une nuit sur la ville (open!)

[amelie marcoux]

a night on the town

Amelie wandered around the few blocks of the neighborhood of San Lorenzo, which is where she heard the best people-watching in Rome went on. She had gotten all dressed up for the occasion of actually trying out Italian nightlife. She wore a white shirt-dress and a pair of stick-like earrings she'd bought while in the United States. She'd been pleasantly surprised by the place, since she had an idea in her head that Rome was all ancient history and culture, but lacked a scene of young artists or revolutionaries. How wrong she'd been. The street was busy, as it was a Saturday, and illuminated by the incandescent glow of a million street and window lights. A group of punk youth sat outside of a cafe, having each bought what they could afford, but likely felt that sitting at one of the outdoor tables was bourgeois and beneath them. one of them had a skinny dog, three of them had dreadlocks, one wore an Italian army jacket, and they all wore big boots. Amelie registered this in her mind and took note to find this cafe again, as it may be of some importance to her understanding of radical Rome. Probably not, though. The punks sounded Scandinavian, or maybe Swiss. Like Swiss. They were tourists like her; Italy-inept.

Amelie liked this neighborhood a lot. It reminded her of her time in Brooklyn, NY, which was brief but wonderful. She had taken a week-long trip up there while studying in the United States. But this place had much more history than all of New York. Things were grittier and more real here than the other parts of the city; or so she'd seen thus far. Of course, she'd been to the American University of Rome, the Colosseum and a few sites on her tourist guide. She hadn't seen where real people lived yet.

She wasn't looking for anything in particular here. Maybe somewhere to eat or someone to talk to. Italian boys were so handsome with their thick, dark hair. A few of them had full beards, which Amelia appreciated as if they all grew them for her. She had a bit of a facial-hair fetish that wasn't entirely a secret. At one point she came upon a dimly lit bar, whose small food selection was advertised on a piece of paper on the door. Unfortunately for Amelie, she did not yet speak Italian. She frowned, frustrated, but went into the bar anyway. It had a cozy feel with all-wood paneling, and one of those decorative ceiling patterns that so many city places have. I felt old and smelled of beer, like Amelie felt a bar should. A few groups of friends, likely college students, sat in the corner booths and laughed for in Italian. Amelie soon learned the downside to trying out a more authentic neighborhood. The language barrier. In the more touristy places where she had been, there was always someone who spoke either English or French. Here she believed that she may not be so lucky.

But she figured that if she stuck to the universal language of drink-names, she would be okay. Thus, when the bartender approached her, she simply said "Pinot Grigio." The bartender nodded, understanding that she was foreign and poured her drink. "Grazie." Amelie sturggled, and the bartender gave her an encouraging half-smile.

[letizia giovanelli]

San Lorenzo. The place crawled with Italian youth, oozing life and informality. It was probably not Leti’s place of choice for a wild night, but a close second. Unfortunately, at this time of the year, her actual place of choice was crammed with non-italian, foreign tourists. And everyone in her acquaintance knew just how much she liked those… Therefore, during the three months that consisted the hot season in Italy - and which coincided with the summer holidays for all those foreign punks that Testaccio was now jam-packed with - Letizia chose to stay within more reasonable boundaries, hopping from one familiar pub to the other in the vicinity of her college.

Alone.

Heavens, she was an informed, independent young woman. She was intimate with about every single bartender and waiter in the area, she knew ninety-eight per cent of the Italians around - most of which didn’t like her very much, but that was hardly important for the matter. Point being she could walk on those streets as she would in her home. Naked, if she wanted to. And if the smallest something happened to her, all she had to do was scream a bit - and she had mighty good lungs from Sicilian heritage too - and someone, if not even a Carabinieri would come to her aid.

If they didn’t… well, she had a mean left hook and deadly stiletto shoes.

This one time, she didn’t intend to just go out. She was going to visit an old friend, Marco, who was a bartender in one of the sleazy pubs in San Lorenzo. He’d been one of the first ones he’d met, back in the good old days when “going out” was so new, thrilling and exciting and held so much sparkle. At least to a twelve year old. The adventure that was trying not to be caught and sent out of the bar, the nervous excitement of asking that first alcoholic drink, etc etc. Curiously, Marco had been the first person to kick her out of a bar - one of the first ones to really bother if there was a thirteen year old parading half naked around his tavern. Much to her oozing anger, contributing for some really nasty cursing that no thirteen year old should even know. Then he’d basically offered to take her home and stopped on the way to buy her some ice-cream - sealing a friendship that had lasted until the day.

And that was precisely what had driven Letizia out on the warm Italian summer night, with her high heels and short dress. Really, she wasn’t trying - she rarely did. Dressing up was hardly one of her main concerns, and she limited herself to fishing something out of her drawers - the Italian elegant instinct doing the rest. It was what made her walk from her small apartment all the way to San Lorenzo, a somewhat annoyed look on her face whenever she ran against any foreign dumbasses who seemed to think they had a right to whistle or send odd comments or looks her way.

But then again, when was that a novelty…? She wasn’t one of the nicest people anyways. At least not to people she wasn’t basically joined at the hip with or with whom she hadn’t known for more than five years.

When she finally arrived to the small pub, with it’s odd sign with grapes and flourished handwriting - something so damnably typical and unimaginative it made her want to smile with affection. But she didn’t. Instead, she descended the three steps that lead from the outdoor tables to the inside of the pub flung the door open the enthusiasm that was characteristically hers. Her eyes instantly found the dark dashing Marco, serving a drink to some inconnu, whom she scanned appreciatively, with the polite air of someone who would never dare to suggest she was perfectly out of place.

And not badly dressed at all.

She returned her attention to Marco, to whom she directed a brilliant smile, along with a sparkling and loud “Ciau Marco! Come stai? Avevo sei mancato tanto!”¹, in response to which the boy lifted his head and nearly jumped over the counter to go meet her. She was certainly pleased with the way his eyes cheered up at the sight of her. “Ciao bellissima, che ci fai qui?”² He gave her a bear hug, lifting her off her feet and twirling her around once or twice before putting her back down.

“Sono venuto a vederti. stupido.”³ she replied with a goofy grin, giving him an affectionate nudge with her elbow. “Certo. Così si pensò seriamente di mia proposta?”⁴ Her eyebrows lifted slightly interrogatively at his question. What proposal?! Oh. Right. “Certo che no. Lo pensi davvero? Non ho mai pensare seriamente a cosa dici.”⁵ She replied as she followed him onto the counter next to the girl. The boy - who had been a boy ten years ago but who was no longer one lifted his hand to his front with mock offense and sat down next to her, a disarming grin on his face. “Sono offeso.” ⁶ A grin of her own grew on her face as she leaned in to kiss his forehead, before pulling back again and inquiring, with a small nudge of her head backwards, with a meaningful glance. “Dimmi, chi è quel modello?”⁷

“Non ho idea, ma non è l'italiana. Potrebbe essere una stella e fare conversazione con lei. Tu sai como é il mio inglese.”⁸

Letizia snorted with amusement at the absurd possibility. “Oh no. Non pensarci.”⁹ Her, actually making small talk to welcome a tourist...? How very naïve of him, really. She met his eyes, soft and kind, and cursed his barman sympathy and empathy and wherever all that whole shitty compassion came from. “Per favore?” ¹⁰ he pleaded, furrowing his eyebrows at her. “... No.” was the reply he received, full of dryness. “Ti offro da bere gratis.”¹¹ he offered tantalizingly. She considered the offer with a perfectly derisive look. He’d buy her a drink even if she didn’t do it, but she hated refusing things to people she liked. Finally, after a second of inward struggling, she replied in surrender “O.k. Idiota. Vuoi anche il numero, l'indirizzo e il colore di vernice si usa?”¹²

“È evidente.”¹³

She stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, making her best angry look when facing his happy and entirely happy one and rolled her eyes. “Ok.” Only the “ok” didn’t sound as english people would say it - it was sheerly mutated by the use of italian vowals and sounded like an “Awek - ey”, all open mouth and ragged skewering of the language. She scoffed when he leaned in and gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek, before getting up and saying something about getting back to work, an enthusiastic and encouraging smile on his face before he turned away and headed off to pick the order of the people who had just sat outside.

Leti sighed and turned to face the counter, supporting her shoulders on it and sending the girl next to her a lopsided smile that didn’t really reach her eyes. “Hallo. How are you?” Her english wasn’t exactly brilliant either, but she could cope, unlike the larger part of the Italian population - result of her enrolling into a Literature major straight after she’d graduated from highschool. Her accent was terribly thick, but still perfectly understandable to anyone who spoke the language.

Uf. She was going to need a drink. Or two.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

¹ “Hey Marco, how are you? I missed you so much!”
² “Hey beautiful, what are you doing here?”
³ “I’m here to see you, ‘stoopid’”
⁴ “’Course. Have you seriously considered my proposal?”
⁵ “Of course not. Did you really think I would? I never consider anything you say seriously.”
⁶ “I feel offended.”
⁷ “Tell me, who’s the model?”
⁸ “I have no idea, but she isn’t italian. You could be a star and talk to her. You know how my english is.”
⁹ “Oh no. Don’t even think about it.”
¹⁰ “Please?”
¹¹ “I’ll offer you a drink.”
¹² “Ok, idiot. Do you want her number, her adress and the nail polish colour she wears?”
¹³ “Obviously.”

N O T E S && Sorry it’s so damned long - I’m unusually museish. O.O Also, sorry for the insane ammount of italianity and general blahness - i swear the next one will be better.

[amelie marcoux]

Amelia didn't turn around when she heard the door swing open. She was trying to appear inconspicuous, and looking about at every sound she heard would certainly give away her cover. But she soon found that she wouldn't be able to pretend to ignore the person who came into the bar for very much longer. She heard the quick clatter of heels against a hardwood floor, and once they were close enough, she turned around just to hear an extremely friendly, potentially loving exchange in Italian.

"Great" she thought. "Now I don't even have the bartender to pay attention to me." She should have gone to a more crowded bar, where she would look less out of place and simply blend with the crowd. Here she stood out; awkwardly sitting alone. She sipped her wine and munched on a few olives left in a bowl on the bar, though didn't consider where she'd put the pits. She ended up leaving them on the coaster next to her glass. The whole encounter between these two made her somewhat uncomfortable; mostly because she had to lean slightly to her right in her bar stool in order to avoid touching the woman who had just come in. Again, in a busy bar this wouldn't have mattered. But it was too early for the bar to be totally busy, only 8PM.

She was almost relieved when the woman finally spoke to her, though it seemed forced. Perhaps she was just over thinking it, though. "Probably. She finally resolved. Thus she turned to the woman and smiled, thankful to finally have some company.

"Ello," she began and considered how the different accents said hello. It seemed that the Italians switched one vowel out for another, while the French merely dropped the first letter. And Amelie's accent was most clearly French. "I'm quite well, just enjoying the beautiful Mediterranean weather with a drink." She took a sip of her glass for emphasis. She was trying to conceal how nervous she was about meeting new people, women in particular. Men didn't scare her for some reason, and she could be very flirtatious and open with them, but with women she clammed up and became uncharacteristically intimidated. Powerful women in particular. She wasn't sure what the problem was. She assumed it was the idea that men would be attracted to her because of her looks and that she didn't need to try as hard, even if she wasn't interested in them. With women, even though she'd typically just be making friends, she didn't have that advantage.

"And how are you?" She added. "Do you live around here?" She was anxious to meet some genuine Italians, and hoped that this conversation wouldn't turn awry. Though, what she figured would probably happen is that she'd strike up conversation with the bartender again and forget all about her.

((Sorry this took so long and is so short. I really have no idea what to write today.))