"The pasta waits for no one."
                            ~Davaagni

This is a literal and figurative truth I discovered several times over the last nineteen days, always deliciously. My visit to Carmagnola, a town 30 minutes south of Torino, was as a guest of Davaagni, a man I connected with in Siwa Oasis nearly two years ago. I arrived on Christmas Eve and after a welcome drink at a friend's bar, was given a tour of the beer pub he's been managing since the beginning of December, etchings and all, al hamdulilah. You can't see the smile on my face, but it is there. I smiled a lot in Carmagnola.

We spent that evening at his sister's house eating course after delightful course of Calabrian-inspired food, the likes of which I've never seen in California. Not one of the ten family members at this gathering spoke English, so I communicated mostly through the universal oohs and ahhs of gustatory pleasure, switching from my French accent to one vaguely Italian. His mother, Rosella, decided that somehow I could understand her fairly well if she repeated the same Italian phrase often and loudly enough. We found this game such fun that we've become quite animated conversationalists, with my comprehension rate growing from 0 to maybe 40%, my gesticulations evolving into a hybrid of Piedmontese and Calabrian punctuation.

Christmas Day dawned earlier than our late night warranted, but Dava was hosting twenty-five family members at his pub for the holiday lunch. His chef, Alberto, is originally from Argentina and a very creative cook. The antipasti was so prolonged I thought that maybe this was a picnic sort of lunch, with salmon and lentils, salame, prosciutto, speck, cheeses, olives, breads, wine, etc. etc. This was not the case however, as we ate for the next three hours foods for which there are no translations. I told his family that I hoped this would not occur everyday or I would become a grassa ragazza (fat girl), and was quite relieved to hear that my first two Italian meals were indeed special ones.

That evening we drove to Torino to see the lights: after a similar introduction to Paris, I've become enamoured with these glorious first impressions of what can by drizzly day be rather gloomy, though detailed, cities. Turin is a handsome place, full of porticoed promenades, cafes, restaurants, shops and brick boulevards. In the central square we found a fully populated life-size nativity scene, a fantasy I remember walking over narrow bridges to view. Nearby is a large domed building whose identity I forget, but it is lit in brilliant indigo, a spectral cobalt blue outshining any competitive efforts by the sky. A drive away is the Mole Antonelliana, a synagogue of remarkable proportions, its tall aluminum spire shooting high and brightly into the night. At two p.m. we met with a friend at a smoky café, a continuing challenge for my pure California lungs, since almost all Italians smoke constantly.

After a couple of nights sleeping at a friend's house, I moved to Conchetta's, Dava's recently widowed sister. Her daughter, Rozanna, generously gave me her room for a week while she slept with her mother. My effort to overcome jetlag was thwarted a bit by my new job: at seven each night I went to the pub with Dava, where I delivered drinks and food, bussed tables, and became a well-received novelty act, probably the only American in Carmagnola in the dark of winter. My Italian vocabulary has grown slowly, my slang a little more quickly, and my non-verbal communication is well honed. The place, Saks Pub, closes at three in the morning; we then spend a half-hour cleaning up, an hour or so to visit, then to bed by 4:30 or 5. I felt like a nocturnal animal bordering on vampirism, squinting in the afternoon overcast, having a full lunch the minute I jumped out of the shower, vino for breakfast. The pasta waits for no one.

Very soon, it seemed, New Year's Eve was upon us. Dava had given me a vague sketch of what we might do, so I decided to just go along and let the evening unfold. Something about France and not sleeping all night: living in mystery when I travel is part of the adventure, so I inquired no further. It sounded intriguing enough for me. Nino, a friend of his from Turin, joined us for a drive to Ventimiglia, the last Italian town before the border of France. Here we met Tony and Mariana who guided us up a steep, sinuous hillside road to an inn where yet more friends were gathering for an Italian sparkler. An hour or so later, we took a quick drive down to the sea for dinner at another couple's flat where we may have stayed longer, had not the "boys" arrived with a small arsenal of fireworks, sticks as big as dynamite. Mariana couldn't tolerate much proximity to either the boys or their toys, so we fled before the war began. Hopping into the cars for a fast (there is no other adjective for Italian driving) ride to a promontory above Nice, we reveled in the glorious midnight fireworks with long sips from a magnum of champagne. Kisses, wishes and a prayer later, we were in the year 2000. It felt very Italian, very European, a real moveable feast, and I was thrilled to not know what might happen next.

Five minutes later, we were on the streets of Nice, which were alive and crawling with people celebrating in French, Italian and precious little English. We roamed, magnum in hand, hand in hand, laughing, joking, watching the scene, for what must have been hours. I'd given up being tired and had settled in with a second wind, which I rode all the way to Tony's family's summer home, where we were to spend the morning sleeping. Not, however, until Dava saw the sun rise on the new millennium's first day. So, yes, back into the car, with a snoring Nino, we parked on the shore to wait for the sun. I jumped out and ran around to stay awake, threw rocks into the Mediterranean Sea, did a rock-running meditation, and waited while god painted the low clouds in pastel pinks, faint golds, and pale pewter greys, all against the luminous blue background of infinity. A full two hours later, the sun finally slipped from behind a cloud, already well on its way up the firmament. Blessed by its kiss, we said hello, goodbye, good morning, and flew back to the freezing rock house to climb into our respective little beds. I wrote until ten to make it a full 24 hours of staying awake and alive. Happy New Year… indeed!

Back in Carmagnola, I moved into Dava's guestroom downstairs, full of warm light, computers, Balinese furniture and music. He is staying with his mother while he gets the pub up and running: it's not unusual for Italian men to temporarily fly back to the nest, even in their 30's. Breakfast (lunch) with the Signora was a lively event every day - she is a feisty, witty 76 year-old with energy and optimism to spare. We laughed and gestured our way through many plates of pasta and risotto, into the cheeses and salame, way past the mandarins, biscotti and coffee. If I stayed one month with her, I would be fluent in Italian and infused with the memories of her beloved Calabrian home. As it is, she will be a fond memory of my first visit to bellisimo Italia.

On the 12^th, Dava bid me a temporary ciao bella, ci vediamo as I boarded the train for Rome. From what I saw of the Italian country side during that six hour ride, I have a very strong feeling this will not be my last trip to Italy: I was simply astonished. From Rome I flew to Tunis, where I sit now in the bedroom of my friend Monia. I think of you all in this moment and send my love, Zena

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