An Italian and a Limoncello or Two

by Charlotte Tweed (Canada)

Making a local connection Italy

Guido was his name. Classic Italian. Our Venetian villa came with a dapper, elderly man and homemade limoncello. A charming smile and dancing eyes radiated delight and mischief. His thick, white hair was perfectly coifed. His presence—an air of dignity—even though he greeted us with a chainsaw in hand and sported gardening clothes. A thunderstorm had passed through the Venice area the night before, bringing down a large branch from Guido’s beloved oak tree. The branch that once shaded his seating area for enjoying limoncello now blocked the path to the front door. “Be careful.” Guido motioned to the dastardly, large branch. A good host ensures safety and concern for their guests. Guido’s alarm was as sincere as they come. My husband, Darryl, took our bags up to our room. Guido followed us for a proper orientation to our new abode. After we settled in, Guido invited us down for a glass of homemade limoncello under the maimed oak tree. Little did we know this encounter would be a budding relationship between people who live on opposite sides of the globe. We visited with Guido late into the night. Even with his broken English, we managed to communicate. Our Italian was limited to "Ciao, Bella!" but we could understand the gist of what Guido was telling us. Perhaps the limoncello made our Italian better and Guido’s English sharper. Throughout our four-night stay at Guido's, he shared stories and pictures of his family and the house in which we were staying. The house was his childhood home and when his family left, squatters moved in and it fell into ruins. Guido bought the place back, kicked the squatters out, and began to build his vision by renovating the house into a vacation getaway experience. The evenings couldn't have been more impeccable. It was quiet and peaceful on Guido's acreage. No cars were driving by. No traffic noise. Only the stillness of the night accompanied by Guido's stories. "My great-great-aunt lived in this house." Guido had a tale to tell. "It was said she killed her husband. Knocked him on the head with a frying pan." At least that's what we think he said. "Whack." Guido made a motion with his hand as if he were delivering the fatal blow. "Kaput." Guido clapped his hands together twice in a sweeping motion making a clap-clap sound. "Nobody could prove it. Body was never found. She was free." Who would have thought we would be privy to a centuries-old Italian murder mystery. Guido’s place is set up like a small farm complete with chickens. One evening, a chicken didn’t make its way back into the coop before sunset. Darryl and I sat and watched it from under the oak tree as we waited for Guido to join us. Round and round it walked and squawked, searching for a way into the coop with its other chicken friends. “I think you have a rogue chicken,” I pointed out to Guido as he happily brought out another bottle of limoncello. “Yes. It is always the same one. You help.” He motioned to Darryl for assistance in bringing the rebel chicken into the coop. Darryl isn’t a farmer in the least so it was quite comical watching him take orders from Guido on how and when to open the chicken coop gate. Guido herded the bird around the coop and Darryl opened the gate just in time to save the day. Mrs. Chicken was now happy and safe with the rest of the brood. A special connection was made during those sultry, Italian evenings. We still hear from Guido. He sends us pictures of events in Venice and we message him when we hear news of floods in the area to make sure he is alright. It is a reason for us to reach out and say, "Hi, we are thinking about you on the other side of the world." Guido lives a good life and he shared his culture with us in a personal way. Italian hospitality, like homemade limoncello, is smooth like honey. You can never get enough and the sweet impression will linger a lifetime.