The Dinner Party

I had my first dinner party in my new apartment for Davide’s last night in Bologna; he left today for France.

He took me grocery shopping, and after we returned to my place with the ingredients, we shared a bottle of wine and he spoke to me in English. I am often drowning in French or swept away by Italian, so it was nice to have a good conversation in my own language. I am more certain than ever that language and communication define the soul; to be so without my words can become homesickening. Davide said not to worry, not to be hard on myself; that the language will come with patience and hard work, that learning takes time and will be better because of this struggle.

Then we cooked. Chicken and couscous and zucchini and carrots and mushrooms and cannellini and onions and oils and spices to perfection. And Tabasco sauce. Thank God.

Irene and Alessandro showed up and we ate and drank and talked. Irene made crepes while Alessandro washed dishes before we went out. 

The hours passed, the night ended, and the air was cold and sharp when we said goodnight to each other.

 

Saying goodbye to Davide, someone I’ve known for only a fortnight, was both strange and bittersweet. The amount of time spent together coupled with my lack of connections here sparked a dear attachment. And truly, we are very similar people at heart. I will miss him. 

I have learned not to hold tightly with clenched fists any moment, any person, any experience--probably ignited by how uprooted I have been, living in this new place with these new words. I have begun to accept arrivals and departures with an open heart, with outstretched hands. With recognition of this temporality, a radiant existence in every moment with each person becomes gloriously enjoyable in its illumination of life’s profound beauty.

But still, verb forms and street names and coinage allude my comprehension.