Louisa and I were walking home at o-dark-hundred from a lovely night out in Bologna when we noticed that one of the many apartment doors was open. This door, however, was not as it appeared by day—an unassuming apartment door, which upon opening leads to a hallway with stairs to other apartment doors. No. This door was wide open, florescent light streaming out onto the otherwise dimly lit street.
As we peered inside, our noses told us what our eyes could not initially understand: PASTA!
Inside this glowing room were two old men, one fat and one thin, and one handsome young man. The thin old man had a white apron covering his butcher shirt, a cigarette in his mouth, ashes falling every now and again onto his large rough hands that powerfully needed the immense roll of pasta. The fat man also wore a white apron over his striped shirt. He too was clenching a cigarette in his mouth, the end burning a slight red, smoke trailing into the air. He was taking the large mounds of pasta, running them through the glinting, stainless-steal machine, making long thin sheets of past. The handsome young man did not have on his apron, just a white shirt, sleeves rolled up into cuffs. His dark, short hair had a glistening line of sweat just underneath the bangs. He was carelessly dumping bags of flower into a large vat of what was to become pasta. The large claw spun quickly, mixing in the white trail of flower.
The men did not stop as Louisa and I gawked at their speed, precision, and determination. They simply continued working. The paused only momentarily to look up at us and scowl at our curiosity and our occasional sounds of amusement, aw, and excitement.
After only a minute of watching these fascinating men, we continued along, glancing back until we could no longer see the burning end of the cigarette butts.
No comments:
Post a Comment