April 17, 2011 The first time I met Lorenzo (in this lifetime) was in front of la stazione di Desenzano del Garda-Sirmione. I’d just arrived in Italy via Milano, where I promptly hustled to the bathroom to don makeup and dust the crumbs off my “traveling clothes,” i.e. the same pair of yoga pants I’d worn every day for a month.
Hustled is a lie. My suitcase weighed as much as I did and back then the smaller stations didn’t have elevators. However I quickly discovered that every station comes equipped with Italian men. Dio mio… as I approached the stairs a god descended to offer assistance, moving with such grace I swore he carried the beast with his pinky finger. Through the drool I whispered “grazie mille,” to which he replied “prego,” at which point I thought, yes, I imagine I am now pregnant.
Sigh… where was I? Oh yes, springtime in Italy. As I think back to waiting for Lorenzo in front of that dripping fountain where teenagers groped each other under the young foliage I realize I can’t possibly fit this story into a little box on your screen. Italy requires words… many, many words. There was the concert, the absinthe, the night in the dance studio, the day at Lake Garda, the formation of our metal band, the un-metal performance of our metal band, the feast, the hugs, the laughter… and the strange, blue-haloed full moon under which we recognized a soul mate.
Thank you, Lorenzo. Thank you, Anna. Thank you, dear Castiglione delle Stiviere family. I love you to the moon and back. 🌕
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