“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” T. S. Eliot
After Massimo and I finished our grand hike across Romania on the Via Transilvanica, we spent two day in Drobeta and another day and a half in Craiova before flying to Bologna, Italy.
Craiova was a lovely and lively city – maybe the best we experienced in Romania – and I wish we would have spent more time there. We even ate sushi – my favorite – twice!
Now I’m staying in Bologna for a few days while Massimo returns home for a few previously scheduled engagements before he takes me hiking – yes, MORE hiking…just what my legs have been dying to do more of – in his beloved country.
I can always tell when I am back in Italy. There are signs.
I’ve been to Bologna before and have already seen most of the touristy bits, so honestly, my plan is to do absolutely nothing.
I want slow days of resting, eating good food, people-watching from cafés, and drinking copious quantities of coffee.
This morning, I went for a short walk. My body hasn’t quite figured out that the hike is actually over and that we aren’t going to be walking 13 miles/20 km a day anymore.
I think it’s confused.
It seems to believe I’m simply on a temporary break. Which, depending on what Massimo has in store for these hikes might be true.
I stopped at a trendy little café with streamers representing the Pride flag – or maybe they just like rainbows. 🌈
A lovely woman with a few streaks of purple in her hair was working behind the counter.
She was helping a man and when it was my turn, in Italian she asked me what I would like.
Obviously, she recognized immediately that I was not Italian. Everyone does but most people think I’m German or Swedish – not American. This is funny to me because I feel like the all-American girl.
Perhaps it was the blonde hair.
Or the hiking boots.
Or the brightly colored clothes.
Probably all three.
“Un cappuccino, per favore,” I said in my very bad Italian accent.
She giggled.
“Mi dispiace, non parlo Italiano.”
“I know. It’s okay,” she replied with a big smile.
It’s the gesture that counts, not the accuracy, I told myself.
Quietly, I watched her every move with a little grin on my face as she cleaned the previous espresso from the machine and pulled the handle on the grinder, which responded with an awful, angry noise.
I watched as she tamped the freshly ground coffee firmly into the basket of the portafilter and locked it into the machine.
Then two little streams of dark espresso began filling the white ceramic cup.
She was already busy frothing the milk, using the steam wand to create the perfect combination of warm milk and foam. She swirled the milk, tapped the metal pitcher twice against the counter, and then poured it into the coffee.
Her hand moved back and forth, then in a little swirl.
And there it was.
A tiny heart on top of my cappuccino.
I smiled.
When she counted out my change, she counted it twice to double-check it.
“Don’t worry, I won’t know the difference.”
We both laughed.
The moment reminded me of my first time in Italy. It was in April 2002, during my college student exchange program in Prague. My roommate and best friend, Squint, and I spent 10 days traveling through Italy, starting in Rome and making our way to Florence and Venice.
That was when I first fell in love with Italy.
The history. The food. The art. The people. The hand gestures. The architecture. The Vespas.
Did I mention the food?
But if I’m being completely honest, I think I loved the coffee culture the most.
I was fascinated by it.
Especially in Rome, where people moved at a ridiculously fast pace – much like I did when I lived in New York City – but somehow, they always made time for an espresso.
…And usually a cigarette.
I remember thinking there must be more coffee bars in Italy than there are fountains – drinking fountains and monument fountains combined.
This experience inspired me so much that I took a class on coffee and worked in a coffee shop on nights and weekends when I returned to the US in 2002. Whenever I am in a region of the world that grows coffee, I visit a local farm and ask a million questions.
And after all these years, I still love the ritual of it.
Coffee in Italy isn’t just a drink, it is the great equalizer…and connector.
It doesn’t matter how much money you have or don’t have. It doesn’t matter what you do for a living, if you are single or married, or what part of the country you live in – whether you’re in a bustling city or a tiny village in the countryside.
You can walk into a café, stand at the counter, order a coffee, and for a few minutes, you’re simply another person enjoying one of life’s little pleasures.
Everyone can afford it. €1.20 for an espresso, €2 for a cappuccino.
Everyone has access to it.
Everyone can enjoy it.
Many people form friendships because of it.
There aren’t many luxuries in life that can do that.
And maybe that’s why, after two months of walking across Romania, I was so happy to sit down in Bologna with a cup of coffee and a little heart on top.
I wasn’t rushing to pack my backpack.
I wasn’t hiking.
I wasn’t trying to get somewhere.
I was simply there. In the moment.
And for now, that’s exactly where I want to be.
By the way, it was delicious. ☕️
Much love & gratitude. Namaste 🙏
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Oh, and one more thing…
There was one thing Massimo scolded me about not including in my final post from the hike.
I forgot to include our Machiavelli score update.
Shame on me.
I’m particularly surprised he wanted this included since I beat him so badly – he is the best loser I’ve ever played with.
We played a few more games on our days off and even got in a few rounds at the airport while waiting for our flight.
So, without further ado, here is the latest:
Massimo: 19 | Emily: 29
He’s smiling because he knows he’s about to lose again.
As my friend Al Fitzmorris, a Major League Baseball player, who once told me he led the league in wild pitches in the ’70s, said, “Em, you gotta lead the league in something.”
What a Champ.
