Eat, Pray, Love

been gnawing at me like a rat over the years, a depression that had chewed such perforations
in my soul that I would not, at one time, have been able to enjoy even such a lovely night as
this. I don’t mention any of this because I don’t want to alarm the children. Instead, I say a
simpler truth—that I am grateful for old and new friends. That I am grateful, most especially
tonight, for Luca Spaghetti. That I hope he has a happy thirty-third birthday, and I hope he
lives a long life, in order to stand as an example to other men of how to be a generous, loyal
and loving human being. And that I hope nobody minds that I’m crying as I say all this, though
I don’t think they do mind, since everyone else is crying, too.
Luca is so clutched by emotion that he cannot find words except to say to all of us: “Your
tears are my prayers.”
The Sardinian wine keeps on coming. And while Paolo washes the dishes and Mario puts
his tired daughters to bed and Luca plays the guitar and everyone sings drunken Neil Young
songs in various accents, Deborah the American feminist psychologist says quietly to me,
“Look around at these good Italian men. See how open they are to their feelings and how lov-
ingly they participate in their families. See the regard and the respect they hold for the women
and children in their lives. Don’t believe what you read in the papers, Liz. This country is doing
very well.”
Our party doesn’t end until almost dawn. We could have roasted that twenty-pound turkey,
after all, and eaten it for breakfast. Luca Spaghetti drives me and Deborah and Sofie all the
way back home. We try to help him stay awake as the sun comes up by singing Christmas
carols. Silent night, sainted night, holy night, we sing over and over in every language we
know, as we all head back into Rome together.
Eat, Pray, Love