On the last leg of the trek: our cappuccini await.
Heading back, the pause unnerves Harley a bit.

We’ve never tried the local bus before:
only foraged as far as we could walk.

But with the kind guidance of a friend,
we headed off on an entertaining jaunt.

“Salute!” our hosts toast the celebrants to start:
even including the child with water in her glass.

Umberto, of course, plays the card to the crowd,
adding years of wisdom to a younger man’s pains

Then pretending I am the one seeking his attention,
before he pulls out the masterpiece–a spilled coffee trick.

When the lights go out, I totally miss the intention.
It’s time for candles on a cake, you misguided idiot.

Out comes the del Trivio guitar, and of course we all
sing, though unsure of the words (much less the tune).

Best wishes are made and the cake, once cut, is passed
all around, as everyone makes room for a second dessert.

When Umberto greets us at del Trivio,
he always pretends the house is full
unless we have secured a reservation.

Tonight, Rebecca has her comeback ready.
In her best Italian, so carefully practiced,
She returns: “No, but I know the cook.”

Umberto is delighted with the boldness
(and the precise Italian) of her quip.
“Bravo,” he applauds an unexpected aria:

the same word he uses to approve
the Italian way I now relish il ragù
by sopping up the last drop with bread.