Eat, Pray, Love

mona, parents of the twin twelve-year-old girls Giulia and Sara. Paolo—a friend of Luca’s
whom I’d met before at soccer games—is there, too, along with his girlfriend. Of course,
Luca’s own girlfriend, Giuliana, is there, as well, having driven up earlier in the evening. It’s an
exquisite house, hidden away in a grove of olive and clementine and lemon trees. The fire-
place is lit. The olive oil is homemade.
No time to roast a twenty-pound turkey, obviously, but Luca sautés up some lovely cuts of
turkey breast and I preside over a whirlwind group effort to make a Thanksgiving stuffing, as
best as I can remember the recipe, made from the crumbs of some high-end Italian bread,
with necessary cultural substitutions (dates instead of apricots; fennel instead of celery).
Somehow it comes out great. Luca had been worried about how the conversation would pro-
ceed tonight, given that half the guests can’t speak English and the other half can’t speak
Italian (and only Sofie can speak Swedish), but it seems to be one of those miracle evenings
where everyone can understand each other perfectly, or at least your neighbor can help
translate when the odd word gets lost.
I lose count of how many bottles of Sardinian wine we drink before Deborah introduces to
the table the suggestion that we follow a nice American custom here tonight by joining hands
and—each in turn—saying what we are most grateful for. In three languages, then, this mont-
age of gratitude comes forth, one testimony at a time.
Deborah starts by saying she is grateful that America will soon get a chance to pick a new
president. Sofie says (first in Swedish, then in Italian, then in English) that she is grateful for
the benevolent hearts of Italy and for these four months she’s been allowed to experience
such pleasure in this country. The tears begin when Mario—our host—weeps in open gratit-
ude as he thanks God for the work in his life that has enabled him to have this beautiful home
for his family and friends to enjoy. Paolo gets a laugh when he says that he, too, is grateful
that America will soon have the chance to elect a new president. We fall into a silence of col-
lective respect for little Sara, one of the twelve-year-old twins, when she bravely shares that
she is grateful to be here tonight with such nice people because she’s been having a hard
time at school lately—some of the other students are being mean to her—“so thank you for
being sweet to me tonight and not mean to me, like they are.” Luca’s girlfriend says she is
grateful for the years of loyalty Luca has shown to her, and for how warmly he has taken care
of her family through difficult times. Simona—our hostess—cries even more openly than her
husband had, as she expresses her gratitude that a new custom of celebration and thankful-
ness has been brought into her home by these strangers from America, who are not really
strangers at all, but friends of Luca’s and therefore friends of peace.
When it comes my turn to speak, I begin “Sono grata.. .” but then find I cannot say my
real thoughts. Namely, that I am so grateful to be free tonight from the depression that had