Veni, vidi, vici (October 31, 2006)

When in Rome, as they say…

Sadly, this saying doesn’t seem to apply to Americans. Rather than doing in Rome as Romans do, we often behave as if the rest of the world were colonies of the US, there simply to serve us. We travel to foreign countries where people don’t speak our language -- and we make scant attempt to communicate in the local tongue. Sure we can say “buon giorno” and “grazie,” but that’s as far as it goes. We expect them to speak our language.

Witness: I was in a café one morning about 9, when a woman walked in and asked the cashier in perfect English what time the Burger King next door opened. The cashier was gracious and explained (in English) that it opened at 10am, but could that lady have been any more disrespectful? To walk into a local café, make no attempt to understand or speak in the language of the country where you’re a guest, or to understand or appreciate their culture -- and then to inquire about, of all things, a Burger King! Is it any wonder Americans have acquired the reputation of being insensitive and uncultured?

Of course, I didn’t do much better. I butchered the Italian language over and over again. I often found myself in situations in which I had no idea what was going on, what was being said, what I was supposed to do. I’m sure I insulted people unknowingly. And I have no doubt that people I talked to must have had a good laugh at my horrible accent or inexplicable questions -- as when I asked a lady if the bus stop I was standing at was a bus stop.

And to be fair, I can understand the impulse to use English in Rome. For one thing, it’s everywhere. Signs are usually in both Italian and English, and a surprising number of billboards, ads, and names of stores are only in English. Also, most people in restaurants and stores speak both languages, if not more. So you can hardly be blamed for assuming that anyone you approach will understand you and reply in English.

Plus, as I discovered many times, it’s very hard trying to communicate in a language you’re barely familiar with. It’s exhausting. Every night when I returned to my hotel I was mentally wiped out, and my already meager attempts at Italian got worse and worse as the day went along. If in the morning I could say, “Mi scusi, dov’e la fermata dell’ autobus? Vorrei andare alla chiesa di San Paulo entro le Mura,” by the evening I was lucky if I could say, “Buona notte.”

Learning a language is a lot of work. You make a ton of mistakes, which is embarrassing and humiliating. Like the time I tried to ask the taxi driver taking me to the airport how much would it cost (“Quanto costa?”) and instead asked, “Quanto costo?” -- “How much do I cost?” It would have been so much easier to just ask in English -- but probably not nearly so entertaining for the taxi driver.

Dov’e il Starbux?

Before my first trip to Europe, my friend Lisa kept telling me how good the coffee was. She was not exaggerating. Especially in Rome, the coffee can be sublime.

“Can be” is key. Like everything else, coffee varies from café to café. I never had a bad cup, but I often had an espresso or cappuccino that was just okay, not great. On the other hand, on at least a couple occasions I had an espresso that was better than any I had ever had in the US. As I learned, to understand coffee in Italy is to appreciate the expression, “Great things come in small packages.”

Here’s how it’s done. First walk into a good café. The man or the woman behind the bar greets you with “Buon giorno” or “Prego.” Prego means welcome, among other things. For example, when you say “Grazie,” the usual reply is “Prego” (“You’re welcome”) although it could also be “Grazie Lei” (“Thank you”). But it seemed to me that prego can be used in situations where we might say “Hi” or “Can I help you?” or “What would you like?” For instance, it might the first thing a waiter says to you to you when he comes to your table. Unless I’m mistaken, it’s a sort of a catch-all greeting and, to my mind, epitomized the way Italians embrace you as their guest. Welcome!

So you step up to the bar, the barrista (for lack of a better word) says “Prego,” and you say: “Prendo un caffe” (“I’ll take a coffee”). Now, caffe in this case means “espresso.” I believe you can also say “caffe naturale” or just “naturale.” For example, you and two friends walk into a café and you order all the drinks: “Un cappuccino, un cafelatte, e un naturale.” (If any of you know for sure, feel free to correct me, but that was my impression.)

My point is this: coffee = espresso. Starbux, as far as I could see, has not arrived in Rome, and I doubt it would be successful. I don’t think the Italian culture could accommodate a Starbux, except maybe in pockets that are heavily American. Interestingly, as Morgan and I discovered, the English have no such compunction. We found Starbux all over in London.

But Rome isn’t London.

So you’ve ordered your caffe at the bar -- and that is very important. You haven’t gone to sit at a table to order your coffee, unless you’re in a group and you’re having more than just coffee. No, you stand at the bar, order your espresso, and in a minute or so it arrives. It’s in a tiny cup, maybe half full, maybe less. If it’s an excellent espresso, half of it is “crema,” that light brown airy part of the coffee that floats on top and signals a barrista who knows what he’s doing. By contrast, a weak espresso will have only the thinnest layer of crema, which disappears the moment you stir it.

And stir it you must -- with a minimum of one packet of sugar, but up to three if you have a particularly sweet tooth. (I usually add two.) The point is that espresso is a thick, sweet drink, one meant to be consumed in a moment. It’s usually 0,70 euro, but I paid as much as 0,90 euro and saw it as high as 1,20 euro. You stand at the bar, you order it quickly, you drink it quickly, you leave a few cents for the barrista, and you leave. You don’t wait in line. You don’t add half & half. You don’t hang out. You don’t use your Starbux card. You don’t give your name so it can be written on the cup. You don’t say “Venti soy decaf no foam latte.” In Italy, it’s simple: “Un caffe.” You order, you drink , you pay, you leave.

It’s a beautiful thing.

PS. How cool is this. I'm connected to the Internet while flying at 35,000 feet somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean?