CAMERANO (part IV): Fantastico nights with Italian boys

WE WALK INTO THE BAR that our roommate Kiley has dubbed the Havana Club - because of the vintage sign on the back wall that reads just that - and we have our first encounter with the locals.

They’re getting rippin’ drunk and we’re looking for trouble.

A guy that looks about my age – 20 - and seems like he’s a few drinks deep passes by. He’s sporting an Italia jersey and I scan my mind for something to say.

“Mi piace,” I blurt it out and point to his shirt since, “I like,” is the first thing to pop into my head.

Instead of being impressed by my language skills, he looks back at me and with a devilish smile asks in Italian, “You like my shirt or you like me?”

I roll my eyes to disguise my embarrassment then quickly tug on his shirt to clear up the misunderstanding and scurry away.

Meanwhile back at the table, my friends pore over the menu, picking out fancy drinks to try. About to take a look myself, I hear my new “mi piace” friend yelling.

I spin around as he shoves a glass of red wine in my hand; it matches the one in his own.

In harmony, we shout, “Salute!”

Then he introduces himself as Roberto. It takes about half a second for his friends to catch on, approach Roberto, and ask him “who’s your buddy?”

Well, they said something in Italian. I assume that’s what it was.

Another hand is thrust into mine. His name is Mauro and he speaks English. Kind of. He explains that there is a beach nearby called Black Rock and that after the bar he and his friends go and spend the night in their sleeping bags.

Sleeping bag is a word Mauro does not know in Italian. He holds his hands up in prayer position and tilts his head against them. Roberto yawns like he’s tired. Mauro then puts his hands out like he’s holding something at knee-height and jumps into it. Roberto puts his hands the same way but after jumping he pinches his fingers together and makes an upward motion and a “zzzip” sound.

“Ohh, a sleeping bag?” I finally guess.

Roberto nods and repeats, “Fantastico!”

It seems that everything Roberto says is followed by, “Fantastico!”

The beach is fantastico, the wine, the sleeping bag. It’s his favorite word, and mine too because I understand it.

After some convincing, my American friends and I agree to take advantage of our time here because we knew we don’t have a moment to waste this month. These days go and they go fast.

Before I know it we’re all navigating our way on foot down a path in the pitch-black forest that leads down to place the Italians kept calling, “Fantastico!”

It takes a brutal twenty minutes - stumbling in the dark - to reach the bottom but once we get down there it’s worth it. Think Cape Cod with people sitting around campfires and the waves crashing on the shore – only better.

Better because we’re in Italy.

There’s Italian chatter, the waves are waves of the Adriatic and it is the perfect place to watch the sunrise… I learned this at 6:27 am when I'm woken up to watch it.

My contacts are glued to my eyeballs because I’ve slept with them in - like I know I’m not supposed to do. Squinting, I crawl out of the two sleeping bags my Italian friends had lent to me to make sure I slept comfortably. The soft sand cradles my feet and I join my friends at the shoreline to watch the day break.

Everything looks different now: the campfires are just blackened logs, the beach is barren and the waves are the only sound on the Black Rock Beach this morning.

Slowly we walk back towards to the path that led us down the night before. We struggle up through the forest and I think, “I’m glad I didn’t think about this last night “

Had I known it was this steep and arduous, I may never have walked down. I would’ve missed out on a fantastico night.

- Caitlyn Slivinski