting animals, eating standing up, and possibly walking through cow dung. Therefore the children, both with runny noses has been dressed for warmth and comfort in things I wouldn't be too bothered about if they got really muddy. Giulio wore sweatpants and a sweatshirts that I usually just have him wear to school for the fact that I don't mind if he gets tomato sauce on it, and a pair of old sneakers. Livia wore a blue sweater that was mine when I was a baby and a pair of sweatpants that are getting too short. Lorenzo and I wore the classic jeans/sweater/sneaker combo. We finally set off a bit before noon, we tried to get some more cash before hitting the road but the roads to the center where our ATM is were blocked off to traffic as it was a "green" sunday, a day when cars can't go into the center. We figure the 35/40 euros we had between us was more than plenty for the three sandwiches and wine we were planning on having.
We find the town no problem ( a small suprise because I was navigating using a 25 year old map that Lorenzo won't throw out for sentimental reasons), and right away I get suspicious because even though the roads are closed off in honor of the celebration, we immediately find parking in a nearby half empty parking lot. We unload the kids, get jackets on, get Livia strapped into her stroller, load up the diaper bag and walk the long street down toward the main piazza where I can see smoke rising. "Where there is smoke there is food!" I call jokingly to Lorenzo, who I know is hoping for one of these fantastic sausage sandwiches they always sell at these things. Initially it looks promising, there are stands selling wine and cheese, animals standing in straw including a cow who is frantically mooing, and people dressed like late 19th century farmers. But there seems to be very few people besides that, and in fact, most of what seems to be going on is clean up, and we realize that basically we have shown up for an event that started at 8 this morning and basically wrapped up about half an hour ago. All the food that is being prepared (and wow did it look good) is just for the period dress people and is clearly not for sale. The town's one restaurant is obviously closed. The kids are going to be hungry soon if they aren't already, and I didn't bring anything to eat besides a few oranges and a bottle of water, plus it is already after one, dangerously late (in the North) to just be thinking about where one might want to have lunch. We drag Giulio away from the cows and hightail it back to the car, with Giulio protesting loudly that he doesn't want to go, he is hungry, as we pull out of the parking lot Lorenzo announces that we will stop at the first place we see. Except that we don't see anything. At least not anything open where one can eat. I see tons of pizzeria's, restaurants, bars all dark and shuttered and I wonder out loud where do people around here go for Sunday lunch. "Home" is Lorenzo's brief reply. I try not to look to often at the clock, but I know the unspoken rule of Sunday lunch at restaurants; they really don't want you turning up after two o'clock. We drive through one town after another until we finally see a sign for an agriturismo which makes it own wine and olive oil and inspired by it's name (San Lorenzo) we follow the signs through one narrow cobbled street after another until we come through a medieval tunnel and out into this golden valley filled with olive trees and there we see the entrance to the restaurant. I say entrance, but what I mean is a huge wraught iron gate with a long path with olive trees on each side leading off to the left. Lorenzo carefully follow the path but I can no longer hold back, "Go! Go! Go! It's 1:49!" Suddenly before us is this large, beautifully restored farm house and an almost full parking lot filled with gleaming SUVs, BMWs, Alpha Romeos. "Go in and see if they have room, "Lorenzo says, "and see if they accept credit cards." I go in, feeling inferior dressed in my jeans and sneakers when around me I see people wearing expensive "casual" clothes, women in dresses with high heeled boots, men in dress pants and Prada sneakers. There are two or three large groups doing what appears to be 1) the lunch following a christening, 2) a birthday party, and 3) people of a much higher income bracket than mine enjoying each other company. The staff however are welcoming. They don't look twice at my sneakers and immediately get a table ready, even though it is two o'clock and there are no more anti-pasti left. I glance at the posted menu and wince. 35 euros per person, which means 72 euros for lunch on a day when we weren't planning on spending more than 10 euros. I go out to Lorenzo who has got the kids out of the car and break the news to him. We debate for a minute, but it is after two, by now we aren't going to find anywhere else open so unless we want to drive 45 minutes back with two starving children raising hell in the backseat.........
We go in and are lead to a large, half empty room with a wooden timbered ceiling and a huge fireplace where a log sits smoldering. We sit down and my two children proceed to attack the bread like they haven't seen food in weeks, both loudly protesting when we try to stop them because Giulio (Livia eats like a trucker) won't eat any pasta when it comes. Crumbs soon cover the table and the floor. When the pasta comes however the are both good and sit still and eat, Livia sitting in my lap as there doesn't seem to be any kind of high chair. The place is noisy, outside well-dressed children run around on the green lawn, the baptism baby shrieks from the next room, so at least we wont be disturbing anyone too much. I'm still feeling bad about spending so much for lunch when suddenly I remember our anniversary more than two weeks away. I had thought that for our fifth anniversary we would get dressed up and go ALONE to our favorite restaurant and instead here we are in jeans with children crawling all over us, but all well. I raise my glass, "Happy Anniversary!" Lorenzo nods, then smiles and leans over and gives me a kiss. "Happy Anniversary."
After the first course the kids want to get up and move, Livia tottering drunkenly between tables, Giulio giggling behind her, Lorenzo and I sit and watch them tensely, waiting to spring into action like paratroops waiting to leap out of a plane. In the meantime one of the waitresses has gotten the fire going again in the fireplace, so we keep taking turns to jump up from our chairs and "re-direct" Livia the second it seems that she might be getting too close. It is at this point that I realize my children look vaguely like those ads you see for "Save a Child" in some poor Eastern European country, Livia in her old sweater which Lorenzo points out, also has a hole under the arm, Giulio in his grey unironed sweatshirt, both with snot dried around their noses, their shoes worn and scuffed. In a country that is based on keeping up appearances, I know we aren't making a good impression. I decide to pretend I'm a member upper crust of British society, the people who dress shabbily because they can, and get over it. Lunch proceeds in the usual manner of one sitting, the other herding children in the interminable waits between courses. The idea of hurrying people through their meal is unheard of here. I remember the "fancy" restaurant I bused tables at back in college and how the manager wanted the least amount of "wait time" from when the salad plate left the table to when the main course plate was set down, and fight a wave of homesickness. Our meal ended with me standing for the last 10 minutes of it, holding Livia in one arm and with my purse already over my shoulder, trying to convince Lorenzo to forget the coffee so we could just GO. Finally we go to pay and it was here that we discovered that this beautiful expensive restaurant, with all its well-to-do patrons has a cash only policy. Does that mean the father of the baby having her baptism showed up today with over 1000 euros in his pocket? I stand on the green lawn watching Livia crawl through dried olives that have fallen to the ground and wait as Lorenzo drives off to get more cash from the nearest ATM. I find this so irksome, all this wealth but no credit card machine, and I'm so fed up with lifting Livia off the ground and telling Giulio to not do that, whatever "that" is, that I begin to regret ever coming. We should have just gone home, nevermind the anniversary, the being together, the eating wonderful food in a good place. And then, a few minutes later Lorenzo is back and we are off, driving faster than we came because now Lorenzo has to get to work and he tells me that it has been a good day, and I'm glad for him and decide to stop being mad. Sometimes it is enough to be happy for someone else.