How to tell you're in Umbria

I noticed it right away.

How even at the airport, people greeted Keith. Now, my husband has many fine qualities, but being instantly recognizable isn't one of them.

Finally, I realized. It wasn’t Keith so much as Keith’s decision to wear a Roma football club jersey on our red-eye.

For the uninitiated, Roma is a Seria A soccer team, Italy’s version of professional football. Though one could argue that as rabid as Americans can get about the Green Bay Packers versus the Dallas Cowboys, Italians are even more passionate about Juventus versus Inter Milan. Even if you don’t know the backstory of any of these teams, my travel tip is to pick up a jersey when you can.

Because Rome’s airport was one thing.

The passing grins became altogether different once we settled in for an Aperol spritz on the patio of Spello’s Bar Tullia. From across the road, children, teenagers, and adults alike did a double take. Some called out “Forza!” some called out something we couldn’t translate and probably shouldn’t on a family blog.

One guy passed us and then doubled back. He plopped into the empty seat next to Keith and pulled out his phone. No, we didn’t know him, but this isn’t terribly uncommon in an Italian small town. We stick out so much, people notice us enough to feel they know us, which means they settle in for conversation.

Keith and Leo’s father in Spello, Umbria

The guy’s speech didn’t slow down for Americans and his words blurred with dialect, so we only understood that he loved Roma and even went to a game at the Olympic stadium with his son. He clearly wanted us to appreciate his photos of this grand day out. Keith put on the polite face he reserves for delightful conversations he expects to forget five minutes later. But his face froze as he caught sight of something on the phone. “Aspetta.” The man stopped scrolling and regarded Keith who said, “That’s my friend, Leo.”

The man said, “That’s my son, Leo!”

We all looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Our friend Leo lives in Rome, but we’d met him in Spello, where he’s from. Younger than us, it was the kind of friendship borne of showing up at Vinosofia for wine often enough that our paths began to soften and merge. It used to be that my favorite Leo story was him showing up for my the launch of Il Bel Centro: A Year in the Beautiful Center at Vinosofia. I figured he came to support me, there’s no way he read the book. How could the story of an American family finding belonging in an Umbrian village hold any appeal for a man in his late 20’s who worked in finance in Rome? Imagine my surprise when he turned to me and said, “What’s your favorite month of your book?”

My memoir is divided into the months of the year we lived in Spello. “April,” I said, mostly guessing. I haadn’t thought about it.

“Mine is May,” Leo said. “Let me tell you why.”

And he did.

A twenty-something finance bro living in Rome.

For the record.

Naturally, we adopted him.

Leo, an Umbrian in Charlottesville

Years later he came to Virginia, where he developed a deep appreciation for gas-station fried chicken and a profound confusion over America’s obsession with berries. (“Michelle, what is this mania Americans have for frutti di bosco?”).

That’s Leo.

And now we had his father in front of us.

Alvaro, as we learned is Leo’s father’s name, told us that Leo was coming to Spello the next day for dinner with friends.

Yes! We told him. We are those friends!

Alvaro told me about a video he’d seen about my memoir. I told him I’d only seen it because Leo had sent it. He said he’d sent it to Leo.

We laughed some more, though I worried I must look real rough if he knew enough to send a video about my book to Leo but then didn’t recognize me. Luckily, I remembered the video was by people talking about my book, but I’m pictured nowhere.

Alvaro insisted we call Leo that moment. So we huddled around his phone on the patio of Bar Tullia and listened to the phone ringing, chuckling every once in awhile. Leo seemed more confused than anything, and texted me later to apologize for his restrained response. I sent him the photo you see above and told him I understood—he wasn’t having an aperitivo on a patio somewhere but in the middle of important finance work. No problem!

He asked me what the heck had happened to put us in line with his father. I said I’d tell him at dinner the following night.

He typed, “Did my dad see Keith’s Roma jersey and insisted on showing you guys his photos of the game we went to at the Olympic stadium and you saw me in the photos?”

Um, yes.

“I know my chickens.”

An Italian expression I’d never heard of.

An impromptu meeting, a new connection in Spello, a dazzling moment of joy, a little learning, all as the sunshine slanted along the pink stones of the church across from Bar Tullia, the patio dotted with spritzes.

I’d packed guidebooks.

Turns out all we really needed was a Roma jersey.

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