LA SCHIUMA

BYDAVEMASTER

“WELL, WHERE CAN WE GET THE BEST CAPPUCCINO?”

“IF YOU WANT A GOOD CAPPUCCINO, IT’S IN ROME,” SAYS DARIO, HIS THICK-FRAMED GLASSES GLISTENING.

“CAN WE GO?” I’VE NEVER BEEN TO ROME BEFORE.

“WHERE, TO ROME?”

“SI, DARIO, ANDIAMO!” MARINA CHIMES. SHE SPEAKS THROUGH TIGHT LIPS, BUT THAT DOESN’T STOP ME FROM FEELING HER EXCITEMENT.

“OK, BUT FIRST LET’S FINISH OUR ESPRESSOS.”

THE TELEVISION’S BUZZ FADES INTO THE BACKGROUND AS MARINA AND DARIO TALK ABOUT ROME—WHERE TO GO, WHEN TO LEAVE, TRAIN OR BUS—BUT I MOSTLY REMAIN SILENT. I DON’T KNOW THE FIRST THING ABOUT ROME, SO I CAN ONLY LISTEN, WISHING I COULD CONTRIBUTE IN SOME WAY TO THEIR CONVERSATION. I CAN MAKE OUT EVERY FIFTH WORD, NOT ENOUGH TO UNDERSTAND WHAT THEY’RE SAYING. THEIR CONVERSATION IS LIKE A NON-STOP TRAIN.

MARINA SCRAMBLES TO FIND A PEN AND WRITES THE PRELIMINARY ITINERARY IN HER NOTEBOOK, DICTATING DARIO’S SUGGESTIONS. HER FINGERS ARE GENTLE HOLDING THE PEN, SAFELY GUIDING IT THROUGH EACH CURVE AND SLANT OF HER LETTERS. HER LOWERCASE D’S LOOK LIKE A BALL THAT ISN’T QUITE TOUCHING A POST. THE SLANTED LINE IN HER LOWERCASE A’S COMES FROM UNDERNEATH THE CIRCULAR PART OF THE LETTER AND NOT FROM THE RIGHT SIDE. SHE NIBBLES HER BOTTOM LIP, LISTENING TO DARIO, TRYING TO KEEP UP.

“WE CAN’T SEE IT ALL IN ONE DAY,” PUTTING DOWN HER PEN, REMINDING ME THAT ROME WASN’T BUILT IN A DAY.

“HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO CHOOSE WHICH MONUMENTS TO SHOW OUR FRIEND IN THE CRADLE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION?”

“I THOUGHT WE WERE JUST GETTING A CAPPUCCINO,” I SAY.

“THERE IS NO WAY I AM TAKING YOU TO ROME WITHOUT SHOWING YOU AROUND!” DARIO SPEAKS WITH TALLNESS, THOUGH HE IS SHORT. HIS THICK-FRAMED GLASSES FALL PAST HIS EYEBROW LINE, CAUSING HIM TO CONTINUALLY PUSH THEM BACK UP THE BRIDGE OF HIS NOSE. HIS HAIR IS COMBED TO THE SIDE AND IT LOOSELY BRUSHES HIS FOREHEAD. PIECES OF WHITE PARTICLES ARE IN HIS HAIR FROM DRIED-UP MOUSSE.

“WHY DON’T WE JUST SEE A FEW THINGS AND THEN GET A CAPPUCCINO?” I SAY, PROUD OF MY CONTRIBUTION.

“A VOGLIA TE! WHAT A HUMBLE SUGGESTION FROM AN AMERICAN!” DARIO AND MARINA CHUCKLE, BUT I’M SURE WHY.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”

“O CARO MIO, DON’T WORRY. WE ARE JUST USED TO AMERICANS SAYING, ‘THE BIGGER THE BETTER,’ YOU KNOW? YOU NEVER CEASE TO SURPRISE US.” DARIO TAKES HIS LAST SIP OF ESPRESSO, CLEANS HIS LIPS WITH A NAPKIN, THEN, “SHALL WE?” HE MOTIONS TO STAND. MARINA AND I FOLLOW SUIT, THOUGH SHE DID NOT QUITE FINISH HER COFFEE, LEAVING A SIP OR TWO STILL IN THE CUP. SHE PUTS HER PEN AND NOTEBOOK IN HER PURSE AND REPOSITIONS HER BROWN AND RED FLORAL SCARF AND BUTTONS HER JACKET. DARIO LEADS THE WAY OUT THE DOOR AND THE COLD HITS WITH A SHOCK. MY TONGUE STILL WARM FROM THE BITTER ESPRESSO.

WALKING UP THE SUBWAY STAIRS TO THE STREETS, I NOTICE A MULTITUDE OF CONCRETE EDIFICES, A MIXTURE OF MODERN AND ANTIQUE ARCHITECTURE. THE GRAY WINTER SKY HOLDS THE ROMAN SCENE IN PLACE. A MENAGERIE OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS IS DRAPED BETWEEN THE BUILDINGS, ELECTRIC IVY THAT CAST DULL SHADOWS INTO A PINWHEEL. PLASTIC DECORATIONS OF GREEN CHRISTMAS TREES HANG FROM LAMP POSTS THAT FAINTLY REFLECT THE WINTER SUN, SHIMMERING IN THE WIND. CONDENSATION COVERS THE LONG WINDOWS THAT FACE THE STREETS. WHILE I WALK, MY SHADOW JUMPS AND FALLS BETWEEN SIDES OF BUILDINGS AND ALLEYS.

MARINA AND DARIO STILL WALK AHEAD, GESTICULATING AND POINTING AT EVERYTHING BEFORE THEM LIKE TWO TOUR GUIDES. I’M CURIOUS TO KNOW WHERE WE ARE GOING, SINCE I NEVER HAD THE CHANCE TO SEE MARINA’S FINAL DRAFT OF DARIO’S ITINERARY.

WALKING UPHILL, COFFEE BARS LINE THE STREETS, POSTCARDS OF PEOPLE INSIDE. OUTSIDE, THE CONSTANT CLICK-CLACK OF PEDESTRIANS’ WOODEN SOLES ARE CONFIDENT AS THEY BOUNCE OFF THE STOREFRONTS. MY SUEDE MOCCASINS BEND AND FOLD AGAINST THE CONCAVE COBBLESTONES.

AT THE TOP OF WHAT SEEMS LIKE AN ETERNAL HILL, DARIO WALKS TO THE RIGHT. EVENTUALLY THE NARROW STREET OPENS UP INTO A RECTANGULAR PIAZZA WITH CARS AND VESPAS PARKED IN THE MIDDLE. DARIO POINTS TO A BUILDING WITH A PORTICO ENTRANCE.

“THIS IS WHERE YOU ARE GOING TO GET THE BEST CAPPUCCINO IN ROME,” HE SAYS. I NEVER USED TO DRINK COFFEE. IN HIGH SCHOOL, MY GIRLFRIEND WOULD BRING ME A FILLED THERMOS MOST MORNINGS, AND BEFORE GIVING IT BACK TO HER AT THE END OF THE DAY, I’D POUR OUT THE COLD CONTENTS INTO THE WATER FOUNTAIN CLOSEST TO HER LOCKER. “THANKS,” I’D SAY, “IT REALLY GOT ME THROUGH THE DAY.”

ONCE INSIDE THE COFFEE SHOP, I MAKE MY WAY TO A TABLE, BUT DARIO STOPS ME.

“NO, NO, LET’S GET OUR COFFEES AT THE COUNTER.” MARINA MAKES HER WAY TO THE COUNTER TOO, HER STEPS UNSURE, HEAD TILTED TOWARDS THE FLOOR.

DARIO ORDERS THREE CAPPUCCINOS. I REST MY ELBOWS ON THE BAR COUNTER NEXT TO THE BOWLS FILLED WITH PACKETS OF SUGAR AND SUGAR IN THE RAW.

DARIO TAKES A PACKET THEN HANDS ONE TO EACH MARINA AND ME.

“EACH PACKET IS A THOUGHT, YOU KNOW,” SAYS DARIO, HOLDING THE SUGAR BETWEEN HIS MIDDLE AND INDEX FINGERS. “WHEN YOU OPEN IT, YOU LIBERATE YOUR THOUGHT, SETTING IT FREE INTO THE WORLD.”

“DOES THAT MAKE THE CAPPUCCINO THE BRAIN?”

“IT DEPENDS…IF THAT METAPHOR MEANS MORE TO YOU, THEN YES IT DOES.”

AS THE BARISTA SLIDES US THE CAPPUCCINOS, WHILE OPENING A PACKET OF SUGAR DARIO SAYS, “YOU KNOW HOW YOU CAN TELL IF LA SCHIUMA OF A CAPPUCCINO IS DONE WELL OR NOT? IT TAKES A LITTLE TIME FOR THE SUGAR TO SINK ALL THE WAY DOWN TO THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP.” THEN HE DROPS THE CONTENTS OF THE SUGAR PACKET ON TOP OF HIS DRINK. THE CRYSTAL GRAINS SLEEPILY REST ON THE WHITE FROTH AND THEN ARE SWALLOWED WHOLE, ONE GRANULE AT A TIME. “THE FOAM IS ALRIGHT,” HE SAYS AND MARINA SMILES SIDEWAYS. I WATCH DARIO STIR HIS CAPPUCCINO. HE MAKES FORCEFUL CIRCLES WITH HIS WRISTS AND I CAN FEEL THE VIBRATION OF THE CRUNCHING SUGAR AGAINST THE BOTTOM OF HIS CUP. MARINA RIPS OPEN HER SUGAR PACKET AND ONLY POURS HALF OF IT ON TOP OF HER BEVERAGE. SHE WAITS FOR THE GRAINS TO BE SUBMERGED BEFORE SHE STARTS TO STIR. I FOLLOW SUIT AND ALSO POUR THE SUGAR PACKET ON TOP OF THE CAPPUCCINO. THE CONTACT CAUSES MILK BUBBLES TO FORM AS THE GRAINS DROP LIKE ROCKS TO THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA.

“SEND IT BACK,” SHOOTS DARIO.

“NO, IT’S FINE. I DON’T MIND- ” “NO, NO. IT’S BEEN DONE WRONG. BARISTA!”

THE CAPPUCCINO IS DUMPED AND THE BARISTA STARTS MAKING A NEW ONE. THIS TIME WITH PATIENCE AND CARE. I WATCH, MY EYES GLUED TO HIS EVERY ACTION. I NEVER UNDERSTOOD BEFORE. SO MUCH ATTENTION TO DETAIL. THE ESPRESSO IS CRUSHED SO FINE AND PUT INTO THE PORTAFILTER, FIRST WITH TOO MUCH THEN WITH TOO LITTLE. THE THIRD ATTEMPT IS THE RIGHT ONE. IT IS PLACED UNDER THE MACHINE AND THE HOT WATER PASSES THROUGH THE COFFEE TO THE BOTTOM OF THE CAPPUCCINO MUG. STEAM RISES AND I CAN SMELL THE AROMA AS I DEEPLY BREATH IT IN. THE LINE OF COFFEE BEING POURED IS A BLACK THREAD. HE POURS MILK INTO THE METAL JUG AND THEN PLACES IT UNDER THE STEAMER. IT SCREAMS AND HISSES WITH DELIGHT. THE COMBINATION OF NOISES IS AN ORCHESTRA. THE BARISTA’S ARM MUSCLES TIGHTEN AND LOOSEN WITH EACH MOVEMENT. DARIO ANXIOUSLY WATCHES AS THE BARISTA FROTHS THE MILK. WHEN THE STEAMER IS TURNED OFF, DARIO SIGHS. THE BARISTA REMOVES THE METAL JUG FROM UNDERNEATH THE STEAMER AND POURS THE THICK WHITE MILK INTO THE MUG THAT CONTAINS THE BITTER ESPRESSO. AFTER SLIDING A CAPPUCCINO TO US FOR THE SECOND TIME, DARIO RIPS OPEN THE PACKET OF SUGAR AND POURS OUT ITS CONTENTS ONTO THE MILK. I WAIT AND HOPE. THE SUGAR RESTS ON TOP AND IS SLOWLY SWALLOWED BY THE BEVERAGE.

“THAT’S BETTER,” SAYS DARIO.

AFTER STIRRING IN THE SUGAR UNTIL IT DISSOLVES UNDERNEATH MY DEMI SPOON, I TAKE MY FIRST SIP. THE MUG IS HOT AGAINST MY HANDS. THE BITTERSWEET MILK WARMS MY MOUTH AND I FEEL READY TO TAKE IN MORE OF ROME.