Drink and Memory*

It was a warm summer night and I was sitting with friends next to the Duomo in Firenze, Italia when I took a sip of my pals drink. “That’s dreadful” I spat as I forced down the coral colored drink, which was bitter, bubbly, and not what I considered refreshing. “What is that?” I asked Simon, the boy who held the sweating glass of melting ice in his hand, a slice of orange dancing amongst the carbonation. He looked at me and with a smirk on his face as if revealing an Italian secret that few knew about he replied, “it’s a Sprizzz”. I took another sip, the zing of the drink hitting my lips again, and to my surprise I found it enjoyable pleasant. But how could that be, I had just tried it and found it awful. I took another sip and as I swallowed, the Prosecco and Aperol, coupled with ice and orange, sliced the evenings heat in half, my senses became alive and my taste buds were alert…I was in love. For the remainder of the summer I had my evening Sprizzz sitting next to the Duomo, people watching from my patio seat with friends, enjoying the summers heat. In one night the liquor named Aperol, ‘a base di infusi di arancio, rabarbaro, china e genziana’ marked the taste of summer, it marked the taste of Italy.
Upon my return home, I had discovered to my dismay that no bar in the Seattle area (that I had been to) stocked Aperol in it’s bar. Months had gone by and I could only dream about the taste when lying fast asleep in my bed—imaging those summer nights in the piazza with my Sprizzz in hand. It wasn’t until I traveled to see in my parents in Los Angeles when I got to escape back to Italy to reunite with my Sprizzz. Down the street from my parent’s apartment was a tiny café called Ugo. Enjoying a croissant one morning with my dad, I noticed on the bar sat an undisturbed bottle of my sweet, sweet Aperol. Without a moment of hesitation I approached the bartender and asked if they served Sprizzz and the answer…yes! That evening I came back and sat with my girlfriend at the bar—the warm California evening breeze kissing our backs through the open door and me, happy as a clam with my Sprizzz. With the chatter of people surrounding us, the hustle from cars driving by and the sparse click, click of women’s high-heeled shoes, I was in Firenze again; the taste was just the same. The memory of that first night came rushing back to me and I for a moment was in a dream.