Sillibuss: Trapped in an Olive Garden

Lifelong living in an area of glacial lakes has fostered appreciation for summers near the shores. Sometimes out drifting under sail, others just wistful shoreside reading , often looking up, diverted by the moving tableau of color, light and motion, all my senses piqued in enjoyment. I took that joy with me in my travels far to far away places presenting new treasures- none so enjoyable as Italy by the water.

Today I sit land locked in Olive Garden. I entered into a courtyard paved with faux brick, every fourth molded with the same fissure, maybe copied from the Antica Osteria in Bari. Glaring bare bulbs above emulating strings of lights glimmering romance into every evening in San Remo, where masted notes of fishing boats bob to a concertina melody carried on winds brushing through rustling palms along the sea on Via Roccasterone.

I lament my table with its scalloped mats, scant reminder of those delicate little paper doilies under the sweating metal chalices mounding pistachio gelato at La Bonita in Lucca. Here, furniture is regimented in disconcerting homogeny, eschewing charms of a quaint “misela dispari “ (odd mismatched mixture) as in Trattoria al Aubergo Olivedo shoreside on Lago Como, where even the dishes have patterned personalities.

I look to louvered windows awninged with faded red canvas sheltering dusty bushes fronting an asphalt sea vista, thwarting thoughts of alluring viewscapes at Castel dell'Ovo, clustered behind café’s goose-gaggled with red umbrellas along a promenade closed to traffic, giving all panoramas of the real volcano looming across Napoli’s bejeweled bay, ominous reminder of the fragile transience of life .

Now, choosing one from a column A and column B menu loaded with limitless breadsticks , chewy and floury. I select pieces of naked chicken ladled over with thick white congealation so berift of seasoning. it tries to seep and hide in its pasta nest, leaving only waning memory of real-life Alfredo with his gold forks serving up steaming noodles blessed with bechmal sauce orchestrated with a symphony of tastes to the palate as intricate as the hodgepodge of the streets of Rome itself.

In spite of this all, my mind wanders as I relive those precious days spent in all too brief tastes of the real Italian way. Would I, could I, fades as I am pulled from my reverie with a tug at my shirtsleeve. An Italian apparition chides “Meglio per i suini,” “best for the pigs”, they would say of this place.

I reflect with a pensive wistful smile. If only for a day, I yearn. Maybe a road trip up to Lake Geneva Wisconsin could rekindle my spirit beyond just memories of halcyon days spent by Italian shores.