Reading an Italian love story while hurtling past Herculean finger trees in the Italian countryside in an empty window seat aboard a charter bus is, in a word, dangerous. But in the most beautiful way. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day, the 15th of February, and the sting of loneliness is still fresh, the longing for romance increasingly pestering. These are feelings, I solemnly believe, I will never outrun. Which is why reading Call me by your name, an epic about young love, sexual awakening, and humanity, is so gruesome an endeavor, life threatening, even. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day, for God’s sake. And heads up, we’re about to pull into Verona, which, if you’ve ever taken tenth grade English, is the sun-kissed setting for Shakespeare’s ode to love itself, Romeo and Juliet. Romeo o Romeo where for art thou. Seriously? I don’t think I’ll be climbing any vine ridden balconies anytime soon. But then again, Love is a tricky thing. A lot of people stumble upon it at the least likely of times and in the obscurest settings. Truly, anywhere can be a balcony in Verona. My mom met my dad on a beach in Virginia. I once struck up a conversation with a man in a coffee shop who claimed to have met his wife of thirty years in a taxi cab. Maybe Uber isn’t the best move after all? Maybe? Possible? The only thing I’m certain of is that I could ride a charter bus through the Italian countryside for an eternity. When my hair is gray and my hands are covered in sun spots, I’ll still be zipping past Palladian villas, snow capped alps, and grape vineyards. Yes, I could die in this bus, and even then my decaying body will continue to hurtle towards a Tuscan oblivion. My friends always tease me for thinking like a contrived tortured writer. I guess I’m beginning to find some legitimacy in that.
Ciao
Jacob
