Regionalizing in Flavor

My apartment room in Florence. Neighborhood, Poggetto.

Piazza del Duomo, Pietrasanta, not far from Viareggio.

I blew out my electric razor a couple days ago with an ill-fitted power adapter. So I shaved with a razorblade for the first time. Although I'm not sure that if in Italy, Gillette is the best a man can get.

Italians may lose their faith, but they'll never lose their religion. Every hill down in Tuscany is crowned with a campanile. The soil here is rich, you can tell just by looking at it. From the train window it looks yellow-brown, and out of it sprout vineyard after vineyard. The strongest roots cling to the rockiest earth, all for the best sunshine.

On Saturday I got off the train at Viareggio with a crowd of African immigrants that I'd later see on the beach, selling their counterfeit sunglasses, their bracelets, their beach towels.

The clouds swept away as we walked past the rows of orange and teal umbrellas and volleyball nets. The beach was long and wide. I lost beach rackets to my friend Serena twice. Her longtime boyfriend Stefano doesn't speak English, but he loves the sound it makes. I told him I wished I could hear what sound English makes without understanding anything.

I fell asleep on the beach. "Little shrimp," they call you when you turn pink in the sun. Thanks, Stefano, thanks.

Serena introduced me to cecina, basically, Italian fried dough. It's oily, it's crusty, it's soft on the inside, it's kind of like pizza with the consistency of an omelet. Delicious. Dinner for eight at the Marradi household is an act of provincial theatre. Signora sheds compliments and accepts no help in the kitchen. The homemade limoncello she makes is like Italian girls. It's sweet, and packs a punch. Her husband grumbles after a day's work as an engineer, but the regional wine calms him into a tender father proud of his English skills. The man has a raggy 1994 road atlas of the US.

Night in Viareggio. I sat in the backseat of the Fiat with Silvia, Serena's sister, as the four of us passed discoteca after discoteca, girls tottering along in high heels, and bright red Ferraris in our rear-view mirrors.

Sunday, I woke up at 12:30 to the sound of clinking plates and silverware. Soon enough, I was eating a thick and bloody Bistecca alla Fiorentina, the tenderest. I continued to get drilled on "American Questions."

As I returned, it rained. The train was full of disappointed faces in beachwear.

Salute. E forza.
-a