La Dolce Vita
My boyfriend Nico and I have first met on a Greek island during a summer work placement. Nico is Italian, Sardinian, as he likes to specify, and I was a Russian student living in Bulgaria at the time. Obviously, we could not predict whether our relationship would go beyond that summer, but we were enjoying what we had.
On our first couple of dates we went to an Italian restaurant with the most stereotypical name — La Dolce Vita, which happened to be on the island. On my last day there we came to the beach in front of La Dolce Vita. We already knew the owner, Ladi, an Italian man in his forties, who offered us iced cappuccino every time he saw us at the beach. That day he invited us to have our last lunch together in his restaurant.
La Dolce Vita was unusually empty, with only one couple in their early fifties at the table next to us. We made an order, and I left for the bathroom for a couple of minutes. As I returned to the table, I found Nico chatting with the couple next to us. Turned out the man was also Italian, and the woman was Polish. They have been married for thirty years, had a daughter, and lived in New York. It was also their last day on the island, and they would be going to the airport straight from the restaurant. The man was obviously nostalgic for speaking Italian, as he was showering Nico with questions, stories, and emotions accompanied by countless hand gestures comprehensible only to Italians. In the meantime, his Polish wife and I found out that we had not only English, but also Russian language in common. That’s how our multilingual conversation continued, with some pauses to translate some parts into English so that everyone could understand.
Meanwhile, Ladi brought us wine, fresh bread, steamed mussels, and a salad consisting of lettuce, cherry tomatoes and Burrata di Bufala — buffalo milk cheese made from mozzarella and cream. The conversation was flowing, so was the wine. In a matter of minutes my head felt lighter. Soft breeze. Sunrays glittering on the sea surface. Distant Italian music from the restaurant speakers. Nico’s laugh and expression as he was fully immersed in the conversation. The freshness of cold wine mixed with savory juice from the mussels and, most of all, Burrata di Bufala — soft, tender, melting in my mouth, making me forget that anything else ever existed.
Soon it was time for the couple to leave for the airport. They insisted on paying our whole lunch, and as we refused, Ladi ended up giving the whole meal to us for free as his last gift. When we stood up to say our goodbyes, the couple smiled at me and Nico sympathetically. I could not get rid of the feeling that with their expression they were saying — look, guys, in some years you could be us. Later that night, Nico brought me to the airport, and we said our goodbyes also to each other.
Two months later I was on my way to meet him again in Sardinia. I had a five-hour layover in Bergamo — a perfect opportunity to be left alone with my thoughts and start overthinking. What if it was just a summer romance? We haven’t seen each other for two months; how will everything be now? When I arrived in the transit zone, to my surprise, I found it to be like one of the streets in Milan. There were stylish cafes and restaurants along the hall with gates, highly groomed Italian women in high heels and laid-back men drinking wine at nearly every café table, make-up stylists doing make up for the old Italian ladies at the beauty companies’ commercial booths. There was even a piano in the center of the hall, anyone who wanted could play, and the sounds of soft chilled classical music came through airport noises. Looking around in amazement, I could think only one thing to myself — Italians know how to live.
I decided to get a snack and came up to one of the shop-windows. And there it was — Burrata di Bufala. In a soft bread sandwich, with lettuce, tomatoes and prosciutto. I ordered it for take away and came to sit next to my gate looking out the window. I took a bite. It tasted like La Dolce Vita. Moreover, it suddenly felt like La Dolce Vita, melting in my mouth and somehow overflowing my whole body with contentment. I looked around — happy Italians seemed to not have a slightest doubt that life would always be exactly like this. I took another bite. I had a few hours left before my flight to Nico. And, in that moment, I knew everything was going to be alright.
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Polina Isakova is a fourth year journalism student at the American University in Bulgaria. Having personal narrative as her favorite writing genre, she enjoys sharing her experiences of traveling, meeting people, and observing life.
