Una mano di tenere (A hand to hold)

"I'll take a cappuccino, please."

I say it in English, stumbling over my thoughts...realizing how strange it sounds to order a cappuccino in any language--other than Italian.

Despite my disappointment in having to order in English, I suddenly get excited for what it is to come--my first cappuccino in nearly twenty days, my first mug of something other than a Dunkin cup of coffee, my first mug of froth and espresso...my first hand to hold, by an arm that hangs off the side of a beautiful artistic, original, unique cafe mug...

Wait a second.

I look at what is placed in front of me. 'Is that a soup bowl?' My thoughts get disheveled. My friends are speaking, but I don't hear them. I look at it again, and I think, 'At least it's not made of styrofoam, but similar to my Dunkin coffee, something is missing...there is no hand to hold,' I pout quietly to myself. The Le Pain Quotidien waitress has placed an armless mug in front of me--an amputated mug. I almost want to ask if this mug has gone through battle, if the arm had to be removed due to some fight it got in with a teacup in the dishwasher. But I sit quietly.

I manage to get a few words out to my friends, "The foam looks fabulous," I say out loud, and I let my friend, who has ordered a simple cup of coffee to dip her spoon in for a taste.

'But there's no hand to hold,' I repeat in my head.

For $4.15, I want a hand to hold.

I cup my hands around the bowl-like mug. The mug is warm and burns the tips of my fingers. Instead of a hand to hold, a comforting hand that lets my fingers stay cool while a warm pool of espresso and milk touches the insides of my mouth, I am getting a full, blown, on-fire hug. I love hugs, adore them, but this one hurts...this one burns.

I put the mug down, and dip my spoon, in order to indulge in the bubbles that I am faced with.

'Tasty.'

I reach to put my hands, again, around the cappuccino, hoping this hug will be more comforting.

It isn't.

I swallow my words, and continue to dip my spoon in shoveling bubbles into my mouth. On the outside I seem like I am in pure happiness, but on the inside I am calming myself from doing something utterly and ultimately disastrous. 'I could go into the back kitchen and search for a mug that hasn't gone through battle...I could go down the street to buy a new mug--This is Manhattan--there'd have to be a mug store somewhere...right?'

But I sit. And I sip. And I put my hands around the bowl as it begins to cool. And I give it one last hug with my hands, and I think: 'Oh you poor little cappuccino mug...you could have had so much potential.'

Il Meglio (The Best)

Una Posizione di Mattina (One Morning Stand)

"Drink me," My cappuccino says calmly. "Love me," my cappuccino adds.

It is teasing me. It knows how much I enjoy looking at it, going googly-eyed over it, and drinking it. But I don’t want it to go away just yet, because when the cup is empty, then that cappuccino is gone—then the best conversation of the day is already over.

While the foam upon my espresso cannot literally open up a mouth between bubbles to actually speak to me, somehow we talk back and forth every day, revealing our deepest feelings, and our biggest hopes. It tells me when it is too hot or cold and I tell it when I am satisfied or not.

That’s right, I am having a relationship with my cappuccino. And while each one serves as a “One Morning Stand,” I can always trust the friendly cup of Joe to listen, without interruption. Some days, I can even see the coffee smiling at me—or frowning, as if it knows exactly how I am feeling.

Today I have returned to the Jolly Café on the corner, to visit my love Roberto. This will be my fourth cappuccino at the Jolly Café. I enjoy coming here, because while Roberto knows no English, he seems to be the only one to truly understand the relationship that I have with my cappuccino each day. I no longer have to speak to Roberto, as he knows my order by heart. It is as if he and the ingredients were joking back and forth before I walked into the café. I think the milk is probably saying, “Go light on me today,” while the chocolate probably adds, “Treat her special today, give a little extra of me.”

Roberto watches me as a I stare at my cappuccino with bright eyes, then as I intake the heavenly smell of the chocolate on top, and then of course as I take the first sips. He then observes as I carefully remove my journal from my backpack and begin to write of my latest, wonderful cappuccino. He knows that this is a serious relationship that may never be broken apart. You see, it is a relationship where no hearts will get broken.

However, I often wonder what my cappuccino might say if it could use real words with me rather than imagined forms of facial expressions.

Would it tell me that it loved me back? Or would it tell me that it truly hated our time together, that I drink it too fast or too slow or that I cherish it too much?

I imagine it taking on the voice of the candle stick in Beauty and the Beast, singing to me songs of joy, romance, and happiness. But maybe it would take on the deep voice of Scar from the Lion King, and yell at me about how I drink it too much, and that if I keep drinking it each day, it will no longer bring me happiness, that it, filled with whole milk, will make me fat, and that it actually despises my every day brooding.

And then I wonder if it would speak in Italian or English, and if it would understand a word of what I said.

Would it laugh at my jokes and cry tears of espresso with my sadness?

I think if my cappuccino could talk, I might tell it all of it’s wonderful qualities, why I feel the way I feel about it and how I envision us together every single day for the rest of my future. I would explain how it comforts me with simplicity and how I love that it always offers me a hand to hold by reaching out to me through the side of a mug. Yes, I am having a deeply involved relationship with my cappuccino…and if it could talk, I would get down on one knee, and propose…Yes I think if I could—I would marry my cappuccino.

Una Pozzanghera di Cappuccino (A Puddle of Cappuccino)

Puddles, Puddles, Puddles, and More Puddles. Drip-Drop, Drip-Drop, Drip-Drop. Rain hits the ground like the sound of espresso splashing in the bottom of a new white mug.

I have learned two lessons since returning to Florence. The first lesson is that November is the most rainy month of the year here, and the second lesson is that coffee shops don’t generally open here until 8:00am at the earliest, which means that when I left for school at 7:30am the other day, I nearly came up empty-handed--and also encountered many, many puddles.

As my search for a morning cup of joe dragged on, I began to imagine that the giant puddles were giant cups of cappuccino and that each drip was just another drop of perfection leading up to foamy fantasticness. And as each puddle grew, I imagined jumping in and submerging myself in each giant cup of cappuccino, doing the doggy paddle, bathing in it, and drowning my lungs in it. For if I truly drowned in a puddle of cappuccino, I think I might die the happiest person on earth.

As I came back to reality and discovered that I could not in fact turn the puddles of murky water into puddles of deliciousness, I continued my search for an open coffee shop. I finally stumbled upon Il Posto Café. There were quite a few people inside, so I figured it must be good—either that or it really was the only coffee shop open in all of Florence open.

I stepped inside the shop and suddenly felt the walls close in as four of us attempted to squeeze in at the standing bar. “Prendo un cappuccino per favore,” I said. I had hoped my long walk to find this open bar would be well worth it.

I turned to my right and I realized a nice Italian man was looking at me. He then said “Ciao.” I responded by saying “Bonjourno!” What I had truly wished to say was, “Do you wish to swim in cappuccino as well?” Unfortunately, I didn’t know enough words in Italian to get that point across, so instead, I laughed to myself at the thought of asking a complete stranger if he too wishes to drown in cappuccino. Not before long, my cappuccino was placed in front of me. “Va bene, grazie.”

I had searched for this cappuccino for so long yesterday…so much so that I had hallucinated about the puddles being cups of cappuccino like Wonka’s river of chocolate. That’s when you know you have an addiction.

I picked the cup up and took a sip.

“No va bene,” I thought. Burned coffee. It was my first bad cappuccino in Italy…My first euro and thirty cents gone to waste. It really must have been the ONLY coffee shop open.

Regardless, I finished the cappuccino, said “Grazie, Ciao,” and went on my way…jumping in a puddle with hopes that my hallucination would become real. To my dismay, a giant cup of cappuccino did not form...rather instead of drowning myself in the deliciousness…I just got very, very wet.