What Are You Doing in Salso?

by Brett Aresco (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Italy

As I pulled into Salsomaggiore Terme, a sleepy Italian spa town in the northwest of the country, I was hungry. It was only 9 PM, but I felt like the only person awake for miles. I took a chance on what seemed the town’s only open restaurant: “Terrazza del Bistrot Bacio Di Vino Salsomaggiore.” As I stepped into the bar - housed in, of all things, a tennis club - I asked the lone waiter if he spoke English. “I do, mate- welcome, mate!” His accent was a curious mix of Italian, English, and Australian. He was positively bubbly as he led me to an antique couch before a marble table. I asked if they were still serving food, and he replied, “Hmm… do you like pizza?” I said yes. “I’ll make you something, mate.” He then disappeared to the kitchen. It soon turned out that the “pizza” to which he was referring was a DIY affair- fresh-baked focaccia topped with Parma ham with burrata on the side. It was gigantic and delicious. In the span of an hour I went from wondering whether I would ever eat again to wondering if I’d ever have to. As I sat contentedly munching away, I was approached by two men. One looked to be in his forties, with broad shoulders and a bald head. He looked like an Italian Telly Savalas. The other was in his early twenties, portly, and bearded. The older man spoke first. He said they didn’t hear a lot of English in Salso and asked where I was from. I told him New York City. “You’re American?” he said. “What are you doing in Salso?” I didn’t tell him about my friends’ wedding in Tuscany, which I had just attended. I didn’t tell him about the girl I was hoping to meet up with in Milan who hadn’t responded to my last message. I didn’t tell him about my recent breakup with my six-year girlfriend, with whom I had lived, and my subsequent decision to do everything on a whim because, dammit, I was the master of my fate and the captain of my soul. “I’m just stopping by on the way to Milan,” I said. “Oh, don’t go to Milan!” the man said passionately. “Stay here!” He told me his name was Lorenzo. He asked if I liked the bar; I said yes. He said that was good, because he owned it. He said that though it was strange I would come to Salso all the way from New York, I had perfect timing: tomorrow began the second-biggest festival of the year in nearby Fidenza, one dedicated to Saint Domninus, the patron saint of the city. Legend had it the saint had been beheaded for converting to Christianity, then carried his severed head around for a while until he collapsed somewhere in the town square. On the site of his collapse, the locals built a church. I was hooked. I took Lorenzo’s advice and stayed. The next night, my loquacious waiter friend let me follow him to the festival. It spanned the whole town. There was a metal band with a mosh pit, a DJ playing disco, a large tent with techno blaring. People were dancing, shouting, and singing- all in Italian. They were having the time of their lives. In a weird way, so was I. What felt in some ways like a street festival anywhere in the world was suffused with a different kind of meaning. “I’m not supposed to be here,” I thought. Despite understanding nothing, I felt like an interloper, clandestinely weaving in and out of people’s lives and private moments. I had come to Italy newly broken up and almost broke. I had never before traveled by myself and needed to know what that felt like, having spent so many years living a life that was not entirely my own. But I had no idea why I had stopped in Salso, of all places. And now, as I floated through a sea of unintelligible revelers in a Medieval town whose name I had thought was a mispronunciation of the Italian name for Florence, I had a hunch.