Questa e la vida....This is life!

Still mastering the intricacies of a standard transmission and idling at a red light, I prematurely released the clutch and was admonished with a lurch and engine sputter as my car stalled. Cringing with embarrased anticipation, I listened for the horn of some enraged Italian late for his afternoon cappucino, but as my trembling fingers fumbled my keys my car was slammed from behind...
Lara Balastrini and I were seated in her humble restaurant weeks later savoring an after-hours delight: homemade gnocchi drizzled with creamy goat cheese. The soft glow from mismatched sconces had the burgundy walls and chestnut tabletops aglow as we awkwardly reminisced. Too upset at the time to understand her rapid fire Italian, I hadn’t registered Laras words in the confusion of that cobblestoned intersection: “Questa è la vita...this is life,’ she had stated.
Now, with a dull clink, she set down glasses of aromatic red wine then crunched into a piece of crispy foccacia; rosemary flecks falling as she slipped into a live memior about her families 180 year old business. Placing her mottled, delicate hands on the worn tabletop, she turned to acknowledge her great-grandfather’s inaugural bill hanging proudly next to a sepia photograph of the original proprietor. She pointed out two cast iron plates disguising drains where, almost two centuries ago, the butchers runoff had collected. Following her eyes, I took in the blackened cross beam, a vigilant reminder of a devasting fire during her ownership and as for the mismatched sconces: relics from her fathers meager attempts to regain what decor was available after World War II.
“Questa è la vita,’ she whispered as her mind’s eye refocused to the present and, without missing a beat, she asked if I’d like a Macchiato with my dessert. Snapping from my reverie, I blinked and regarded my good fortune of encountering such a fascinating individual. I voiced this opinion to my new friend and positively confirmed her truth: ‘This is life!'