The Muffin Muse

How did we end up here? I wonder aloud, staring over the Umbrian countryside, sun setting past the Etruscan towers of our city on the hill. Ah Perugia, B sighs, not caring. Personal tour of a world-class vineyard? Check. Joy ride in a Mercedes? Check. Multi-course meal at an Agriturismo? Double Check. Class? ... let's call this immersive learning at its finest. GIRLSWHEREDY’ALLGIT? Dad’s twang pierces our zen as he huffs up the hill. I wonder if any of this would’ve happened if Dad hadn't come to visit. The gregarious Texan had arrived in Italy just 36 hours prior; he was here to have his Vino, and drink it too. Despite the chianti clouding my brain, I try to retrace the events that had led us on such a whirlwind of a day.
T’was a casual Tuesday night in Perugia; B and I are perched on the steps facing Fontana Maggiore, boxed bianco in hand (aromas of student debt). It’s my favorite time of evening: barely dusk. The crowd is different from the afternoon pasagiatta, mostly students gathered chatting after la cena, the evening meal. We’re conversing with Mauro, our newest acquaintance, putting our Italian skills (Mi piace la luna!) to the test. He offers us a glass of Montepulciano (rich notes of intent). Of course Dad chooses now to join in. Our amico finds Dad's demeanor amusing, and the broken conversation turns to work. It’s standard for young men to still live at home, and indeed Mauro does. Turns out home for Mauro rests upon the only vineyard in Perugia… growing grapes for the Luna di Luna seen in stores back home. One glass later (nondescript vino da tavola) and mi papa has no problem requesting a personal tour. Turns out Mauro is eager to impress.
Next day he arrives, noon sharp. The hours to follow are a blur of sensation. Turns out paying for wine tours=overrated, befriend a pal in the biz. Turns out that the best meals are 5 courses long, enjoyed with close family, new friends. Preparing to leave, Mauro’s mamma kisses my cheek, papa pats my back, hands us 3 bottles each. Turns out Italian men don’t bring girls to dinner unless they’re planning to marry. When I see you again? Mauro whispered in my ear. Think fast. Mi dispiace, siamo lesbiche! B asserts, taking my hand. Less than true, but point taken. We weren’t offered a ride home. Pausing on our climb back up, we crack open a bottle of red (smooth, aftertaste of content) Life is crazy, B laughed. La vita é bella, I smile in reply.