Zi'Umberto

I leaned against the fountain and cried, gasping through a slightly hysterical monologue as my mother listened from 5,000 miles away. “And I’m holding a piece of pizza I bought to keep my hands warm and I’m not even hungry but I’m eating it anyway,” I moaned, my exhalation morphing into a sob.
Once the blubbering subsided, my mom asked where I was sitting. “I’m in Piazza Trilussa. But I don’t care that I’m crying in public because I’m in Italy and I don’t know anyone here,” I explained.

After the phone call, I met my roommates for lunch nearby. We waited briefly for an outdoor table until an older man bearing menus waved us over.

“Are you ok now?” he asked, putting a hand on my shoulder. Confused, I responded, “Oh, we didn’t wait very long. It’s good to be seated now though.” “No, no. I saw you in the piazza earlier. You were very sad. Are you ok now?” the man said, clearly very concerned about my emotional state.
“Oh! Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I didn’t think anyone saw me,” I laughed, half-embarrassed and half-shocked at the coincidence. “See? You are so beautiful when you smile! No more tears. Allora, you want some wine? Yes, she needs wine,” he declared.

The man was Zi’Umberto, the restaurant’s namesake Uncle Umberto.

We ate and talked, talked and ate. I couldn’t help reiterating my disbelief that this man had seen me crying at the fountain, that he remembered me when I happened to walk into his restaurant hours later, and that he had had the gumption to ask if I was feeling better. The fortuity of it all was just incredible.

After we had finished our meal, Zi'Umberto brought three limoncello glasses to the table. He poured out a shot for each of my roommates, and then set the bottle in front of me with a heavy thud. “Here – you drink all of this, you forget what makes you cry!” he joked.

As we got up to leave, Zi’Umberto came over to the table again, pinched my cheek and said, “No tears. Now go! Be happy!”
And that’s exactly what I did.