Six Planes for a Good Cup of Coffee

Everyone knows how much I like a good cup of coffee. So I set out in search of it. Detroit to New York to Madrid to Milano, then two hours down to Modeno.

The drive down from Milano was quick as a "professional" was at the wheel. He spoke nearly no English but had my Italian beat by about 100 words. I tried playing the "How do you say 'X' in Italiano?" The game didn't go over so well, as I just couldn't seem to get the idea across that I was asking him to help me learn some words. The only exception was the word "rain" and I have already forgotten how to say it because of sheer exhaustion from the previous failures. On the way back I had the same driver, we both decided it was best I investigate the landscape in detail.

I stayed in a very nice hotel next to downtown. The elevator said it would hold four personne but I'm glad I was the only one ever in it. The room was one of the smallest I've ever stayed in but it was just my size.

In the narrow back wall behind long, dense curtains, was a balcony door that opened to the full width of the room. The room was stuffy as none of the power is activated until you put your room key into an interior slot. Such a sensible requirement, like only passing on the left.

My bathroom surprised me with its relative opulent size. It certainly wasn't large, but again just my size. I was immediately intrigued by the two toilet like objects. One was certainly a traditional toilet although square and rather squat sans the back tank part. The other was a boday, I'd seen then before but not in a while. I turned the water on for a bit and tried to image what I would with it. Not sure why I thought someone would rush in and catch me playing with it, but quickly turned it off and pretended never to notice it again.

Then there was the long cord with red tab that was in my shower as well as some public bathrooms. My first instinct of course was to pull it to see what it did. But then I had this image of me in the shower with a shocked look on my face as four emergency crew members bust down the door.

I did some walking around after freshening up. It as a beautifully Italian town; twisty streets, hidden courtyards, little cafes, people riding bikes, old men sipping coffee and elaborate architecture from at least a million years ago.

It took me some time to finally decide to sit down somewhere. I guess because I grew up in a foreign speaking family, I have never been comfortable not knowing the language. After pretending to look around, I asked someone young looking for a coffee and water. They had to look towards this older woman who had to ask again what I wanted. This is the time I so prayed I could just play the part of accidental tourist.

The chair I sat in wobbled on the cobblestone, my ashtray was full of someone elses butts and abandoned gum. My coffee was great, all three tiny sips. After the required minimum sitting time and number of nods at the statues in the plaza were both reached, I decided to leave. I forgot to research the etiquette of tipping so I decided to leave none. I figured I'd rather be a nasty American then a dumb one. As it turned out I ended up being only a nervous looking one.

I went to a traditional family restaurant for dinner. Seven tables, one sitting. The owner immediately brought our a few mini breaded deep fried meatballs, he tells us its his grandmothers recipe. There could have been anything inside, even the missing apron string.

He then brought out what they called a scampi, but it looked like a crayfish playing the part of a mini lobster. It must have been doubly hard for it to appear dignified as it was sticking half way out of a glass filled with asparagus puree. After I ate the sliver of meat off its tail, I set it aside on a separate plate tucking in its mini-me claws in so it appeared to be angry. Hey at least I ate your tail, looks like your buddy at the other table was simply set aside as a garnish, I thought.

The main course was a huge section, not slice, of a local cow. It was mostly raw, no processing, no seasoning, lots of fat. A phase from the Old Testament kept coming to my mind "an aroma pleasing to the Lord". A salt mixture on the side was its only companion. I'll be digesting this meat until at least the Republicans get back into office.

The highlight however was what the owner called pre-dessert. It was a small dollop of ice cream with parmesan cheese and a dripping of very thick balsamic vinegar. Any other place and you would have thought "hmmm nice, a little ice cream with white chocolate flakes and syrup". Now I have to admit, I'll try anything and pretend to like it. And by pretend I mean to rely on my super power to genuinely not care that I don't really love to not, not like something. Its a gift I'm particularly thankful for and normally comes in handy. I did not call on it in this case.

This dish was truly amazing. I didn't specifically want to love it, but I did. This wasn't the "want this everyday" kind of love, but rather the "I love this moment" type. The parmesan taste was not an accent flavor but instead the primary one. The owner cleared this up by saying that when he made the geleto, after the cream boils he adds equal parts parmesan as cream. I was going to stand up, put my fingers to my lips and yell "Magnifisento!!" but just couldn't muster up the courage.

It was a good trip. I've always enjoyed discovering the various cultural flavors of the world, I only wish I had more opportunity.

One thing I noticed a few times on this trip is that the Italians, and I think this is true for most of the southern Europeans, is that if anyone even asks them for directions they will not only go out of their way to help but they will also walk you over to where you are going. In fact, once I saw two gentlemen come out of a business to help and then after arguing a bit, they both walked this guy down and around the corner and watched him until he walked out of sight.