Power of Music
It was in the middle of J---'s restaurant with the accordion player singing, when I thought of Matteo.
Matteo, the 38 year old Italian from Trezzano Sul Naviglio. The one who had told me, the day that I met him, that my spaghetti sauce had a good face, who had nicknamed me Seven after a joke we made, and then took me to the restaurant Seven on our first date, kissed me for the first time on the snow covered lawn of the Arco di Pace.
“Just be careful not to give the man credit for Italy.” I heard David Koffman’s dating advice ringing in my ears, “You will need to remember that Italy is your home now.”
If I didn’t give him credit for building the arch of peace, I did like the way he talked to flower sellers, as if they were colleagues because he was, after all, in sales. Or the way, he asked me if I wanted to tango, when we happened upon a group dancing in the piazza.
But tonight, it was music that reminded me of him. For he would sing out loud in clubs when we were dancing with his friends, always whispering the next line into my ear, just in case I wanted to join in on the enjoyment of Italian songs from the 80's.
“Show me the songs,” I would say, when we got back to my apartment. He would nod, but with a look of knowing that there are certain things you simply can’t teach and there were certain things I would never be...
With the accordion player to my back, I couldn't help remembering...
To see Morten in my head, on St. Patrick’s Day, singing Wild Rover as his secret homage to his best friend Marius. Or Jenna and the way she chair-danced that night at Swami, while Amy and I watched every man at the table fall in love with her.
And now, in the middle of Turkey, a culture I have never wanted to be a part of, I sat staring at a a couple a little older than me out for dinner. The man, who had looked so serious and stuffy just minutes before was now calling out songs for the room to sing.
The tables would nod, a laugh of recognition would sweep the crowd and the music commenced as did the unison of voices. Even us, the ragtag Americans started to sway.
Matteo, the 38 year old Italian from Trezzano Sul Naviglio. The one who had told me, the day that I met him, that my spaghetti sauce had a good face, who had nicknamed me Seven after a joke we made, and then took me to the restaurant Seven on our first date, kissed me for the first time on the snow covered lawn of the Arco di Pace.
“Just be careful not to give the man credit for Italy.” I heard David Koffman’s dating advice ringing in my ears, “You will need to remember that Italy is your home now.”
If I didn’t give him credit for building the arch of peace, I did like the way he talked to flower sellers, as if they were colleagues because he was, after all, in sales. Or the way, he asked me if I wanted to tango, when we happened upon a group dancing in the piazza.
But tonight, it was music that reminded me of him. For he would sing out loud in clubs when we were dancing with his friends, always whispering the next line into my ear, just in case I wanted to join in on the enjoyment of Italian songs from the 80's.
“Show me the songs,” I would say, when we got back to my apartment. He would nod, but with a look of knowing that there are certain things you simply can’t teach and there were certain things I would never be...
With the accordion player to my back, I couldn't help remembering...
To see Morten in my head, on St. Patrick’s Day, singing Wild Rover as his secret homage to his best friend Marius. Or Jenna and the way she chair-danced that night at Swami, while Amy and I watched every man at the table fall in love with her.
And now, in the middle of Turkey, a culture I have never wanted to be a part of, I sat staring at a a couple a little older than me out for dinner. The man, who had looked so serious and stuffy just minutes before was now calling out songs for the room to sing.
The tables would nod, a laugh of recognition would sweep the crowd and the music commenced as did the unison of voices. Even us, the ragtag Americans started to sway.
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