Anniversary story, part III

The morning of March 20, 1993 was full of sunshine. We decided to buy a train ticket to the first town in Italy, a city called Ventimiglia, because John wanted to take me to dinner in Italy (what better reason do you need?). And we set off.

The train we took hugged the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. We were able to hop on and off the train at will, and explored little beach towns we had never heard of (Cap d'Ail, Antibes) and big beach towns we had (Nice, Monaco). It was a charmed day (if you can call a day such a thing). We didn't pay any attention to the schedule and would get off the train when it looked pretty. We'd head to the beach, walk or read or talk for an hour or two, meander back up to the train station, and a train would pull up. We'd get on, and only later realize it had been (and would be) the only train for hours.

We hiked around the hills of Nice, had a snack in Monaco, and soaked up the sun and blue skies. On the last stretch of the train ride, I changed into the little black dress my mom helped me buy before I left for France. It was perfect.

We arrived in Italy and realized three things: we had no Italian lira, we knew almost no Italian, and we had no idea which of the scores of amazing looking restaurants we should head to for dinner. The first problem we took care of at a bank machine. The second and third problems we decided we would take care of by asking someone. I knew enough Italian to ask if someone could speak French or English.

So we headed off toward the beach, looking for the perfect person to ask. We passed many, and then John saw a young man sitting on a bench. "Let's ask him," he said. So I asked him in Italian if he spoke French or English. He said he spoke French. I asked him in French if he knew a good Italian restaurant.

"As a matter of fact," he said, pulling out a business card, "I own a good Italian restaurant."

His name was Tony Guido (really). His restaurant was called Pasta e Basta. And if we liked pasta, he said (we nodded that we did), his was the best in all of Italy.

He said he was heading there right now and would show us the way. On the way there, he asked if we were brother and sister, cousins, friends, boyfriend and girlfriend (John thinks he was wanting to know if it was worth hitting on me. I think he was just making conversation). When he got to asking if we were engaged (after a week of waiting for John to ask me back, and feeling sure it'd be a repeat of junior high dances where I would ask a boy to dance, and he would never, ever ask me back), I just shrugged my shoulders. Heck if I know, I wanted to tell him.

And then we arrived. Tony Guido pointed out his restaurant, said to come back at 7:30, and promised to reserve us the best table in the house. He left us next to the beach, looking out over the Mediterranean, at sunset.

And it was there and then that John asked me back.

He held my hands and looked in my eyes. "Lisa," he said, "will you marry me? Will you stay by my side for the rest of my life?"

I said yes.

And then we kissed. We kissed on that boardwalk of the beach, with the Italians just walking around us, like it was no big deal that these two people were kissing and ignoring everything else in the world around them, like it happens all the time in Italy (and maybe it does).

We kissed for a long time. No one seemed to mind. When we finally stopped kissing, we held hands and walked up and down the boardwalk, watching old men play bocce ball and young children ride bikes and the sun set over the sea. We were right on time for our reservation, and Tony Guido had, in fact, reserved the best table in the house for us.

We had an amazing meal. At one point, a little dark-haired Italian girl came by selling roses. John bought one (again, the student who lived on $5 a month shelled out more than that for one rose). We finished our meal leisurely, but did have to walk quickly to catch that last train back to France.

As I said, it was a charmed day, that sunny Saturday in March seventeen years ago.

Unfortunately, John would have to leave France, which he did three days later. And that would lead to two of the best stories of all: one that was funny (telling my parents) and one that showed the interesting way things work in this universe.