wisdom from my nonno
if you can't beat them, join them
It’s a hot Tuesday morning in Rome. My AC is broken, which, is most likely an Italian rite of passage. But can I be honest with you? And I’m sure I won’t be saying this in a few weeks - but I kind of love waking up to the windows open. At 7 AM, it’s far too early for the Roman summer soundtrack.
Is there a better feeling than getting water and nectarines out of the refrigerator? Or taking a cold shower? Or drinking an espresso tonic mid-day just to wake us up from June’s haze?
Nectarines, peaches, and watermelon are customary for dinner. The sun sets at 8. And this is how summer should feel. I don’t want to feel anything else. I just want to do the smallest things with the most gratitude.
My morning routine is this: I meditate in bed for 15 minutes. I will then rummage through my wardrobe to find my shortest dress, throw my hair into a top knot, make an espresso tonic, sit down, and write.
Most of it, I publish. But some, I’ll keep to myself.
Today, and for past few days, I have been thinking about my Nonno, Danny.
Danny was a wise, wise man. I always knew he had it all figured out, but sometimes, it takes living out your own experiences to realize the impact that the older generation has on our own actions and behaviours.
Today, I wanted to share some of his wisdom with you, because he had a very unique way of dealing with people.
His phrases never translate as powerfully in English as they do in Italian dialect. But, I’ll do my best.
Whenever someone pissed him off, he would use the following simple phrase combined with a dismissive hand gesture:
“The same. You’re all the same.”
Why is it always the fewest words that will set anyone into the deepest spiral? Maybe it’s because choosing the right ones will say the most. Back he went to his tomato garden and afternoon espresso.
And how many dinners have we all been stuck at, where you’ve looked around at the table and the company and have asked ourselves: Why. Am. I. Here?
Those dinners where people are just talking at each other, in order to make it seem like they are Really Doing Something. God, those really are just the worst.
Danny’s motto? “You have one job. Just wipe your mouth.” Meaning - all you have to do is sit, eat, and leave.
This is something that sticks with me, often.
One time, a friend made me meet him out to essentially friendship break - up with me (lol, like ghost me instead), and I still managed to order 2 glasses of red and a burger because I refused to let his words ruin my chance of having a good meal.
Tune everything out, just eat. You can still have a great time, listening to no one.
But my favourite saying of his?
“We are not for sale.”
From What Isn’t Ours. How many times can I revisit the words in that piece? An endless amount, apparently.
I’m going to be honest with you. My dad rarely interjects into my friendships or relationships.
But the other day, as I was telling him about some of the men and the women and the company that I have met while being here, he says to me:
“You know what seems to be missing? Genuinity.”
Combined with my Nonno’s saying: we are not for sale - it makes me reflect on the transactional nature of friendships and relationships.
But are the real ones supposed to feel transactional? To feel as though you are being wanted only when someone needs something from you? Built on their time, built around their schedules. When a friendship or relationship is built on transactions - why is it only the buyer that’s benefiting? And why does it feel like you have given away something, without being aware of the transaction in the first place?
“I’m starting work now, but I hope you have a beautiful day.” A friend from home messages me after we’ve spent the morning sending things we love on IG to each other.
Ease, genuinity. Kindness.
We are not for sale.
And people can really only meet you as far as they meet themselves, I want to tell my Nonno this, too.
-
It’s almost midnight on a Friday. I decide to take myself to the one place that, strangely, with all of the drama surrounding it, feels like home.
And the transactions? Well, these are ones we’re very much aware of.
“Sometimes, it’s the devil you know.” My best friend tells me.
The devil I personally know isn’t working that night, but Peter Pan is.
Peter Pan and a Mystery Blonde Man.
Seated in my usual corner spot, Peter Pan gives me a wave and recites my order without me needing to opening my mouth.
“Dirty Martini. Spring Rolls.”
“And can I-”
“Charge your phone.”
“You’re the best.”
He brings over a charger.
“Peter Pan really flies without He Who Shall Not Be Named there.” Me and my best friend laugh.
Peter Pan busies himself as two Canadian guys sit down next to me. I welcome their energy. A little piece of home.
I tell on myself after one martini.
“So, why don’t you two just date then?”
“Sometimes it’s hard to tell the distinction between feelings from sex, and feelings from feelings. And I think it just might be sex.”
“Well, that’s not a good enough reason, then.”
We are not for sale.
I think my Nonno would be proud at how far I’ve come since last year.
The same. I picture him next to me with a glass of red at the bar. I never saw him drink anything else. But we both laugh as he makes the hand gesture. They’re all the same.
The Canadians leave, and I order an Aperol Spritz before I leave. It’s my way to linger with Peter, except he’s disappeared.
Mystery Blonde Man comes over instead.
“Those guys took care of your bill.”
And they didn’t expect anything in return. Well, maybe they’re not all the same.
“Sometimes I wish I knew when that was going to happen - I would have ordered more food.”
Me and Mystery Blonde Man start to laugh.
He hands me my bill for the spritz. He’s scribbled out 12 euros and wrote down 6.
“You know - I don’t think anyone has ever taken 50% off my bill before.”
The only things I’ve ever gotten for free were shots, a few muses, content that would last me over a year, and most recently - a pregnancy scare. Transactional. It all balances out, I guess.
But I don’t tell Mystery Blonde Man any of this.
“Well, I think 6 is a lot better than 12.” Mystery Blonde says.
“I guess this is why I keep coming back.”
He looks at me and smiles. “You’re always welcome here.”
I text my best friend.
“I think we might have a new one.”
“Yep.” She replies. “Yep, we do.”
And my favourite saying?
If you can’t beat them, join them.
Love you,
Emily