T he International Language of Chocolate
"So, you, you're ok?… all fine…?" A sweet voice spoke from the other end of the line in a gentle broken English.
"I'm ok. Really ok." I smile, answering louder than I should as when in a foreign land without a clue how to speak the language, I found myself trying to communicate through smiles alone.
"Ok. ok…" His Italian accent strongly accents the words.
"Ok."
"Good night…see you… night."
"Good night!"
I hung up the phone in my small hotel room that I was staying in for one night alone. My traveling partner had left earlier that evening leaving me to my lonesome in Rome. I was alone, freezing in the January 4th weather and paranoid I would miss my flight early the next morning, for jet lag had still not worn off. I spent the evening eating at the hotel restaurant with not one other soul around, munching bread stick after breadstick and downing plates of "spinache?" as the waitress with the furrowed brow would say as I pointed to the menu and did my classic American smile and nod. I then sat in the lobby with my beloved bar/cafe boys who would supply me with as much tea as I could drink, and as many sweet chocolate cookies as I could eat. They all knew I loved chocolate. Chocolate. This one word I felt fully translated the first time I wandered up to the bar, innocently asking for tea, and was treated to a darling little plate of goodies along side my afternoon beverage of choice. I was charmed by this. "Charmé" some French might say, or "affacinato" as some Italians might say. I would precede to say "MMM, chocolate!" and eat all the chocolate cookies bite by bite, delicately tasting each orange note in the little bon bons, the coconut layers with the berry jams dipped in chocolate, or the sandy shortbread wafers with a thick layer of pressed chocolate on the back. The bar boys would laugh at me as I would scrap the dark chocolate coating off the palm sized sugar cookies, eating the chocolate first and cookie second. I had chocolate all over my fingers and face like a small child trying to eat a melting ice cream sandwich on a hot Fourth of July. They just giggled and gave me more tea.
The lobby was my last resort that solo night as I had already visited a grocery store, a few "bars" which were deli's, not the "bars" we know, and a book store taking pictures of all sorts of foods. I had stopped a few aspect of my foodie lifestyle while my travel partner was there, as few understand why I find a bowl of olives so beautiful, or how I can think the way a pizzeria wraps a grab and go slice of bread is an art. I would watch how the parchment paper rounded the edges, crinkling with the forceful, yet soft pick up, and later retrieval by the customer. My eyes were always wide in Italy. I was in a paradise. A dream land of smells and tastes so pure and unbecoming that I almost felt it was all unreal. I might wake up any minute, or the lights may turn off like a theme park as a loud voice would say "Thank you for visiting Rome. We will open tomorrow at 9 am. Please throw all trash away and return gelato spoons to the Vatican parking lots exits. All unattended children will be escorted to lost and found."
I warmed my hand with a paper cone full of freshly roasted chestnuts New Years day. Cracking the tough shell away and feeling the buttery nuts melt in my mouth; I walked a bit slower through the streets, and held my traveling partner a bit closer. It was as if I had a sacred gift in that cone, which I hid in my pocket like a child with a new quarter machine ring that shined and glistened. I sipped espressos in a way that almost made me wonder if I could seal the moment in time, and make it last forever. Red wines with body, meaty artichokes in warm rich olive oil with tender breadcrumbs, and sweet salty slices of proscitto filled my other days. To think, I managed that and so much more in a mere four days.
As I stared at the television that last night blasting Italian MTV, I felt an aloneness I had never experienced. I was completely separated from everything. No computer to jump on and surf the net or chat with friends over our speedy instant messages. No phone calls to be made, as my cellular service did not have a "Rome-ing" plan for Italian adventures. I could not talk to the fellow guests, as they were asleep by now and I could really only tell them food things. I don't know many conversations that went any where if one person just said regional dishes, girl (bella,) and thank you (gracie) over and over. (Those being the only words I knew in Italian.) I was alone. Completely solo. Without a hand to reach to, or a voice to hear. Even TV was a struggle as it was in Italian.
A knock sounded at the door. Throwing on my sweater with nothing else on but plaid knee socks, I had no idea who this might be. Opening the door slowly, my little bar friend stood with a big smile holding a tea plate full of Nutella and a little espresso spoon.
"You. Chocolate" He nodded and smiled again, as he presented the gift and offering of comfort to me. My heart caved in for the sweetness and kindness involved in that mound of sweet chocolate and hazelnut spread. Tears almost filled my eyes. In my moment of loss, of self contemplation, of complete and utter solitary misery, I was rescued by a spirit of love holding a plate of Nutella. Taking the plate in, and thanking him graciously, 
I took pictures to document the moment. I let the Nutella melt on my tongue and with each taste, I knew love and comfort was there. It felt like everything was right in the world. Even during my sleepless night, I would get a little lick off the spoon as I wandered back to bed from the bathroom, smiling to myself. It was the hug of a grandmother embodied in chocolate and hazelnuts. I made my flight the next morning, and arrived back in New York many hours later, still high on the kindness of a foreign stranger who knew I liked chocolate. He could not change my position, rework phone systems, or even talk to me and cheer me up, but he could supply chocolate, our personal common language.
A few days ago I whirled roasted hazelnuts and a dark chocolate ganache in my food processor and the smells filled me with the same love and comfort I felt that night in Rome. Again, my heart softened and my taste buds excited. I cannot bring myself to buy Nutella here, as the emotional connection is too strong now. I like to think I'm saving it for certain times, so the association will always be there.
I might not have been able to speak Italian, but kindness crosses languages, and that night, we spoke in chocolate.
