One night in the piazza

The big news in the village is that there is a new, shockingly hip (for our village) wine bar in the piazza. It took over a vacant store which used to be a florist. They’d moved shop to a small building next to the cemetery as the primary audience for flowers, mostly plastic but some fresh, is the dead. We are a vegetable patch versus a flower garden kind of place. This prime location was taken over by the son of our contractor, an architect who is a wine buff. Dad, son, and the son’s business partner worked hard on the space which is elegant and spare, and the menu is surprisingly adventurous, featuring things like a few French wines and cheeses—absolutely unheard of in our ‘hood.

The balance of businesses in the village is carefully managed—who serves what, what days they are open—so that all can coexist and prosper. I was worried about the other cafes and restaurants with the success of the new venture, which adds an additional place to get a drink to the mix, and often packed with a young crowd. I wondered how the other businesses were feeling about their new neighbor, particularly the pizzeria almost next door. The pizzeria is a bastion of the square, run by two couples. The woman of one of the couples is the sister of the man of the other couple and they often feature on the informal poll I have going with Sebastian to name the sweetest people in the village—a tough competition. Oddly enough, despite the married and sibling relationships, and the very long, hard work hours, in all these years I’ve not noticed any tension. Any. They seem to always have ready, relaxed smiles, be calm and welcoming, and usually greet you with a joke. I was unsure if this new entry to the business mix of the piazza would concern them.

One night it’s nine in the evening and I arrive in the piazza an utter mess. It’s been a few days of stress unlike few others I’ve experienced—a family health scare which is now completely resolved and all good—but I rolled up in the middle of the crisis badly in need of company, comfort, and a good glass of wine. It’s Monday night and the piazza is deserted as most businesses are closed, but the wine bar is open. The only customers are the entire crew from the pizzeria, with their extended group of wait staff and cooks, about fourteen in all. It’s the only night that the pizzeria is closed and they clearly are out for a celebratory evening, all dressed up, and seated at in a long row of pulled together tables. They quickly add a table at the end for me. Most knew what was going on in the family, news travels fast here, and I was greeted with a lot of questions and concern. The waitress at the wine bar, who I had just recently met when they opened (at least I think she works there as she will occasionally hop up to deliver food although spends an equal amount of time sitting with friends) gave me a hug every time she went by.

I began to calm down and appreciate the moment. The pizzeria crew enjoying their evening, ordering bottles of champagne and wine. The almost-walking daughter of the wine bar co-owner “driving” her small remote control sports car all over the quiet piazza, controls being worked by the mother a few feet away. The son of one of the pizzeria couples, who we’ve known since he was small when he inherited Sebastian’s Nerf Guns, is now tall and all dressed up in a three-piece suit, wildly patterned shirt and tie, and fedora. The pizzeria table was trying all the appetizers available at the wine bar with enthusiasm and complimenting the owners on everything. The ease, acceptance, and goodwill towards this new competitive situation overwhelms me. I often notice a lack of people feeling competitive because they seem deeply content with who they are. This is a trait that keeps me in love with Italy. (The two businesses are now collaborating to bring in a small band that plays between their nearly adjoining eating areas. Last night I walked through the piazza and both places were packed, band playing away in between.) I have been procrastinating writing about my feelings about spending the month of April in California as they are so undefined, yet strong. I realized that this moment defined it. This is what I missed when I was in California, and worse, I started to lose that ease in myself the longer I was on my old home turf.

I ask them what they are celebrating and they said “nothing.” I said that “sometimes nothing is everything,” which was met with applause and blown kisses. And sometimes it is.