All this talk about how they’re gonna arrest the Holy Father and make him do a Pope walk in handcuffs reminds me of my only weekend in Italy. In Rome. In the Vatican City. That is where this little story takes place.
It was 1997, J.P. was still Pope, Clinton was still president (pre-Lewinsky), all was going right in the world and Americans were not as despised as they would re-become 3+ short years later.
I had just done the Neutron Dance around St. Peter’s with the rest of the tourists. Been there, done that now, as we said back then. I venture into the neighborhood adjoining Vatican City, looking for a spot of lunch.
Finding this delightful trattoria is a godsend. I sit down amid the lunch crowd (it was about 2 p.m. I guess) and peruse the menu. I don’t speak Italian. And in August in Rome, the only Italians left around are those not able to afford a cottage by the sea: the service workers. The shopkeepers and waiters, etc. They do not speak English. At all.
So the waiter comes over and I point to what I want on the menu. A certain pizza, and a glass of wine. He makes this whole thing much more difficult than it needs to be. He’s really awkward. Like he’s afraid just of the fact that we don’t speak the same language. I draw him a little picture of a wine glass on the napkin, and I draw a little pizza. I specify “rosso” for the type of wine. We chuckle together and he leaves.
He comes back with a full caraffe of wine. I only wanted a glass. I say no no no, I don’t want this much, I’m alone and I don’t want to get wasted right now (and I don’t want to pay for this much, I’m thinking). Just a glass. Verra? Uno verro? I’m trying here.
He makes an exaggerated helpless arm gesture. I’m smiling and doing a switcheroo hand gesture, like, please take this back and bring me (I point to drawing of glass on napkin) a GLASS?
He shuffles backwards apologetically and summons his manager.
The manager and he exchange some Italian. Very brief. I’m waiting patiently.
The manager takes the caraffe away on a tray and comes right back and pulls the little table out away from me and makes, ironically, the polite-looking “after you” sideways sweep with his arms.
He wants me to leave. Because I don’t speak Italian. And I’m a troublemaker. For not speaking Italian.
I’m not a troublemaker, I just want lunch.
Everyone’s looking over at me. I’m outnumbered, outflanked, outassholed by these …Vatican City bullies.
Out of the torrent of humiliation, hurt feelings, but mostly humiliation, the two rather pedestrian words “Fuck You” explode from my mouth like two different kinds of firecracker.
My head’s full of hot, hot blood getting hotter as I hurry out.
They have no comeback to “Fuck You” because they don’t speak English and I guess have never seen any American movies or TV shows? So, just to be crystal, crystal clear, I call upon a little piece of Italian I suddenly remember: “Vaffanculo!” I shout when I’m safely on the sidewalk, and give them the backwards hand flick from under my chin.
Look it up if you don’t know what it means. Or I can draw you a picture.
Tags: Bill Clinton, international incidents, Italy, Monica Lewinsky, outrages, Pizza, Pope Benedict XVI, Pope John Paul II, Rome, trattorias, Vatican City, wine