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[Life in Italy]
I recently got a letter from a close friend, an ex-ex-patriot, requesting an enormous favor: her espresso pot needed a new filter and insulating rings. Well, well, well, I thought. Do you mean Los Angeles, which boasts of having everything on earth, doesn't have a shop that sells replacements for rubber espresso rings and metal filters? I jumped at the chance to demonstrate Rome's superiority.
I planned to run out the next day (in the Italian concept of time acquired in my 22 years here, that meant sometime within the next 2 or 3 weeks) to make my purchase.
First I canvassed the department stores, Standa and Upim. But the largest rings were for the six-cup model, whereas my friend's pot was for nine to 12 cups. Undaunted, I started popping into specialty shops encountered on my way here or there. No luck. The largest rings were for the 8-cupper. After all, 9 to 12 cups were alot. In Italy, naturalmente, no one would even consider drinking leftover coffee, so such a large pot would be useful only for those who entertained a lot of people, or for a very large family. However, the days of enormous Italian households with a brood of kids, grandparents and old maid aunts all sitting around drinking multiple cups of coffee are long gone. Had I been too smug? Was Italy becoming like LA? In desperation, I finally turned to the font of all knowledge in any Italian neighborhood: the fruttivendola or local greengrocer. Mine is named Adriana. Between a kilo of eggplant and a peck of artichokes, she told me exactly the place to go.
So it was that, after scouring half of Rome, only two blocks from home I found a minuscule emporium with everything and anything one could ever need for home and hearth. The wares were all crammed into 15 square feet of space divided into three contiguous rooms. The owner and his wife seemed to glide amongst the piles of goods that grew up from the floor, overflowed from the shelves and hung from hooks. For a second I'd see them, then they'd fade into the camouflaging background of boxes, bags, pots and gadgets. Working my way towards what appeared to be the counter (I wasn't sure, buried as it was beneath 1001 items), I stated my needs. Yes, the wife was sure they had what I wanted. The rings and filters were underneath the cutlery halfway down on the left or perhaps behind the sponges on the third or fourth shelf to the right.
We began the search, accompanied by an interrogation: Was I from the neighborhood? Yes. How long had I lived there? 17 years. She was about to ask why she had never seen me before but fortunately, I was saved from the embarrassing question by an unruly bunch of plastic cups tumbling noisily to the floor. As we knelt to pick them up, I deftly preempted her question by explaining that the purchase was for a friend in the States. She beamed at the idea of her wares going intercontinental. There were three filters amidst the jumble.
With my precious goods wrapped in used newspaper, I said good-bye and promised to return soon. I sauntered back out into the bright midday sun and congratulated myself not only for having accomplished my quest (The Man of La Mancha's "Impossible Dream" resounding in my head), but also for having restored my faith in a Roman classic, the good old local emporium.
The emporium, naturalmente, has no name. It is located at Via dei Serpenti 5, with a sign that says "Articoli da Regalo" over the door.