No Cappuccino in the Afternoon

No Cappuccino in the Afternoon   I had just landed at Marco Polo Airport near Venice, and with my large suitcase in tow, I decided to stop at a small café before heading to the car rental.   It was a long flight, from New York, a night flight, made longer by my cramped seat in economy class and the over-weight guy next to me watching action movies across the entire ocean.   I looked at the clock.  It was 10:30. It was the morning.   Since it wasn’t yet the afternoon, I could order a cappuccino.  At least that’s what I had read on the flight.  No Cappuccino in the Afternoon, And Other Italian Oddities, an article explaining some interesting aspects of Italian culture.    As for coffee, only a tourist would order a cappuccino after noon.  A dead giveaway. Milk in the afternoon, according to Italians, is bad for digestion. That’s when you drink espresso.   The cappuccino was so smooth. The best I had ever had.   “What’s this?” I asked, holding the coffee cup.   “Lavazza,” he replied, raising his arms to acknowledge a given, at least for him.   He was short and stocky. Dark hair, dark eyes, light olive oil skin tone. A few hours beyond a five o’clock shadow. Typical for Northern Italians.   It was my first Lavazza. I vowed it wouldn’t be my last.   “The coffee on the airplane tasted like dish water.”   “Yes, but this is Italy.” He smiled.  “No dish water here. Just the best coffee. Il meglio, the very best.”       I’m going to love this place, I thought.  Why did I wait so long before coming to Italy?   “Quanto?” I said with a New York accent, as I finished my cappuccino.   “Due euros.” He held up two fingers just to make sure I understood.   Putting two euros on the counter, I looked for the tip jar.  But there was none to be found, so I put 50 cents on the counter.   He looked confused, then smiled and put the 50-cent coin back in my hand.   “No,” he said.  “Not here.”   Oh yes, I thought, the article.  No tipping in Italy. Yes, I had a lot to learn.   “Insurance, do you want insurance coverage on the car,” it was the young lady behind the counter at Euro Cars. Her English was perfect.    “Do you think I need it?”   “Have you been to Italy before?” she said as she rolled her eyes ever so slightly.   “This is my first time.”   “And where are you driving?”   “To Florence.”   “It’s called Firenze.”   “Oh.”   “On the motorway?  Are you driving to Firenze on the motorway?”   “Yes.”   “Really.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Then I definitely suggest you take full coverage.”   “Okay, sign me up.”   “You won’t regret it, believe me.”   As she handed me the keys to the rental car, I thanked her and then commented.   “Your English. It’s perfect.  Where did you learn English?”   “Denver… Denver, Colorado.” She started to laugh.   “Huh?”   “Came to Italy right after college.  Fell in love with the country and with my tour guide.  That was ten years ago. Never went back.  Don’t intend to.”   “Wow, what a story.”   “And you?”   “Just a tourist.  A tourist, from the big apple.  New York City.”   “Well enjoy, Mister Big Apple. Enjoy Italy.”   The Fiat Panda 500 was smaller than I had expected.  Five-speed.  I had not driven a standard since college.  Struggling to reacquaint myself with a clutch, I eased the car out of the lot and pulled out onto the motorway.    I decided to stay in the far-right lane. Slower there. Not as stressful, I thought.   Everyone was passing me.  Cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles. I expected to be passed by a moped scooter any minute.   The navigation system on my iPhone started beeping. Then a voice.  Speeding. Speeding. Jesus, I thought if I’m speeding, what about everyone passing me.  Then I remembered the article, Italians are crazy drivers.  They don’t observe driving rules, or speed limits.   On my way to Florence, 260.44 kilometers. Christ, I thought, why is America not on the metric system like the rest of the world? I drifted out of my lane as I mentally wrestled to convert the kilometers into miles. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. A speeding bright red Ferrari was closing in on me.  Lights flashing too.  I quickly moved back into the slow lane. As he passed, he gave me the most classic of all Italian gestures, with his fingertips touching and pointing upward. Not sure how to respond, I gave him the peace sign, even though I wasn’t sure that was appropriate.   I had been driving for two hours and was getting hungry. It was 1:30, approaching the latest time Italians eat lunch, and more importantly when restaurants close.  2 o’clock. And then they wouldn’t open until 7, or 8 for dinner.   Modena Centrale, the large green exit sign caught my eye. According to my readings, a city noted for its auto-making and home base of both Ferrari and Maserati.    Taking the exit, I saw the sign for Osteria Simone.  4 kilometers.   According to my Italian friends in Manhattan, osterias are casual dining places serving regional specialties. Eat at those, they all said.  Cheaper and better.    The parking lot was full.  Cars double parked. Some triple parked. I remembered, no driving rules.  That must apply to parking as well.   The osteria was not nearly as full as the parking lot. Why, I wondered. A place to park for the day perhaps.   No menu on the table, just a board at the entrance with the Speciali del Giorno, the specials of the day. Lasagna Modenese stood out.    “Lasagna.” I said when the waitress came to my table.   “E bere?”   “No … no beer,” I replied.   “Bere… not beer.  Bere, what would you like to drink?”   “Oh yes, bere.” I tried to act like I really knew what she had said, but of course I didn’t and I’m sure she knew.   “Wine, red.”   “Vino rosso, si.” She smiled as she walked away.   Jesus, I do have a lot to learn. Clearly that crash course on Italian wouldn’t take me very far. But, it was a free app, so I really couldn’t complain.   The lasagna arrived.   I was confused.   Where was the red sauce and globs of cheese? Instead, I was looking at green noodles layered with creamy meat sauce.