Opera, olives and acorns...

In January 2008 my friend Nanci and I were planning a trip to Italy to celebrate our birthdays. During the Christmas holidays I had read John Grisham's "Playing for Pizza" and had become enamoured with the notion of visiting some of the places he had mentioned in the book. We had already rented a second-floor walk-up on Piazza Santo Spirito in Florence for 10 days and were trying to decide what day trips to take. Nanci is one of those people who's impossible to surprise, but I gave it my best shot. I got on the interwebs and looked up the opera house that Grisham mentioned in the book. It indeed existed and, to my surprise, "Faust" was being performed while we were there. I bought two tickets. Then, when we got to Florence, I broke the news to Nanci that one of our trips was going to be to Parma. "Why the hell are we going to PARMA? And we are spending the night? Are you serious?" I told her I wanted to taste the prosciutto.

With our backpacks, we took the 20 minute stroll across the Arno to Santa Maria Novella to board the train. North we went to Bologna (yes, I have a long-standing love for cured meats), northwest through Modena (you can think of the olive oil and balsamic vinegar now), Reggio nell'Emilia (cheese!) and finally to Parma. I will admit to being the typical man here. I don't ask for directions in English and I sure as hell don't try it in a foreign language. In looking for the Teatro Regio di Parma, we found Trattoria dei Corrieri. But, I digress.

We found the hotel which was across the river from the old town. I didn't score major points here, but it was safe and clean. Then we were off to the opry. I thought having studied German in college would have prepared me for a good, old-fashioned opera. Wrong. The producers had taken the classic and had turned it into a 21st -century phantasmagoric extravaganza of laser lights, booming special effects and voices seldom heard this side of heaven--all within the walls of the early-19th century opera house of Bellini, Verdi and Toscanini. This Alabama rube recognized a few words they were singing but knew the story. It didn't matter. I was mesmerized. And smitten with opera.

We sauntered from the theatre down Strada Guiseppe Garibaldi. I knew the restaurant was southwest of the theatre and I knew the name of the street was Conservatorio. We were walking with a large group of people, talking about how the opera was so unexpectedly glorious and we weren't paying close attention to where we were going. Turning the corner, there it was: http://www.ristorantidiparma.it/old/CORRIERI/index.html And, the food...risotto with pears, prosciutto with olive oil and little puffy potato pillows, gnocchi with arugula pesto, and a bowl, nay, a VAT of tiramisu that would make your tongue slap your brains out. All washed down with two bottles of white Tuscan wine. (The fact that we were scoffed at from Rome to Venice and everywhere in between because of our aversion to red wine is another story for another day.)

As we strolled, sated and just a wee bit tipsy along the Parma River toward the hotel, I, with my chest swollen with pride in having executed such a memorable evening, asked Nanci if she was surprised. She said, simply, curtly, "Even a blind sow finds an acern ever once in a while."