This Time

Your better judgment can be over-rated.  

Last night I thought: There’s going to be traffic. I thought: We’ve had no sleep. And of course: We’re likely to over-eat. I didn’t think that. I knew that.

But we went anyway. To Rimini, in search of food. Tizi said we can go to Biberius, what used to be Ricky’s, and have a glass of wine and it’s Thursday and maybe they’ll have that polenta again. Or to Marianna, and have some fish. Or to Nud e Crud for piadina and vegetables. Or to Meris and get a couple cassione and go home. That all sounded good. Except it was early.

I said, “It’s early, you know.” It was a little before 6:00 p.m. The trouble is most Italian places don’t start serving food until 7:30, at which point we should have been fed and on our way back up to San Marino.  

She, determined: “We’ll find some place.” 

I took back roads, driving in the dark. She dozed at my side. I leaned over the steering wheel, driving down through the hills on two-lane roads, minding the shoulder and the no-shoulder and the impatient headlights behind me, down to SP258, the provincial road, where cars lined up, stopped and started, going and mostly not going toward the state road and Rimini. Motorcycles passed me on the right, taking advantage. Motorcycles passed me on the left, taking their lives in their hands.

Awake now, Tizi said, “Are you okay?” I affirmed that I was, leaning further over the steering wheel, checking in with my better judgment. Whoa, we passed a person on a bike, riding the shoulder, a person dressed in black.

Getting into town, getting to the parking lot was bad. Parking was good, in a lot where you usually wait, in a lot right across the road from Nud e Crud and Marianna and from Biberius. Biberius pouring, pouring glasses of wine. Passing out bready-looking aperitivo fare that we did not want. Marianna not serving yet. But at Nud e Crud they were open. We got the first table of the evening and learned the name of the manager, Gennaro, and had two of his specials, the cannellini and cavolo nero soup and the meatballs with mashed potatoes. Which, of course, was not enough. Bring also please the erbe saltati in padella (sauteed greens) and squaquerone (creamy dreamy spreadable cheese), and piadine. And a quarter liter of red wine.

It was so good. And driving home we were so tired. At 7:30 there was still traffic, and I still leaned over the steering wheel, thinking go slow go slow, driving up the winding two-lane roads, minding the shoulder and the no-shoulder, wanting to be asleep but happy that we ate, We were back in Italy. Heat and hot water were waiting for us when we got home. Once again, but carefully, very carefully, I had slipped this adventure past my better judgment. This time.