My French speaking skills pretty much suck, so rather than feeling like the village idiot, I decided to take the 40-minute train from charming Villefranche to Ventimiglia, the first town over the border in Italy. While I won’t be winning any prizes for my knowledge of Italian, I sound like a genius in italiano compared to the moron I sound like in français (multiple classes notwithstanding). So off I went to the train station, armed with my Berlitz Italian Phrase Book & Dictionary just in case all my questi and quelli got stuck in translation.
Ahhh… what a delight to stroll into a city where things felt familiar! Granted, I’d never been to Ventimiglia, but how thrilling to see signs for a salumeria and a gelateria – and actually be able to intelligently ask for my purchase! And, of course, my Italian brothers never let me down… they’re always good for an admiring glance or two and a couple whistles for a single signorina! (I made sure to change into my “cute shoes” before I boarded the train for Italy – I know those so-called little things make a big difference in bella Italia.)
When I got off the train, I was starving… and I’ve spent enough time in Europe to know that you’ve got to time lunch right. Most (decent) restaurants close some time between 2:30 and 7:30 pm, giving employees time off between shifts. But thanks to the late-running French train, it was nearly 3 pm when I arrived. I stumbled from place to place, every one closed and offering (at best) some limp slice of old-looking pizza. A signorina advised me to check out places on the sea, as they might still be serving. And although the kindly old man at the door of Ristorante Miramare said the kitchen was closed, my pleading in Italian won me sympathy from the cute young man at the cash register. He convinced the kitchen to prepare a pasta dish for me, one I devoured while drinking fizzy young vino rosso – and one of the most gorgeous seaside views anywhere. I swear, the kindness of strangers!
As I was leaving, the young man, Emanuele, asked me to take his phone number and call him next time I’m in Ventimiglia so we could meet for a drink. I’m sure I’m old enough to be his mother and probably would have given the poor ragazzo a heart attack if I’d told him my real age. But it’s still flattering. Maybe I should become a straight-up “cougar” while I’m on this 40th birthday trip. Only my pediatrician and I need to know how old I REALLY am!