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Eurojazz
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TITLE (EDIT)
Eurojazz |
DESCRIPTION
Stuck in Italy, partying, and then some...
[650 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Popular Fiction |
AUTHOR
John Karl |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Short story writer with great appreciation for Ellen, Ernest, Kurt, and... Micro-Fiction.
[September 2001] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (4)
God Bless The President (Short Stories) Confrontation with knife wielding drunk in Oregon bar... did not have to be this way. [584 words] [Popular Fiction]
Heyman (Short Stories) Taipei: Big spiders, no drinking water, and lots of Taiwan Beer... Give me 10 reviews and I'll post pictures of the actual spiders ;) [557 words] [Popular Fiction]
On Orcas Island (Short Stories) Yuppie vacation to local resort... [269 words] [Popular Fiction]
White Church (Short Stories) A passing of innocence and the expectation of one's future. [349 words] [Literary Fiction]
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Eurojazz
John Karl
EuroJazz was in town for my last day in Italy. I had eaten a cold, greasy breakfast at the Hotel Arcadia in Scarmagno where I had been staying for the past week but decided to move to Hotel Centro Congressi La Serra on Corso Carlo Botta in downtown Ivrea which was an aegis for the three day festival.
It was only noon when I checked in and still early since the bands didn’t start up until close to midnight so I wandered up the popular Via Palestrio and eventually made my way over to La Lucciola Ristorante Pizzeria and downed a couple of beers with lunch.
After stopping by a music store to buy a Litfiba album to take back to the "States" with me, I went to the Birreria Ponte Vecchio where I played foosball and drank beer with some locals for most of the afternoon. It was March but somewhat overcast and the evening was coming so I returned to the hotel to cleanup.
After showering, I downed a beer from the frigo-bar while I packed my bags and arranged a taxi for my pickup at 5:30 a.m. the following morning. I stopped off at the La Serra Ristorante for dinner and joked with Dario while Johnny took my order. The main chef, an older heavy set white bearded man, whom spoke no English whatsoever was already getting into the festivities and had Dario bring me a shot of
Grappa while he toasted me from behind the bar. I waved from my booth, acknowledging a thank you and watched all of the people who had come to hear the jazz. Along with my beer, Dario brought another shot while the chef raised his glass again to salute the evening and me. What else could I do?
Around 11:30 p.m., after pizza, a lot of beer, and Dario shaking his hips and arms trying to demonstrate the way to dance with Italian women, I walked from the restaurant over to the main room where the first band was getting ready to start. They were great! A three-piece trio: drummer, upright bassist, and sax player. The tall bass player stood to the immediate right of the drummer while the shorthaired saxophonist with cropped beard led up front. They all wore long sleeve blue denim shirts.
Everyone was jumping and dancing and having a really good time and the last thing I was thinking about was the long flight back to the U.S. only a few hours away. The next band had a black drummer with Philadelphia inscribed on his sweatshirt. It was comforting to see another American and I began to shout “Hey Philadelphia!,” but he ignored me and continued in his groove.
The crowd was really getting into the music and I found myself dancing with a couple of young, dark haired Italian women. Their names were Gioletti and Spandre. They spoke little English but appeared to be in their late teens, students probably, and I signaled Dario to bring three shots. We drank them and continued to enjoy the band.
It must have been around 3:00 a.m. when I stumbled off to my room. I woke to a call from the hotel lobby, still fully dressed, indicating that my taxi was waiting in the lobby for me. I over slept my alarm and had just enough time to finish stuffing my things in my bag let alone shower or clean up, so I wore the same clothes from the night before.
Franco de Pauli, my taxi driver, woke me an hour later when he pulled into the Milan Malpensa airport. I was feeling pretty rough but shook his hand and said goodbye to Italy.
As I sat at the bar waiting for my flight with a Bloody Mary and beer, I couldn’t help but think what a long flight home I had.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 1996 John Karl |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
September 2001 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2088
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