A couple of days ago I flew to Villadossola in the Italian Alps to visit the love of my life. I had met him in Dublin on St. Patrick's Day and decided he was the love of my life that night. I think he had decided something similar as he often referred to me as "Ariana my love" in his texts. So of course I had to go see him.
On the second day of my visit in Villadossola with Marco, we were on our way out of his apartment to go to Switzerland (you can literally see Switzerland from his balcony). On the way down the hill, we were passed by another car that flagged him down. He told me to hold on, got out of the car and ran to talk to the person in the other car. When he came back he was apologizing profusely and told me that his grandfather was having heart problems and needed to be taken to the hospital. Of course I understood, and told him it was not even necessary to apologize.
He dropped me back off at his apartment, told me his home was my home, and that he would be back within the hour.
While I waited, I listened to his CD's: The Offspring, The Sex Pistols, Eric Clapton etc etc., and read my Chelsea Handler book. It had been longer than an hour and I figured we would not make it to Switzerland that day. But I would be damned if I didn't go out and explore the mountain. After all, the view was spectacular and the surrounding forest was extremely inviting. I decided to go for a walk.
I gathered my things, bundled up and headed for the door. It wouldn't open. "Am I locked in?" I thought. "Shit, I am."
I went back out to the deck and looked for a way down. I didn't find one. I briefly thought about climbing down the balcony but it was a treacherous climb and visions of me breaking my back filled my mind.
What to do, what to do? The guy had no food in his apartment so I couldn't do my usual idle activity, which was to eat. I then noticed a stack of beers in his fridge. Should I? Would he be mad? Hmm well, he did say his home was my home. I proceeded to open one beer, then two, then three. I made friends with his cat, Dobby, and took pictures with him. I also had a one person dance in his kitchen.
I was sitting on his balcony, drinking the last of my third beer and feeling sorry for myself. I felt like a fairy tale princess, the kind that's trapped up in a tower waiting to be rescued by prince charming. I breifly thought of Rapunzel and how she was able to get help out of the tower by throwing down her long hair. I had visions of me doing the same until I realized my hair was about as long as a boy's.
Mid Rapunzle fantasizing, I saw an adorable little old woman. She was trying to speak to me, but my knowledge of Italian is very limited and it quickly became clear to me that she didn't speak a word of English.
I figured this was Marco's grandmother as I knew his grandparents lived on the floor beneath him and also she kept saying his name. Besides that, the only thing I understood was caffe. I assumed she was offering me coffee so I said "Si." I then tried to explain that I couldn't get out. "Non posso... umm... uscire," I explained.
She then disappeared, which made me sad because I liked her and wanted to be her friend.
Moments later I heard a key in the lock and practically skipped to the door and followed her down the stairs to her apartment. She then proceeded to pour me cup after cup of coffee that was half sugar and feed me cookie after cookie. That, combined with my three beers made me feel a little delirious, but she was so sweet I just couldn't say no. Plus she kept gesturing for me to have more coffee and cookies any time it looked like I might stop. I liked her, and she reminded me of my late Sicilian grandmother, which I tried to tell her but I'm pretty sure she didn't understand. After a while, sick of attempting to communicate with me I'm sure, she sent me on my way with the entire bag of cookies and a newspaper.
I sat on the couch in Marco's kitchen, slightly buzzed and very hopped up on caffeine and sugar. What to do, what to do? Have another beer, naturally!
I popped open my fourth beer and danced around to Eric Clapton. Finally, Marco returned. He glanced at me drinking a beer, looked in the trash can and saw three empty beer bottles. He started laughing hysterically.
"You drank four beers?" he asked in his sexy Italian accent.
"Yes," I replied sheepishly.
"Good choice," he said.