Sometimes, Good Plane-Karma kicks in, and we find ourselves next to an empty seat! We hold our breath with every passing passenger. We put a magazine or a purse trying to hold the seat, as if to reserve it. Good luck with that, I say… if it works.
On a flight out of New York, the good karma flew straight over my head, making a beeline for someone presumably more meritorious. Just as the doors were closing, a six-footer trundled towards the seat.
I sheepishly removed the magazine and my purse, and gestured towards the seat. He reciprocated with a chivalrous nod and “Signora”. Ah, an Italian. Benissimo. Instead of stretching out on two seats, I would at least get to practice a little Italian on the way to Milan.
The way Marino recounted it later, is that I practiced a lot of Italian. In fact, he said that I did not stop talking the whole seven-hour flight. (So I am not known for my reticence, I admit).
Well, that’s his version. Long story short, thanks to my wonderful conversational skills, combined with my charming personality, I was offered an invitation to stay at his house. I did ask him whether his wife was used to him picking up strange, garrulous women on flights, but apparently, it is modus operandi for most Italian men, be it on airplanes, or anywhere else for that matter. If one were to include the word ‘sexy’ (being one of the crucial criteria), it would be the modus operandi for all Italian men.
I declined the invitation to stay at their house, though taking them up on their offer for the tour of Milan. Marino and Donatella not only gave me the royal tour of Milan, but generously included my friend Herbie, who was visiting from London, as well. We saw La Scala, the Duomo and the Galleria and most importantly, they had procured tickets to see the Last Supper, followed by our supper – one which (thankfully) did not involve the killing of anything that once flew, swam, crawled or walked.
I have been known to proclaim it from the rooftops that I am an avid and passionate vegetarian, always ready with my proselytizing shtick: Going vegetarian is good for the environment, good for your health, good for the animal’s health... yada, yada, yada.
But Herbie was not buying it and was in denial, even as our hosts led us to the micro-biotica restaurant. He opened the menu eagerly looking for Bistecca Milanese. None. Cotoletta? Nope. Osso Bucco? I don’t think so. It was a good thing our hosts could not understand the profanity under cover of the menu. He had flown for the day especially from London in anticipation of some carnivorous, gastronomical meal which involved the willful slaughter of some kind of animal, any animal or failing that, anything that had a face.
“How about fish?” he implored our cameriere. Non. No Vongole. Mi dispiace signor. No Scampi either. Mi scusi, signor.
Audible noises were emanating from his stomach. As the food arrived, I avoided looking in his direction, fearing instant incineration. Our primo was two stalks of broccoli arranged daintily atop a risotto al funghi. The secondo arrived: three stalks of asparagus (also arranged daintily) atop creamed spinach. The main dish: four sprigs of parsley atop four polenta quenelles. By the time the dessert arrived, I could still hear his stomach. Or maybe it was just his arteries popping with anticipation at what he was going to do to me and my vegetarian self.
After we were dropped back to the hotel, I was dragged to the bar to help him drown his sorrows of the sorrowful meal. Unlike him, at least I had the decency to drink what was placed in front of me without complaint.
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