Italy: Business As Usual In Milan (cont.)

“But if you don’t mind my saying so, you shouldn’t put so many papers into it.” He pursed his lips with disapproval. “It’s not designed to carry so much.”

I looked down at my bag, which was indeed bulging with material for the day’s meeting. “No?” I said, feeling a little dizzy again.

“Certainly not. If you need to carry so much you should purchase a bigger bag.” With that he stopped the cab, stepped out into the heat and walked away with what seemed to me an indignant stride.

It was not a day for building self-esteem. Despite the taxicab, I missed the meeting and spent the rest of the day trying to placate my editor. On the subway home (it was running again, at least), I was rumpled, hot and discouraged.

There was one bright spot on the horizon, however. On the ground floor of my apartment building was a vegetable stall that sold wondrous tomatoes and a dumpy, dusty, one-man panetteria that produced the finest baked goods on the planet: stiff, satisfying pane rustico, nutty biscotti. But my favorite after-work treat, which I’d indulged in almost every day in the six months I’d been in Italy, was grissini. Flaky, crispy, slightly oily breadsticks that always lay, warm from the oven, in two large baskets on the counter. You could get them con sesamo—with toasted sesame seeds—or sensa, but either way Paolo’s breadsticks were the perfect balm to any frustrations, wounds, or weariness.

Paolo was behind the counter when I marched in, already feeling better. I picked out a loaf of rustica and some dinner rolls and then asked for my customary order of grissini.

“Eh, non posso,” Paolo said. I can’t.

I was still a beginner in the language, so I always proceeded carefully in conversation, looking out for minefields, like the subtle difference between ‘anno’—year—and ‘ano’—anus.

“You can’t?” I said. “Why not?”

Paolo responded with that shrug of the shoulders and rolling of the eyes heavenward instantly familiar to anyone who’s been in Italy for more than twenty minutes.

“Are you out of breadsticks?” I said, eyeing the two baskets, bulging with the crispy treats.

“No,” Paolo replied, matter-of-factly.

“Uh, are these sold to someone else?” I was starting to feel like I was in my Wednesday night Italian class, not quite following the assignment.

“No,” Paolo said again.

“Ma, non ho capito, Paolo,” I said. I don’t understand. Why can’t you sell me some breadsticks?

“Eh,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “To tell you the truth, you’re getting a little fat.”

I climbed the stairs to my apartment, dragging my heavy, bulging briefcase, hoping that the air conditioning at least would be working. Milan is a city with a soul, but I’d had enough for the day.

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