Dixie's Travelogue - Part 2
Lazy Days of Soccer
By Dixie Fried

My days in Italy were languid. After a few weeks, I already felt like I was there a year. I was slowly forgetting my problems back in NY. I lazily walked around town, ate, slept, wrote and read. This became my routine day after day.

After being there for about a week, I saw a handsome man coming out of the post office. My heart leapt when I realized it was Michele, my first love. A torrent of memories flooded my head. We had a short-lived romance when we were both 15. Because I had to go back to America after that summer, I pined hard for him. He was the first boy to tell me I was beautiful–and he told me in Italian. I think that was the exact moment I fell in love with him. I used to ride with him on back of his scooter, with me clutching his scrawny waist, screaming with laughter. It didn’t get better than that for a girl from Philadelphia. Our relationship ended before the summer did; I was a virgin and wouldn’t have sex with him. He didn’t take it too well. Despite his adolescent callousness about my sexual status, we remained good friends, and I was still smitten. When I went back to school in Philadelphia, I felt like I couldn’t live without him. Because I had to leave him and everything I loved in Italy behind, I dreamt about those days, and thought about him constantly. I’m sure if I grew up with him, I would’ve gotten fed up with him in a matter of weeks. But I was at Lamberton High School, instead of in the town in Abruzzo. I pined for him through my teenage years–and my twenties for that matte! r--with a bittersweetness. What if?

At that moment, he looked at me, grinning a winning smile. I limply waved back. He was only 31 years old, but he had a mess of salt and pepper hair. But his face, my god! He was tan, with laughing eyes, a roman nose, and full lips. I don’t usually go for good-looking guys, but given the memories and the fact that he was fucking beautiful, I was stammering.

He came over and hugged me. I couldn’t stop staring at his mouth, opening and closing around beautiful Italian words. Memories were swirling around my head as he asked me questions about my life. Oh, I work with journalists and musicians, I told him. I thought of the first time I laid eyes on him, banging on drums and singing Little Richard’s "Lucille."

"That’s interesting work," he said. I smiled dumbly.

He told me he owns an art store, and asked me to visit him one day. I thought of him bending me over a desk in his store and taking me from behind as I screamed, "Mamma Mia!" I smiled, and said, "I’ll try and do that." Before he walked away, he winked at me. I thought I imagined it, but he actually winked. I pictured him wearing gold chains glistening in the sun. Why did he have to wink?

As I learned in the next few days, winking was popular among Italian men (and boys over the age of 12, for that matter). I felt like a prize cow the townsfolk were trying to win. Every man found an opportunity to stop me and ask me something.

"Is it true that you write for the New York Times?"

"You worked in the World Trade Center?"

"You won prizes for your writing?"

I was shocked by these questions. Where did they get these ideas? I spent my entire summer correcting them.

"No, I don’t write for the New York Times, I hardly write at all…."

"I didn’t work in the World Trade Center; in fact, I don’t even have a job!"

With all these men flirting with me, my ego was given a much needed boost, and I was actually embarrassed over the attention paid to me by the men in town. It had nothing to do with what I looked like, and everything to do with the fact that I was American. They all wanted to know what it was like to fuck an American girl. Apparently, we’re all sluts. And until I actually dated someone, they though I was fair territory. Even the town doctor fell over himself trying to talk to me, and he gave me free allergy medicine on several occasions. I was tempted to ask him for valium, but I was already causing enough scandal in my town. ! I was so self-conscious every time I walked out of my aunt’s house, that I took to staying inside unless I was with someone else.

It turned out that Michele was engaged to a really cute blond. I felt guilty about daydreaming of him ripping my clothes off the day I saw him. I was really confused by his actions: he’d either completely ignore me or be super friendly to me, and it wasn’t dependent on if his girlfriend was around. Every so often he’d throw me another awful Italian wink. I just wanted to be friendly with him; we had a history together, and I didn’t understand this weirdness from him.

Michele was a great soccer player, and there were all sorts of local tournaments happening. The guys from Rocco San Maria would play the guys from Isola, and the guys from the prosciutto store would be play the guys in my town. All of the little hillside towns participated. These games were their source of entertainment, and the tournaments lasted all summer. The closest field was 8 kilometeres down the mountain road, and night after night, I’d go watch these games while eating rosticini (lamb meat on a stick) and drink a Baffo D’Oro beer.

As much as I was enjoying my mellow days here, I was starting to itch for some adventure, some excitement, and, hell, some sex. Even the town doctor was starting to look good to me. I made plans the next day to go to Como, then to visit a friend in Amsterdam. My coming weeks promised to be more decadent.

To be continued…….