But time doesn’t stand still. It calls and you have to go.
That evening I realized that my greatest fear, which I’d concealed deep down inside of me, was that I’d never see her again. I was afraid that, for Liz, leaving Rome just meant turning another page in the book of life: the city and its inhabitants had done their duty, they’d restored a little joy to her heart, but now the natural order of things demanded new experiences, new discoveries. For that matter, perhaps Americans, who live in such an immense country, are more accustomed to living far away from those they hold dear, more accustomed to saying good-bye—perhaps more so than we Italians could ever learn to be. And while Liz was preparing for new adventures, I would be remaining behind. Sure, with my beloved Giuliana, my music, my Lazio, my evenings with my friends. But with one fewer friend.
So I made a solemn promise to myself: I would defend with all my strength this gift that fate had brought into my life, and I’d never allow us to forget each other.
When I woke up the next morning, Rome was filled with magnificent sunlight. It was one of those perfect Roman days I love so much—not a cloud in the sky, sunshine warming your skin, a light breeze making the air sparkle and glint. I decided not to go to work that day, Liz’s last day in Rome—not that I would spend it with her; she had every right to spend her last day as she chose, to follow her heart wherever it might lead her, without interference. It was mid-December, and I just wanted to wander around the city on my own and do all those things you usually put off till the last minute—like my Christmas shopping. I was secretly hoping I’d run into her by chance.
That hope remained just that—a vain hope. The only company I had on my walk was my own sense of melancholy. It was such a beautiful day, but there was a basso continuo of sadness, the knowledge that my friend was leaving and I might never see her again.
I had the bigger of her suitcases at my house. I had loaded it into my car the night before to save time when I took her to the airport the next day. So, after buying her a couple of gifts during my walk around Rome, I just stuck the presents into her suitcase, along with a letter. I didn’t want to make our farewells the following day too formal, too traumatic; I didn’t want her to find my surprise gifts and my letter until she was safely home.
The next day came.
As usual, we were both early for our prearranged appointment at a spot along the banks of the Tiber. I had her big suitcase in the trunk of my car, and she was pulling her smaller, wheeled suitcase.
Every yard of road I covered was a second less I had to spend with her, and that morning the highway from Rome to Fiumicino Airport was incredibly clear of traffic—I’ve never made it to the airport so fast in my life!
Liz was sad, but she was also glad to be going home. And all things considered, as long as I had her near me and I could see she was happy, I felt fine.
At the check-in counter there was a long, twisting line of passengers headed for New York. We waited for Liz’s turn, and only then were we forced to say good-bye. We promised over and over again that we’d stay in touch, that we’d see each other again, and we exchanged best wishes for the future. Then our promises and best wishes made way for a long, strong hug, worth many words.
As Liz walked through security and then passport control, I stood watching her from a distance, and then, with a knot in my throat, I decided it was time to head back to town. Once I was in the car driving toward Rome, I felt like listening to “One More Day” by Diamond Rio, just to dedicate that song to Liz, even if she was no longer in the car with me. I wanted to tell her somehow that I wished she could have stayed even just one more day, and I felt sure the message would reach her through some telepathic channel or other. So I turned on the car stereo, but as I did, I realized another CD was already in the slot. A familiar chord filled the car and hit me like a punch in the belly, followed a few seconds later by Randy Meisner’s high, keening voice on the opening phrases of “Take It to the Limit.” Tears filled my eyes and ran down my face. I couldn’t see the road.
When “Take It to the Limit” ended, I listened to it all over again, singing at the top of my lungs and with tears still running down my face. I listened to it over and over again in the days the followed, whenever I thought of Liz.
Christmas was almost upon us, and the song “White Flag” by Dido was in frequent rotation on the radio; oddly enough, the chorus ended with the word “surrender.” It was practically Christmas Eve before I realized I had never updated Patrick about my friendship with Liz. I had told him about our first meeting, I had told him we’d hit it off, but I’d completely forgotten to let him know about what close friends we’d become, or all the things we had in common.
So I sent him an e-mail thanking him for sending Liz to me. I told him he had given me a true friend, and that I never thought I’d be so sorry to see her leave. I also explained how I was afraid I’d never see her again.
Pat’s reply just about made me fall out of my chair: “Luca, are you sure there isn’t something more between you and Liz?”
19
You’ve Got a Friend
“What?!? Pat, have you lost your mind?” That was the first answer that sprang into my head.
But my friend had a point. I was afraid to ask myself the question, but maybe the time had come: Luca, you haven’t fallen in love, have you?
The answer was the same as my first response to Pat: “No. My friendship with Liz is just that: a lovely friendship. And it’s even more special because it was so entirely unexpected. And after all, Pat, you know me. I eat, I drink, I spout nonsense all day long, but deep down I’m just a big, softhearted Italian romantic, and I’m just sorry she’s gone. So I just have to thank you one more time for giving me the gift of Liz.”
“I’m happy to hear you say that,” my friend wrote me back. “Sheila and I would be sorry for Giuliana, but I just have to say that what you wrote sounded like you were head over heels in love.”
But now it was clear in my mind: “No, I’m not in love. Or maybe I am—but it’s a different kind of love.”
It might strike you as almost unseemly to admit that love can take so many different forms. My great love is for Giuliana. But don’t parents feel love toward their children? What about a close relationship with a friend? Or what I’ve always felt about music? Or how about my feelings for the city which has always been my home—Roma, whose name in Latin and Italian, when written backward—Amor—happens to mean “love”? These are different kinds of love, and it was thanks to Liz and her unaffected simplicity that for the first time I felt free to admit this to myself.
In that sense, I loved her. I’ve always believed that friendships that begin in childhood have a special kind of deep-rooted quality, and that they are rarely equaled by friendships that begin when you’re an adult, however important and significant those may be. But something unique had happened with Liz: she really had made her way into my heart. In just a few months, I had the impression that she’d always been part of my life, just like those very few special childhood friends. In that sense, perhaps Pat was right—there was something more, quite simply something deeply beautiful, but different from what I’ve always felt and will always feel for Giuliana. If you want to call it love, by all means, call it love. Another kind of love.
In the months that followed, I lost my fear of losing Liz once and for all. I began to receive her letters from India, telling me her latest news and stories, and with pictures of her riding an elephant or meditating.
I was overjoyed. Once again, I’d underestimated her. In the age of the Internet she began sending me handwritten letters. And I was experiencing the age-old pleasure of receiving letters and the corresponding anxiety of waiting for them to arrive, though unfortunately I had no return address where I could write her back. So I had to wait for Liz to move on to Bali and regain ownership of her PC before I could respond, to tell her I’d received all her letters and enclosures, and tell her how contented I was to hear she was happy. A
nd let her know how much I missed her.
And I was even happier when she wrote me from Bali to say that she had fallen in love again. She had met Felipe.
When she told me about him, about his natural charm and kindness, I was relieved. I was no longer afraid that my friend would suffer over a man again. In fact, from that day forward, I was one of the biggest fans of their love story.
And from the United States, once she’d returned home, Liz went on writing me. Until one day in February 2005—a day I’ll never forget—when a fat envelope arrived in the mail. I opened it and my jaw dropped: “Elizabeth Gilbert—Eat, Pray, Love—Advance uncorrected proof—Not for sale.”
Oh, my God! These were the proofs of her book! She had mentioned that she was writing the story of her year traveling the world, but now that I was holding the actual result of that writing, the book itself, I could hardly believe my eyes. And the surprises didn’t end there. I started reading immediately. There it was, her whole story, in the book. I couldn’t put it down, and I came pretty close to fainting when, at a certain point, I read these two words: “Luca Spaghetti.” Cazzo! It was me! Liz talked about me in her book! Mamma mia! And now? What the hell do I do now? Nothing, you idiot—just keep on reading!
So I did, and as I read I kept stumbling across the same two words: “Luca Spaghetti.” Every time I saw them, I kind of jumped out of my seat, and each time it took me a couple of seconds before my mind creaked to the somewhat obvious realization: But . . . that’s me! Good morning, you moron, glad you finally woke up: that’s right, it’s you!
Luca Spaghetti was in a book. I really didn’t know which of two possibilities I wished for more fervently: that nobody would buy even a single copy of the book, or that it should turn out to be a runaway bestseller. If it did turn out to be a success, though, it would be the vindication of Spaghetti! My liberation—free at last of this surname that has been my ball and chain. In any case, it was a very strange feeling to read about myself in that book. I didn’t know if that was really me; I recognized myself—no question—but it felt strange, as if I were watching myself from outside. As I read the book, I relived my time in Rome with Liz. It was as wonderful as it was strange.
The book was a joy, deeply moving and hilarious at the same time, and in fact it was popular, then successful, and so on in a crescendo of acclaim. It was incredible for me, alongside Liz, to experience the various phases of Eat, Pray, Love’s triumph, exulting with Liz and for Liz as she got more and more exciting reports on sales and reviews. You could have popped a bottle of champagne every single day.
But I kept wondering when I’d ever see her again.
It happened in July 2007, when Liz came back to Italy to do publicity for the Italian edition of her book, Mangia, prega, ama. She’d be in town for three days, and of course we spent that whole time together. We toured Rome—Liz, me, and Giuliana—just as we had four years earlier, drinking, eating, strolling, and laughing. We walked and walked and suddenly realized we were back in Santa Maria in Trastevere. As we set foot in that piazza where we’d first met, I turned to look at Liz. She looked back at me smiling, in gentle complicity. That was when I realized that Liz was still just Liz, that the enormous, incredible popularity of her book hadn’t changed my old friend at all. Most important of all, as long as that piazza existed in Rome, with its fountain, I’d never lose Liz. We swore we’d never let another four years go by without seeing each other, and so far we’ve kept our promise.
In mid-December of that year, Giuliana and I boarded a plane for New York, to spend our Christmas holidays with Liz. We were as excited as children. I’d never been in New York at Christmastime, and this time I’d have a very special guide.
We spent the first three days with Liz in Manhattan, where the Christmas atmosphere was just fantastic. The notes of “Let It Snow” echoed through the stores; the snow and the decorations and people carrying armfuls of gifts made it all so romantic. This time, Liz had the home-field advantage: she took us everywhere, to all her favorite restaurants and bars, naturally, before we headed over to her house in New Jersey, where I’d finally meet Felipe. I couldn’t wait. Liz had sent me lots of pictures, including a few of their wedding, and I knew I liked Felipe even before I met him. He had a nice face, a protective air, and in particular one characteristic that couldn’t help but win me over: he looked a little like James Taylor!
When I walked into the house, I was greeted by Felipe’s warm and joyous voice calling out, “Luca Luchissimo!” I instantly understood why Liz had married him.
Not only was Felipe a deeply likable person, he had another important quality: Brazilian though he was, he was the best cook in . . . New Jersey! His feijoada was off the charts. We stayed at Liz’s house for a couple of days, and we took that opportunity to make limoncello together, so it’d be ready to drink when we came back to New Jersey for New Year’s. Because there was another side trip in store: Connecticut, where we’d meet Liz’s parents, who were busy running their Christmas tree farm. When we got there, we found it to be a magnificent location, a snow-covered hill where John and Carole, Liz’s mamma and papa, had planted hundreds of fir trees to sell to their many loyal customers, who were happy to trek all the way out there to select their own Christmas tree.
There were Christmas trees of all shapes and sizes and varieties. The minute I stepped out of the car, someone put an electric saw into my hands. They’d decided that my job would be to cut down the trees the customers had selected—even though I’d never used a saw of any kind in my life! They explained that before I sawed down a tree, I’d have to make sure I got the ice and snow off the branches; otherwise they might break when the tree fell over. I slowly got better at cutting down Christmas trees, and before long I was having the time of my life.
Giuliana, who loves Christmas more than anything, seemed to be delirious with joy. Carole had given her the tools and materials to make Christmas decorations. Meanwhile Liz and I were wandering over the snow-covered hilltop dressed in the latest Christmas tree farm style: green trousers, a red jacket, and an elf cap on my head. The work wasn’t easy: after cutting down the trees, I had to use a special machine to wrap them in plastic netting and then load them onto the car tops of the rapidly growing number of customers. Whenever a new customer drove up, Liz invited them to choose a tree, and once they were ready, all they had to do was shout, “Luca!” Instantly, a handsome young Roman would materialize, ready to cut down the tree. So my name echoed out every two minutes from all over the hilltop, and I had to dash for miles through the snow to keep the customers happy.
By the third day, I was worn out, happy but exhausted. And I couldn’t help but think to myself: Luca, you’ve studied hard and worked even harder; you’re a successful tax accountant with your own office in Rome. What the hell are you doing on a snow-covered hilltop in Connecticut cutting Christmas down trees and wearing an elf cap?
It was Liz’s sweet revenge. After all, I had tricked her into eating coda alla vaccinara, pajata, and coratella, and now it was her turn to have some fun with me.
I had a great time at the Christmas tree farm. Carole was a silent leader. She assigned tasks to everyone with sweet firmness and without ever raising her voice. After spending a few days with her, I decided in fact that she’d probably raised her voice rarely if ever in her life. And John was immensely likable. I saw an article about him hanging on a wall in the house, noting that he’d hiked the entire Appalachian Trail—he was a hiker, like me, who also loved the mountains. Plus he was the Christmas Tree Man. A sort of Connecticut Santa Claus.
To celebrate the end of the tree-selling season, we went out to a local restaurant, where I split with John an order of one of the strangest culinary absurdities—to my Italian mind—I’d ever heard of: buffalo chicken pizza. After the Amtrak pepperoni pizza, I really thought I’d seen it all, but this boggled the imagination: a pizza covered with pieces of chicken and barbecue sauce! Most astonishing of all was that the pizza wasn’t really ba
d.
Once the Christmas tree farm had shut down for the season, we all went south to Philadelphia to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at Liz’s sister Catherine’s house. They were memorable days, and we spent them mostly gathered around Catherine’s groaning dining room table, eating meals that she presented with outstanding elegance and class.
On Christmas Day, Liz decided to inaugurate the gift we’d brought her from Italy: la grolla.
La grolla (the name actually derives from the word for Holy Grail) is a wooden goblet with a number of spouts on its side, usually between four and twelve, and it’s used to drink caffè alla valdostana, a mixture of grappa, coffee, sugar, orange, and cloves. It’s a blend calculated to warm the heart and the tummy. Also known as the coppa dell’amicizia—goblet of friendship—la grolla is passed from hand to hand, from friend to friend, and each person drinks a mouthful of the exquisite boiling hot cocktail from his or her own spout. It was a lovely, intense moment, and a curious novelty for all our friends.
The Christmas holidays flew by. Felipe and Liz went back to New Jersey, while Giuliana and I stayed in Philadelphia for another couple of days. Then we headed north to Boston to have our fill of clam chowder, and then back to New York. When we got back to Liz’s house for the New Year’s Eve party, we found Deborah and Sofie there: four years after our Roman Thanksgiving, we were all together again! Felipe cooked an exquisite dinner, topped off by homemade limoncello. The limoncello was ready to drink after its two-week rest; it was exquisite and violently alcoholic. It was incredible to see the bookshelves in the living room crowded with copies of Eat, Pray, Love in every language known to man. Liz had recently been a guest on the Oprah Winfrey Show, where she’d shown a picture of us, and that day I’d received messages from all my American friends. The book had been so successful that they’d even decided to make it into a movie, with Julia Roberts playing Liz. The funniest thing of all, which to my ears sounded like a trick of Fate, was that the question Liz seemed to be asked most often was whether I really existed. I couldn’t believe it: I thought I’d escaped the tyranny of my surname, and now it turns out that half the people on earth think it’s such a funny name that Liz must have invented me!
Un Amico Italiano Page 16