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It
was
interesting
for
me
to
discover
what
I
did
not
want
to
do
in
Italy
,
once
I
’
d
given
myself
executive
authorization
to
enjoy
my
experience
there
.
There
are
so
many
manifestations
of
pleasure
in
Italy
,
and
I
didn
’
t
have
time
to
sample
them
all
.
You
have
to
kind
of
declare
a
pleasure
major
here
,
or
you
’
ll
get
overwhelmed
.
That
being
the
case
,
I
didn
’
t
get
into
fashion
,
or
opera
,
or
cinema
,
or
fancy
automobiles
,
or
skiing
in
the
Alps
.
I
didn
’
t
even
want
to
look
at
that
much
art
.
I
am
a
bit
ashamed
to
admit
this
,
but
I
did
not
visit
a
single
museum
during
my
entire
four
months
in
Italy
.
(
Oh
,
man
-
it
’
s
even
worse
than
that
.
I
have
to
confess
that
I
did
go
to
one
museum
:
the
National
Museum
of
Pasta
,
in
Rome
.
)
I
found
that
all
I
really
wanted
was
to
eat
beautiful
food
and
to
speak
as
much
beautiful
Italian
as
possible
.
That
was
it
.
So
I
declared
a
double
major
,
really
-
in
speaking
and
in
eating
(
with
a
concentration
on
gelato
)
.
The
amount
of
pleasure
this
eating
and
speaking
brought
to
me
was
inestimable
,
and
yet
so
simple
.
I
passed
a
few
hours
once
in
the
middle
of
October
that
might
look
like
nothing
much
to
the
outside
observer
,
but
which
I
will
always
count
amongst
the
happiest
of
my
life
.
I
found
a
market
near
my
apartment
,
only
a
few
streets
over
from
me
,
which
I
’
d
somehow
never
noticed
before
.
There
I
approached
a
tiny
vegetable
stall
with
one
Italian
woman
and
her
son
selling
a
choice
assortment
of
their
produce
-
such
as
rich
,
almost
algae
-
green
leaves
of
spinach
,
tomatoes
so
red
and
bloody
they
looked
like
a
cow
’
s
organs
,
and
champagne
-
colored
grapes
with
skins
as
tight
as
a
showgirl
’
s
leotard
.
I
selected
a
bunch
of
thin
,
bright
asparagus
.
I
was
able
to
ask
the
woman
,
in
comfortable
Italian
,
if
I
could
possibly
just
take
half
this
asparagus
home
?
There
was
only
one
of
me
,
I
explained
to
her
-
I
didn
’
t
need
much
.
She
promptly
took
the
asparagus
from
my
hands
and
halved
it
.
I
asked
her
if
I
could
find
this
market
every
day
in
the
same
place
,
and
she
said
,
yes
,
she
was
here
every
day
,
from
7
:
00
AM
.
Then
her
son
,
who
was
very
cute
,
gave
me
a
sly
look
and
said
,
"
Well
,
she
tries
to
be
here
at
seven
…
"
We
all
laughed
.
This
whole
conversation
was
conducted
in
Italian
-
a
language
I
could
not
speak
a
word
of
only
a
few
months
earlier
.
I
walked
home
to
my
apartment
and
soft
-
boiled
a
pair
of
fresh
brown
eggs
for
my
lunch
.
I
peeled
the
eggs
and
arranged
them
on
a
plate
beside
the
seven
stalks
of
the
asparagus
(
which
were
so
slim
and
snappy
they
didn
’
t
need
to
be
cooked
at
all
)
.
I
put
some
olives
on
the
plate
,
too
,
and
the
four
knobs
of
goat
cheese
I
’
d
picked
up
yesterday
from
the
formaggeria
down
the
street
,
and
two
slices
of
pink
,
oily
salmon
.
For
dessert
-
a
lovely
peach
,
which
the
woman
at
the
market
had
given
to
me
for
free
and
which
was
still
warm
from
the
Roman
sunlight
.
For
the
longest
time
I
couldn
’
t
even
touch
this
food
because
it
was
such
a
masterpiece
of
lunch
,
a
true
expression
of
the
art
of
making
something
out
of
nothing
.
Finally
,
when
I
had
fully
absorbed
the
prettiness
of
my
meal
,
I
went
and
sat
in
a
patch
of
sunbeam
on
my
clean
wooden
floor
and
ate
every
bite
of
it
,
with
my
fingers
,
while
reading
my
daily
newspaper
article
in
Italian
.
Happiness
inhabited
my
every
molecule
Until
-
as
often
happened
during
those
first
months
of
travel
,
whenever
I
would
feel
such
happiness
-
my
guilt
alarm
went
off
.
I
heard
my
ex
-
husband
’
s
voice
speaking
disdainfully
in
my
ear
:
So
this
is
what
you
gave
up
everything
for
?
This
is
why
you
gutted
our
entire
life
together
?
For
a
few
stalks
of
asparagus
and
an
Italian
newspaper
?
I
replied
aloud
to
him
.
"
First
of
all
,
"
I
said
,
"
I
’
m
very
sorry
,
but
this
isn
’
t
your
business
anymore
.
And
secondly
,
to
answer
your
question
…
yes
.
"
One
obvious
topic
still
needs
to
be
addressed
concerning
my
whole
pursuit
of
pleasure
thing
in
Italy
:
What
about
sex
?
To
answer
that
question
simply
:
I
don
’
t
want
to
have
any
while
I
’
m
here
.
