Page 7 of I Think Olive You

In Puglia at last. I finally pull out the contract. Abundantia stares up at me like an accusation. I find precious little on the internet when I look up the name. There’s an old article about the farm in Italian that Google is trash at translating. The rest is about some ancient goddess. The address of the law office where the contract had been drawn up is in Gravina—a good fifty-some miles away, and after a full day of travel even I can’t ignore my body’s need for rest. As desperate as I am to get started on this whole endeavor, I’ll be useless without sleep. So, at the very least I can find a place to spend the night here. As much as it pains me, I ignore the contract and see about trying to find accommodations.

After a frustrating exchange of broken English and piss-poor Italian I have a room, a hot shower, and the sinking feeling that there’s a very strong possibility none of this will be as simple as I intended. Sleep drags me under almost the second my head hits the pillow and when I wake in the morning, I feel halfway human. I take a moment to enjoy an espresso and some breakfast, staring out at the sparkling waters of the Ionian Sea. Sunlight catches the ripples in the water of the gulf, seagulls squawking overhead, and it feels so far from New York I might be dreaming.

But then one of those fucking birds shits on my luggage and I’m reminded of the pigeons back home. Birds are assholes everywhere, it would seem. Scrambling to find something to clean it with, I take it as the omen that it is to get going. I swear if I could make eye contact with that little asshole his beady eyes would be saying “get out of here,” like he’s from a bad mafia movie. So, I get my ass in gear and hope this isn’t an indication of how the rest of this trip is going to go.

I approach a ticket window at the bus stop, pointing to the town's name on the contract and hoping for the best. The man behind the partition only scowls as if I’ve personally offended him. His bushy brows bend down into a severe frown. The impressive mustache he's sporting emphasizes the downturned brackets beside his mouth. He could be anywhere between thirty and fifty. His swarthy skin holds few wrinkles but his demeanor screams grumpy-older-man.

The attendant dismisses me with a backhanded wave and shakes his head. Through broken English and unintelligible Italian, I glean there are no buses for the rest of the day. My confused expression must soften the man because he sighs, hands me a pamphlet for Vespa rentals, and gestures to a building across the street with his thumb.

My phone’s power is on the brink of uselessness. I’ve forgotten to buy a converter at the airport, and the idea of being stranded sends anxiety rocketing through me.

Just get to Gravina. We’re so close.

The rental is about to shut for riposo but I flash a wad of euros, and fifteen minutes later, I wobble out with a sunny yellow vehicle. Handlebars in my grip, ownership papers for the Vespa in my backpack beside the contract—I push it out onto the street. It doesn’t make sense to rent one when I have no idea when I’ll ever get back here.

I strap my bag to the luggage rack on the back of the bike and straddle the seat. Engine sputtering, the sound jumps from a mild grumble to a roar when I twist the throttle and take off. Wobbling at first, jerking the handles in an attempt to keep the Vespa upright, it takes a minute for me to get used to the feeling of driving. Once I’m sure I’m not going to tip over spontaneously, I follow the rudimentary verbal directions I’ve been given (thanks to a now-dead phone) and eventually the road signs.

Gravina comes into view, its ancient aqueduct rising proudly. The town rests like a fortress on a hill—a remnant of the Middle Ages. My amazement grows as I venture deeper into town and traverse the twisting streets. Vendors display a wide array of products, fresh fruit, and other oddities. Another road is littered with small groupings of tables and chairs—people sipping wine. The music of rapid Italian and laughter follows me as I pass. How have I never known about this? How did my father walk away from all this life and beauty for the gridlocked, heart-attack-inducing misery of corporate New York?

I can only speculate. There’s no way to ask what it must have been like for him thirty years ago—how he grew up and if it was difficult. I might never get the chance to know now he’s dead and gone.

There’s no time to ruminate on bitterness over the past, not when the Vespa veers on the road a little as I try to soak it all up before it blurs past me. The airport was standard, the bus as I imagine most others. It’s here, in the country, further from the hub of tourism that I feel wonder start to spread through me. How long has it been since I’ve felt excited? Months? Years?

I can’t wait to trade vodka for limoncello, kale salad for homemade pasta, and American kisses for the famed fire of Italian women.

All I have to do is find a hotel. No big deal. I’m a big boy—Italian by blood, if not by culture. If I have any chance of taking over a piece of property on this side of the world, I better start learning how to navigate. Hence the Vespa and the shirt buttoned lower than I usually would. Wind whips through my dark curls under the helmet, mussing them, cooling the sweat from my body beneath the linen shirt.

Cobblestoned streets send uneven bumps through my arms, and I round a corner I’m sure has to lead to a hotel. I’ve been up and down this area multiple times, and this is the last street I haven’t tried. Too preoccupied with looking up at the few signs I can see up above the entryways, I hear her yell just in time.

My hands crush the brakes in my grip. The Vespa’s tires screech loudly, echoing against the buildings on either side of the narrow street. The roaring of my heart fills my ears, dulling the world around me until her voice pierces the fuzz.

“Che cazzo stai facendo!” she shouts, not even three feet from my face. Rage twists on her face but she’s beautiful in her fury. Pushing her hair back in frustration, she huffs out an angry breath. The lustrous silk of her dark strands distracts me from the fact that I’ve very nearly hit her head on. How do women get their hair that shiny?

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, senseless for what must be the millionth time in my life, though rarely over a woman.

“American?” she accuses more than asks. Watching with amusement, I wonder if she’s going to spit at the ground in my general direction. Her demeanor gives off that vibe. She’s justified. I deserve it.

“Yes. Again, I truly am sorry. I’m lost and I was preoccupied.” The words feel clunky leaving my mouth. As she stares me dead in the eye, my usual charm evaporates—brain empty.

“Typical.” Gesturing at me, she mutters under her breath and bends to gather up the canvas tote bag she dropped in her haste to get out of my way. I’d be a fool and a liar to say my eyes don’t catch on her generous curves as she retrieves what she can. It’s a lost cause, though.

Oranges roll down the street, and whatever bottles were in there have crashed to the road. Thick syrupy liquid drips from one corner and onto the cobblestones below. The other corner spreads red wine like a bloom of blood, soaking the fabric.

“Please, let me make it up to you.”

Why haven’t I shut up yet? There’s no way she wants anything to do with me now. As far as first impressions go… near-death isn’t the most endearing start.

Bag retrieved, she breathes deep and releases it slowly before looking at me. I catch myself watching her lush chest rise and fall.

God, stop being such an asshole. You almost killed her and now you can’t stop checking her out?

“It’s not necessary. I think you’ve done enough.” Ire colors her voice and she turns to leave, stumbling slightly.

“I feel terrible. At least let me reimburse you for the mess I made?” Maybe if I keep trying? Something in my chest flutters, uncertain. Why does it matter to me at all?

“I appreciate the offer but,” she says over her shoulder, a frown carving into her tanned skin as she waves me off.

“Okay… Honestly, I do want to help you, but it’s for selfish reasons. I’m so far out of my depth here. I’m afraid I’m going to have to find the nearest fish and catch it with my bare hands to avoid starving. My phone is dead. I don’t speak a lick of Italian, and I’m a little desperate.” My stomach gives an impressive gurgle as if to punctuate the direness of the situation.