I was sitting outside of the café at Ostia Antica, enjoying the beautiful sunny day. With my feet up, surrounded by friends, enjoying the sunshine, what could make this day better? You guessed it, an iced cold cappuccino.
From my seat outside, I could see into the café and was able to see both the menu and monitor the line. Scanning down the list, I was able to spot the golden item, un cappuccino fredo. Allowing the line to die down, I waited it out and then pounced on the opportunity once no one was around to go get my refreshing treat.
Arriving inside, bouncing towards the counter, I was not greeted with the usual smile of the barista that I had become oh so accustomed to. Instead, the man standing at the counter, facing me, was dressed in all black disheveled clothing and had un-brushed greasy hair. His face was not glowing like the skin of most Italians; it was marked with worry lines and wrinkles of exhaustion. His eyes did not contain the wonders of the future, but instead his worries of the past. Unlike my favorite barista at Gourmet, across the street from St. John’s University, who had traveled the world making coffee for and talking with a variety of people of all different cultures, he had never set foot outside of the confining bounds of Ostia. This was evident through the bitterness in his tone and the way he scoffed at my best attempt of placing a coffee order in Italian and his impatience as I tried to find the perfect change for my hot, yes hot not iced, cappuccino that he gave me, insisting, despite all the other patrons holding iced cappuccinos and the menu behind his head that I was pointing to, that an iced cappuccino did not exist.
I could have argued and carried on if I had known the language. But I did not have the ability to do so. Even if I had spoken Italian, I would not have pursued it, as I felt for the man and acknowledged our different paths. While I come from a loving family, whom with I can't live without, he is not blessed with such a scenario, living very much by himself with no one to share life’s moments with. Despite us being in the same space, I was there by choice, fortunate enough to be abroad, exploring the world with classmates, versus him who was working his nine to five (seventeen), just trying to get by.
It was for these reasons, that I ultimately bit my tongue and moved away from the situation, realizing that the rest of my day was going to go on to be filled with learning, laughter, friendship and good food, while his day was just going to go on.
(Ostia Antica, Voyeur, Barista)