Un Amico Italiano: Eat, Pray, Love in Rome
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"Luca Spaghetti is not only one of my favorite people in the world, but also a natural-born storyteller. . . . This [is a] marvelous book." -Elizabeth Gilbert
When Luca Spaghetti (yes, that's really his name) was asked to show a writer named Elizabeth Gilbert around Rome, he had no idea how his life was about to change. She embraced his Roman ebullience, and Luca in turn became her guardian angel, determined that his city would help Liz out of her funk.
Filled with colorful anecdotes about food, language, soccer, daily life in Rome, and Luca's own fish-out-of-water moments as a visitor to the United States-and culminating with the episodes in Liz's bestselling memoir, told from Luca's side of the table-Un Amico Italiano is a book that no fan of Eat, Pray, Love will want to miss.
our mic stands. And that was when Mario’s voice filled the hangar in a sweet, acoustic version of “Can’t Buy Me Love.” I could feel an inner wave of joy swelling, note after note, chord after chord. I looked down at my friends in the audience, and they looked back and smiled at me, and I smiled back at them. Every so often I turned to look at the other members of the John Horse Quartet, and they were swimming in their own sea of joy, hardly able to believe it was happening. I realized that when
in certain situations: the scarpetta, or wiping up sauce with a torn-off crust of bread. As I say, some find it rude, but I think it’s a crime to let a waiter take your plate without wiping it clean of delicious sauce—and eating the bread you use to do it. So, to keep from feeling embarrassed, I decided I’d have to persuade Elizabeth to do the same thing. To my great surprise, she gladly agreed, and began busily wiping up sauce with scraps of bread. We were more or less halfway through our first
highly colorful appellation is reserved for those whom Romans consider to be not only idiots, but also lacking in respect for their fellow man, and—most crucially—who wear their idiocy on their shoulders with an exasperating arrogance that really does suggest that there is something other than a thinking human head with a brain inside sticking out of their shirt collar. The choral dispute over the referee’s various qualities was tossed back and forth from fan to fan, and moved on from the
wish for my birthday/Thanksgiving dinner. I asked them all to join me in a cheerful toast, and I promised them that the first thing I’d do the following morning was go out and order a turkey for next Thanksgiving. By this time, everyone at the table was laughing and talking happily. Most important, to my immense relief I saw that I was safe from my greatest fear: that the evening might be one of chilling silence between Americans, Italians, and Swedes who not only didn’t know one another, but
town for three days, and of course we spent that whole time together. We toured Rome—Liz, me, and Giuliana—just as we had four years earlier, drinking, eating, strolling, and laughing. We walked and walked and suddenly realized we were back in Santa Maria in Trastevere. As we set foot in that piazza where we’d first met, I turned to look at Liz. She looked back at me smiling, in gentle complicity. That was when I realized that Liz was still just Liz, that the enormous, incredible popularity of