Finding My Bar

Rain poured from my umbrella’s rim and held me hostage. Water crested the sidewalk and soaked my shoes. The museum didn’t open for another hour so I did what any Roman would do — I ducked into a bar for a coffee.

In Italy, bars are neighborhood cafes where you go for morning coffee, a quick lunch, or a drink and snack after work with friends. A bar isn’t an American-style cocktail lounge.

To get out of the rain, I stepped into the first bar I passed and asked in my most convincing Italian, “Un caffé, per favore.” The barista stopped what he was doing and looked up from behind the espresso machine, “Un caffé?” Yes, yes, I want a coffee. He didn’t ask the woman behind me to repeat her order for coffee.

I’d been getting the same reaction since my first morning in Rome when I squeezed up to the counter between fur coats and down jackets and confidently said, “Un cappuccino, per favore.” The barista stared at me for a second and asked, “Un cappuccino?” Everyone at the counter was sipping the milk and coffee drink. Yes, I want a cappuccino, too.

Disheartened by my mysterious failure with caffé and cappuccino, I signed up for a few Italian classes even though lessons hadn’t been part of my plan when I arrived in Rome. I was on a mission to become fluent in the language of modern Italy. I’d studied Italian grammar, read the classics, and participated in too many conversation groups. I was in Italy to learn to speak.

But I had a question only a teacher could answer: “What gives with the coffee thing?”

Daniella laughed. “It’s the double consonants, i consonanti doppie,” she said. Unlike English speakers, native Italian speakers always distinguish pairs of ‘f’s from their lonely singles. She pronounced the subtle pause between the twin letters—caaaf (pause) fè—the pause lengthening the vowel that precedes them.

My lessons with Daniella helped until I discovered something even better. Whatever the person before me ordered, I ordered too, aping their sounds. Caffè, cappuccino, macchiato. I felt foolish firing off the exaggerated consonants and vowels but the more I aped, the less the baristas hesitated. The afternoon a barista pulled the handle to start the espresso machine without looking up at me, I wanted to celebrate. Un grande successo — I’d finally gotten it right.

That was weeks ago and now I’m in the groove. I order coffee like a native, and like a native, I’ve even found my bar.

Its two purple-haired baristas always greet me, “Buon giorno, signora! Caffè?” I’ve fallen in love with them and the bar’s deep red walls. Newly renovated with dark woods and Venetian glass lamps, it seemed like a student hang out the first time I stopped by, but when I returned later, I discovered a white-haired clientele equally at home.

Now my home base, I go each day at mid-morning when students fill the front and gossiping elders circulate among the tables in back. I choose a pastry, order my coffee, and unfurl my newspaper at my spot somewhere in between.

About the Author: Bonnie Smetts first fell in love with Italian when she decided to take a few classes before visiting a friend who’d moved to Umbria. Five years later, she’s studied all the grammar, read stack of classics, and participated in myriad conversation groups. The time has come for her to be fluent in Italian.