The Berlin Underground

Straßenkampf, 1918, Eduard Baudrexel

This piece was originally part of Absinthe Dreams: Elegy for a Past Life, but was cut and later reworked into a standalone essay.

Back in the early ’80s, when we were finally old enough—and brave enough—to wander beyond the empty lots and abandoned buildings of our working-class neighborhood, New York City felt truly cosmopolitan—restless, unpredictable, and far more interesting than it does now. Before long, those wanderings gave way to nights out. When we weren’t in nightclubs or dance halls, we drifted between bars, cafés, pool halls, and even the occasional illegal tattoo parlor.

One of our regular haunts was a seedy underground lounge in Ridgewood, called The Berlin, or maybe the Berlin Club; the name blurs now. It drew a strange, compelling crowd and played a hypnotic mix of 1920s cabaret, orchestral pieces, and contemporary German punk bands like Böhse Onkelz and OHL. Part of the appeal, it must be said, was the barmaids: striking girls in dirndls who looked as though they’d stepped straight off a St. Pauli Girl label.

Unable to find the final version,
here is an unfinished sketch of our
team's crest, with a faint pencil
rendering of a pickelhaube
ghosted over the original

The place was decorated in a style that felt half museum, half fever dream, with macabre paintings of WWI trench warfare, hints of the Munich Secession, heavy bier steins, and pickelhauben. Those spiked helmets later inspired the vulture logo I designed for our sporting club, the Brooklyn Buzzards. From time to time, the lounge doubled as a quiet meeting place for Soviet émigrés and German monarchisten, adding another layer of intrigue to the atmosphere.

We even sat in on the monthly talks. They ranged from anti-communism to more esoteric subjects—Agartha, the supposed otherworldly origins of the Aryans, Wotanism, and the philosophical teachings of Rudolf Steiner and Arthur Schopenhauer. Around then, I went through a serious Hermann Hesse phase to impress Tonja, a blonde dancer and poet who, as it turned out, wasn’t German at all, but Ukrainian.

The Berlin reminded me of the back rooms of many Italian cafés and social clubs scattered across the city, where menfolk played cards, drank espresso, and argued politics. Almost inconceivable today, the walls bore old Arditi posters and political montages depicting Gabriele D’Annunzio, Italo Balbo, Benito Mussolini, and the House of Savoy. That same atmosphere carried into other corners of the city.

It was in a used bookstore that I first heard of neo-Bourbonism. One night, during a heated debate, an older Sicilian man dismantled the more nationalistically minded with ease. I didn't realize it at the time, but that exchange set me on a course whose significance I did not fully grasp.

Long out of that world, the last place of its kind I remember visiting was in the early 2000s, when a Russian friend took me to a freezing basement in Sheepshead Bay, made to resemble a medieval hall. There was a long communal table of heavy wood, lined with benches, porcelain bowls of caviar, pelmeni, and endless vodka toasts to the Tsar. The strangest part wasn’t the temperature, but the scantily clad belly dancers, breath hanging in the air, performing as if unaware of the cold or in defiance of it.

Across the city, in other circles, the arguments took different forms—touching on the Greek Megali Idea (Great Idea), Irish republicanism, Spanish Falangismo, and even Tibetan Rangzen. It felt as though there was a soapbox on every corner. The city was alive.

Today, the discontent feels different. The disgruntled masses come off less like dissidents and more like petulant, unmoored malcontents—quick to complain and slow to understand. I’ve never seen a more uninformed group. Grievances circle back on themselves, shaped by the very ideas they claim to oppose. They repeat slogans, speak in abstractions, and rarely seem aware of their own contradictions. The most striking difference is that, in those days, the recusants operated underground, wary of state violence, whereas today’s so-called revolutionaries protest openly, often with little fear—and at times with the tacit sanction of the state.

Like everything else in the city today, it feels like a caricature of what it once was.

~ By Giovannni di Napoli, April 17th, Feast of St. Anicetus

Visions in Relief: Beethoven and Wagner at the Met

Set side by side at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, these two portraits do not merely depict great composers—they conjure them.

Franz von Stuck’s haunting image of Ludwig van Beethoven emerges from a blood-red ground with an almost supernatural force. Modeled after the composer’s death mask, the face presses forward as if breaking through the boundary between worlds. It is neither fully sculpture nor painting, but something in between—a vision, or perhaps an apparition. Stuck, ever drawn to myth and symbolism, renders Beethoven not as a man remembered, but as a presence still felt, the embodiment of creative power pushing against its limits.

Beside it, Jeanne Itasse’s glazed stoneware portrait of Richard Wagner offers a different kind of unease. Its unnatural coloration—suggestive of gaslit Paris—casts Wagner in a spectral light, at once vivid and unsettling. Produced with the collaboration of Émile Muller, the work reflects both the innovations of industrial ceramics and the charged cultural atmosphere in which Wagner’s legacy stirred admiration and contempt in equal measure.

Together, the two works form a quiet but striking dialogue. Beethoven appears as a force breaking through the veil; Wagner, as a figure suspended within it. One burns, the other glows. And between them, the viewer is left to consider not just the men themselves, but the strange afterlives of genius—how it is remembered, reshaped, and made to haunt the present.

Feast of Sant’Aniceto

Sant'Aniceto, ora pro nobis

April 17th is the Feast of St. Anicetus, a 2nd-century Pope and Martyr, who guided the Church through a time of doctrinal uncertainty and external pressure. Born in Syria, he is remembered for his steady leadership and defense of apostolic tradition.

His papacy is most notable for his meeting with St. Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna, over the date of Easter (the Quartodeciman controversy). Though they disagreed—each following different traditions—they remained united in charity, offering an early example of peace without compromising conscience.

He also opposed early heresies associated with Marcion, defending the continuity of Christian teaching. Honored in both the Eastern and Western Churches, tradition holds that he died a martyr, remembered for preserving unity and faith in a fragile age. He is invoked as a model of unity and fidelity to apostolic tradition.

Evviva Sant'Aniceto!

In celebration of his feast, we offer this prayer:

Prayer to St. Anicetus

O Eternal Shepherd, look favorably upon Thy flock, and deign to guard and keep it forever through blessed Anicetus, Thy Martyr and Supreme Pontiff, whom Thou didst appoint shepherd of Thy whole Church. Through our Lord.

Remembering Amedeo Miceli di Serradileo and his Calabria

Baron Amedeo Miceli di Serradileo

Afficionados of history and all those who love Calabria mourn the loss of the doyen of Southern Italian history and culture, Baron Amedeo Miceli di Serradileo, who died on 11 April 2026 at the age of 77.

Baron Miceli was a refined scholar and connoisseur of all aspects of Southern Italy, particularly his native San Fili (prov. of Cosenza) and Calabria. He carried out extensive research in archives and in situ and presented his findings at numerous conferences and published widely as an independent researcher. He brought to life the complex events of the Kingdom of Naples and medieval and Renaissance Calabria, including foreign relations between the 13th and 16th centuries. He also assisted in curating and building museums.

Having taken a degree in political science at the LUISS in Rome, Baron Miceli worked in Geneva, Amsterdam, and Paris, conducting business for multinationals. He brought an amazing scope and vision to his vocation as a historian and carried out his work with continuity and systematic rigor.

Baron Miceli’s lifetime of research takes us deep into our past, exploring the Kingdom and the Calabria of Frederick II, as well as visits to numerous towns and cities, and their traditional economies, including the silk trade, and even with modesty, the palaces of his own family and the figures of ancestral bishops in the family. He also explored nuanced areas such as the concession of offices by Marie de Blois, the widow of King Louis of Anjou, Venetians in Calabria between the 12th and 14th centuries, inventories of Cosenza’s palaces in the Renaissance and Baroque eras, and the Spanish Viceroyalty as seen through diplomatic dispatches.

Baron Miceli most memorably contributed to the drafting of the well-known classic Settecento Calabrese with Franz von Lobstein. Among many places, his work appeared over the decades in the Rivista Araldica, Archivio Storico per la Calabria e la Lucania, Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane, and is cited in numerous fascinating books, such as Collezionismo nella Calabria Vicereale, Borbonica e Postunitaria (Gangemi, 2012)

A generous patron and promoter of culture and the humanities, Baron Miceli sponsored the “Vincenzo Miceli” scholarship fund for the Scuola Secondaria Statale di San Fili, in memory of the constitutional lawyer and positivist philosopher Vincenzo Miceli (1858-1932). As a true patriot and Southern nobleman, he also generously donated documents of historic interest to the State Archives of Cosenza so as to pass the torch on to the next generation.

After his funeral in Rome, Baron Miceli was laid to rest in his family tomb in San Fili.

~ By Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Second Sunday After Easter at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Jersey City, New Jersey

The Riddle of the Sphinx on Elizabeth Street

Now that the pleasant weather has returned, I find myself once again drawn back to a favorite haunt—Elizabeth Street Garden. There is something about the place in springtime—the soft chorus of birds, the tentative blooming of flowers, the slow reawakening of the world. It invites not merely rest, but reflection.

I go there often with a coffee in hand, and almost without thinking, I make my way toward the two stone watchers near the entrance. Twin sphinxes—silent, brooding, yet never without presence. I have taken to greeting them as one might old acquaintances. For reasons I cannot fully explain, I like to speak to them quietly, turning over questions of life, fate, and purpose while they listen without reply.

Their silence, however, is not empty. It speaks in its own way. The sphinx has always been a creature of paradox: guardian and destroyer, keeper of sacred knowledge, poser of riddles whose answers are not given lightly. It symbolizes the dangerous unknown, intellect as a kind of threat, and the capriciousness of fate. It represents knowledge hidden from the many and revealed only to those prepared to receive it.

Sitting there, I am reminded of its ancient question: 

What creature walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?

The answer, of course, is man—crawling as an infant, walking upright in his prime, and leaning on a cane in old age. Yet the longer one sits with it, the less simple it becomes. It is not merely a clever riddle, but a quiet summation of life itself: dependence, strength, and decline, all bound within a single arc.

And perhaps that is why I return.

There, between the flowers and the stone, with the city just beyond, I find myself in the presence of something older than memory itself—something that reminds me that life is not a straight path, but a passage through stages, each with its own dignity. The sphinx does not answer questions. It asks them. And in doing so, it reveals that whatever knowledge is worth having is not given freely, but earned—slowly, and often in silence.

So I sit, and I speak, and I listen.

And the sphinx, as ever, keeps its counsel.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, April 15th, Feast of San Cesare de Bus

New Book — The Benevento Explorer: Ancient Arches, Witch Legends, and the Soul of Southern Italy

A new title that may be of interest to our readers. Available at Amazon.com

• The Benevento Explorer: Ancient Arches, Witch Legends, and the Soul of Southern Italy by Riley F. Arden

Publisher: Independently published
Pub. Date: March 9, 2026
Paperback: $14.00
Kindle: $3.50
Language: English
Pages: 77

Read description

Click here to see more books

Listing does not imply endorsement

Cavalli & Cavalieri

In Caserta (CE)

Literary Caprices: Vignettes and Other Indulgences II

A portrait of a beautiful woman
(bijin-ga) at the Japanese restaurant

See part I

Over atsukan and sashimi with a friend, I was surprised to see a respected Italian American historian I know join us. He told me he reads our blog and urged me to keep writing my autobiographical pieces, saying they capture part of our history from a unique perspective. Maybe it was the carafes of hot sake, but I had been sitting on these stories and took it as a sign to publish them.

Bug Hunt

I must have been a handful for my mother. I was always coming home with cuts and bruises from playing ball and roughhousing with the other boys.

One summer, while we were on vacation in rural Pennsylvania, I decided to go off on my own. I painted my face like a warrior and set off into the woods.

Looking for adventure, I followed a small brook through a marsh. Everywhere I looked, there was something new—turtles slipping into the water, frogs jumping through the reeds, and salamanders hiding in the mud. I turned over rocks and found garter snakes curled beneath them. I stuffed my pockets with bugs to study later. I even picked up a sturdy branch to use as a walking stick—and, if necessary, a weapon.

I wandered deeper and deeper, as if following some distant Will-o'-the Wisp, completely lost in the moment. Time didn’t matter. The woods felt endless, and I was an explorer discovering it all for the first time.

Eventually, I made my way back, long past when I should have been home for lunch. I came out of the woods dirty, scratched up, and grinning from ear to ear.

My mother rushed over, hugging me tightly while scolding me at the same time. My father stood nearby, smiling with quiet pride. He told me to wash up and sent me to my room—more for my mother’s peace of mind than punishment.

Later, as I lay on my bed replaying my great adventure, my mother walked in holding my jeans. Without a word, she handed me what I had forgotten.

A pocket full of dead beetles and moths.

Not New York Enough: A Lesson in Thin Skin

Years ago, at a cabaret in Montreal, a pretty burlesque dancer who went by Himalayan Hotty approached me after her show and asked if I was from New York—she said she could hear it in my accent. She told me she was from New York, too. When I asked where, she said Buffalo. I joked, “That’s not New York.” She stiffened, then shot back—with genuine contempt—“Oh, you’re one of those city people,” and stormed off in a huff, which only confirmed my view: Real New Yorkers have thicker skins and tease one another mercilessly. I was honestly baffled that something so trivial set her off—especially given the far lewder and ruder remarks she must hear nightly while shaking her tassels.

Robbed in Rome, Welcomed in Naples

Back in 2007, my first trip to Rome and Naples started badly but ended better than I could have imagined.

My friend and I were robbed at gunpoint outside our hotel in Rome by two men flashing badges and pistols. Police, or at least pretending to be, they said we fit the profile of Russian drug dealers and demanded our wallets. They took about 700 Euros between us and left. I remember feeling relief more than anything—they didn’t hurt us, and they didn’t take our passports or my Nikon camera.

At the hotel, a young Neapolitan named Ciro, who worked there, helped us. He didn’t trust the local police, so he drove us out to a station in Tivoli, just outside the city. The place looked like a film set—grey walls and a large crucifix behind a stern, well-dressed officer with a high-peaked cap. Through Ciro, we explained what happened.

“Stranieri?” the officer asked when I described the men. Yes, they looked Middle Eastern to me.

Then he asked where we were headed.

“Napoli,” I said.

He looked at me and said, “They robbed you in Rome, they’re going to kill you in Naples.”

That stuck with me. I was actually more annoyed at him than the criminals. I expect thieves to be scum. I didn’t expect that from the police. When he suggested we were careless, I snapped back: “What were we supposed to do? They had guns and badges.” Then I added, “What would you do if I refused to give you my ID?” The interview ended quickly after that.

We left with a report and our pockets a little lighter. To be honest, I wasn’t too upset. It was only money, after all. I figured I’d just bring home fewer souvenirs. At least I got a good story out of it.

Heading south, I didn’t know what to expect in Naples, especially after that exchange. But it turned out to be one of the greatest trips of my life.

The city itself was overwhelming—beautiful, chaotic, alive. Walking down the bustling Via Toledo, I thought about all the people who had walked there before me—kings, conquerors, workers, pilgrims, lazzaroni, generations stacked on top of one another.

From the moment I arrived, I felt at home. The Neapolitans were warm, open, and proud. Strangers invited me in for coffee. A young man introduced me to his grandfather just because I was a Neapolitan from America. In a small restaurant, a waiter introduced me to the whole place after asking if I was Italian American, and I told him, “No, I’m Neapolitan American.” It almost felt like a hero’s return.

A cab driver named Maurizio gave us an impromptu tour before taking us to Salerno. He pointed out the city’s sights as if it were his own backyard. Along the Lungomare Caracciolo, he shouted, “Mr., Mr., look—my children are swimming in the sea!”

Again, unsolicited, he asked if we were hungry and stopped in Vietri for lunch at his favorite place. The food was unforgettable—stuffed cuttlefish with potatoes. After a perfect meal, we asked for coffee. The waiter said they didn’t serve it because the bar on the corner did it better—and then he went and got it for us himself on a silver tray.

That was Naples.

My return to Rome later on was much the same—stunned by the churches, ruins, and of course the Vatican. The people were warm there, too.

Except for that one moment, it was a perfect trip. And even that became part of the story.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, April 14th, Feast of St. Justin, Martyr

Good Shepherd Sunday at St. Michael's Church in Staten Island, New York

Apollonia

The Muses Leaving Their Father
Apollo to Go Out and Light the
World, (1868), Gustave Moreau

Shaken from slumber, I penned this simple ode to Apollonia, who still haunts my mind.

Apollonia

Apollonia was dark and sibylline.
We shared a love of books.
After school, we’d read bawdy verse
Between the stacks and nooks.

We dreamed of Barsoom’s distant sands
And tilted at windmills in sunny Spain.
She was Cleopatra to my Antony;
I was Tarzan to her Jane.

“Apollonia,” I’d whisper—
The mere sound of her name,
An invocation to Apollo himself,
A bright, burning flame.

Her family moved across town—
It felt a world away.
They say young love fades with time,
But I taste her kiss to this day.

A Sneak Peek at the Totò and His Naples Exhibit at the Italian American Museum in Little Italy, New York

Multiplatinum Neapolitan recording artist Patrizio Buanne
performs a heartrending rendition of Malafemmena,
written in 1951 by Antonio De Curtis (Totò)

We extend our sincere thanks to Marie Palladino and our friends at the Italian American Museum in Little Italy for their warm hospitality.

It was a pleasure to visit alongside Patrizio Buanne and enjoy a thoughtful tour, along with a special preview of the forthcoming exhibition Totò and His Naples, on view from April 16th through August 29th.

Known formally as Totò, he remains one of Italy’s most beloved cultural figures—a master of comedy, theater, and film, as well as a gifted poet, whose work captured the spirit, humor, and soul of Naples.

We are grateful for the opportunity and look forward to seeing this landmark exhibition shared with the public.

Photo of the Week: Laocoön and His Sons Antiphantes and Thymbraeus Being Strangled by Sea Serpents, Vatican Museum

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

Catholic Movie Night at Atrium Stadium Cinemas in Staten Island, New York

Remembering Maria Theresa of Naples and Sicily

6 June, 1772 — 13 April, 1807

In memory of Maria Theresa of Naples and Sicily, Last Holy Roman Empress and first Empress of Austria, we pray for the happy repose of her soul.

Eternal rest grant unto Her Majesty, O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon her. May her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Absinthe Dreams: Elegy for a Past Life (Part VII)

Continue reading: [Part I] • [Part II] • [Part III] • [Part IV] • [Part V] • [Part VI]

VII

     Well past our bedtimes, Annalisa rested her head on my shoulder and started to nod off. By then, the lounge was empty—the other patrons long gone. The weary barmaid approached our table, announced last call, and began clearing away our empty glasses. As I closed our tab, I asked for a plastic bag to protect my book.

     Helping Annalisa up, I said, “It’s time to call it a night.”

     “No,” she protested feebly. “It’s raining out.”

     “It stopped,” I lied. “Besides, I have a long trip ahead of me, and I need to get going.”

     Pouting and beating my chest with her tiny fists, she looked up at me with her bewitching Stygian eyes and whispered, “Stay with me.”

     I wanted to. Lord knows, I wanted to.

     “Don’t tempt me, mora.” I kissed her furrowed brow.

     Back in the day, we would’ve broken night together, talking till dawn. But that was a lifetime ago. 

     Many a night we spent together staring at the stars, dreaming of better days. I remember us holding each other for warmth beneath the blankets in my first apartment, and sleeping tangled together in the back seat of a car on long road trips. Little did I know those nights would be among the dearest of my life. Too many to hold onto—perhaps those memories should remain undisturbed.

     “You still can’t handle your booze, I see.”

     “I’m fine,” she assured me. “Just a little tired.”

     “C’mon, go get some sleep.”

     “It’s been ages since I’ve gone out drinking,” she said, trying to play it off. “I must look awful.”

     As I gently traced the gooseflesh on the back of her arms, lightning lit up the night sky, briefly betraying our sorrowful countenances.

     “Quite the contrary.”

     Saying our reluctant goodbyes beneath the darkened arcade by the hotel entrance, we promised to stay in touch via cell phone and social media—options that hadn’t existed when her family first pulled up stakes.

     Leaning on one foot, she gave me a warm embrace and a soft peck on each cheek. Normally, I would have walked her back to her room, but I didn’t trust myself. With anyone else, it wouldn’t have been a problem—but with her, it took Herculean might to let go and walk away.

     On the subway ride back to Brooklyn, I tried reading some of the poetry from the book she gave me, but it was all I could do not to think about her. Unlike so many people from my past, Annalisa had not abandoned her roots, her culture, or her convictions for a culturally hollow American identity. Immensely proud of her Calabrian heritage, she is devoted to her parents, intelligent, witty, vivacious, and refreshingly feminine (especially by today’s low standards). I only wish she had found God.

     Perhaps reading more into it than I should, I found myself lingering on the same lines from a poem by the renowned Occitan troubadour Bertran de Born:

“All her suitors depart from her reluctantly, the sight of her has such savor; everyone who sees her believes that his eyes never saw a more beautiful woman.” [1]

     Despite my romantic feelings, my intentions were not impure; I harbored no profane desire (or so I tried to convince myself). That night stirred in me something deeper, rooted in the noble ideals of chivalry, courtly love, and dolce stil novo, the sweet new style of love that seeks to ennoble the soul and lead it toward the divine.

     In its highest form, courtly love was not carnal but contemplative: a disciplined longing that elevated the lover through reverence for the beloved’s beauty and virtue. For me, Annalisa was not an object to be possessed, but a reflection of divine perfection, drawing the soul upward from earthly desire to spiritual fulfillment. True love became a pathway to God. Like the great 13th-century Sicilian poet Giacomo da Lentini, I want to see my loved ones in Paradise.

For it would bring me great delight

To see my love in glory’s realm [2]

     While I did not succumb to temptation, I did consider it. In a fleeting moment of weakness and longing, I second-guessed my decision not to spend the night with her. After all this time striving for inner discipline and higher meaning, it seems that, with the right sort of woman, I’m still a beast at heart, governed by appetites I thought subdued. Haunted by my past, my predilection for base pleasures remains a stark reminder of my fallen nature. And yet, wanting her only intensifies my quest for transcendence and shows just how far I still have to go.

     Unable to sleep when I got home, I poured myself the glass of absinthe I had wanted earlier. Aside from the occasional glass of wine with dinner, I rarely drink alone anymore. But this was more than a nightcap—it was an incantation, a ritual of remembrance.

     Slowly stirring in some cold water, I watched the spirit cloud into its celebrated milky green—its la louche, its alchemical bloom. Preferring the bitter anise flavor, I skipped the sugar cubes.

     Taking that first sip, I remembered how reading Hemingway and Wilde with Annalisa back in high school first turned me on to la fée verte.

     Sitting at my desk with my Pontarlier and laptop, I vainly tried to pen her a poem worthy of the Fedeli d’Amore or the Sicilian School. I wanted to sing the praises of the “lovely daughter of Tropea” like the cantastorie, the Minnesänger, and the troubadours of old.

     Alas, we are no Orpheus and Eurydice, Tristan and Isolde, or Ruggiero and Angelica. We may be star-crossed, but the poets will never sing of this love that never was. With each sip, the veil thinned, and my memory bled into absinthe dreams. Inspiration faltered, and the words would not come—for ours was no fin’amor, no refined and ennobling love of the medieval lyric tradition. And yet, from that silence, this sprawling lament began to take form, a different poetry—my elegy for a past life.

Notes

[1] Sel qui camja bon per meillor, edited by William D. Paden, Jr., Tilde Sankovitch, and Patricia H. Stäblein, The Poems of the Troubadour Bertran de Born, University of California Press, 1986, p.138

[2] 27 Sonetto, translation and notes by Richard Lansing, Giacomo da Lentini: The Complete Poetry, University of Toronto Press, 2018, p.125

Absinthe Dreams: Elegy for a Past Life (Part VI)

Continue reading: [Part I] • [Part II] • [Part III] • [Part IV] • [Part V] • [Part VII]

VI

     I grabbed us a circular booth near the window in the hotel lounge while Annalisa freshened up in her room. Except for a young couple with their heads buried in their phones and a drunken lout hitting on the unresponsive barmaid, the atmospheric bar was surprisingly sparse.

     I wanted absinthe, but the callow waitress had no idea what I was asking for and absurdly suggested Midori as a substitute. 

     The potent green spirit has fallen out of fashion in recent years, and it’s now hard to find a bar that still stocks it, which I take as a clear sign of civilizational collapse. 

     So, I settled for a brandy instead.

     Returning in a sheer white V-neck T-shirt and gray flannel shorts, Annalisa ordered another martini and four shots of “Göring-Schnaps” for old times' sake—one for each of our friends. Before amaro became readily available, Jägermeister was our shot of choice.

     Her flimsy top hid nothing from the imagination.

     “I notice you’re no longer wearing a bra,” I teased.

     “When in Rome,” she laughed. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

     Nestling in next to me, she put her bare legs over my lap, and I wrapped my arm around her slim waist. Resting my free hand on her shin, one of her flats fell off, revealing a silver toe ring with a tiny garnet setting. Both January babies, we shared the same birthstone. For some strange reason, I found it comforting that she still wore one.

     When I reached down to fetch her shoe, she held me back and let the second one slip off. “Leave it,” she said, stretching her ankles and wiggling her toes. 

     She still had the firm, shapely legs of a dancer.

     The rain finally began to fall, its tears sliding silently down the pane.

     Playing with my tie, she gave me a provocative sidelong glance and brazenly asked, “Why didn’t we ever go out?”

     Pausing for a moment, I gave her an unamused smirk. “Eros literally wasn’t in the cards for us,” I reminded her. “You refused to go out with me because some two-bit cartomancer told you not to while reading your fortune.”

     Blushing, she coyly turned her face away, but she was laughing heartily.

     “You superstitious minx,” I said, feigning offense.

     When I pretended to move away, she pulled me closer. 

     Sadly, having gone out with my share of magàre (witches) in my day, this was nowhere near the strangest romantic rebuff I’ve experienced.

     “Chester broke up with me because of a bad dream.”

     “I remember,” she murmured, stroking the scruff of my beard with the back of her finger. “You deserved it,” she laughed again, mischief in her eyes. “You were a real cad in her dream.”

     “You’re all insane,” I said, half-joking.

     Downing our shots in quick succession, we talked about our fanciful plans and places we wanted to visit. I always admired her positivity and optimism; it was a refreshing countervail to my infernal pessimism. Aside from noticing how much the city had fallen apart since she moved away, we never once discussed the world in flames around us.

     Ordering two more shots, she whispered, “To us,” sotto voce.

     A bit tipsy, Annalisa made me promise that we would one day take a holiday to Madrid or Barcelona together.

     “I want to go to the Museo del Prado with you,” she said. “I want to see Goya and Velázquez; I want to see Maja desnuda and Las Meninas.”

     Miming castanets and wiggling her lithe body against mine, “You always loved taking us to flamenco bars and Spanish restaurants.”

     Our favorite was Carmen’s, a tenebrous taberna with red tablecloths and soot-covered paintings located in the Meatpacking District. We would unfailingly get pulpo a la Gallega, paella Valenciana, and several pitchers of sangria. Afterward, we would all stumble drunkenly through the cobbled streets singing verses from love songs and poems. 

     “C’mon, sing me a song,” she pleaded.

     Not nearly as drunk as I needed to be to make an ass of myself in public, I found her irresistible and reluctantly sang a few verses from The Spanish Lady and The Parting Glass, traditional Irish folk songs I learned years ago while drinking with my Irish buddies and listening to old cassette tapes of the Jolly Beggarmen and the Pogues.

     To my great shame, I still cannot recite a single line of poetry by Salvatore Di Giacomo or Giacomo da Lentini in the original Neapolitan or Sicilian, and my friends today won’t let me forget it.

     Prone to reverie, she sensed my mind wandering.

     “If you like, we can also find your high school sweetheart.” 

     “Which one?” I quipped, trying to play it cool. “I had so many old flames.”

     “What was her name again?” she asked playfully. “Ivette? Marta?” Then, after a pause: “Iolanda?”

     I knew who she meant. Gaviota moved back to Valencia with her family after they sold their home. She was the first real loss I felt during the Great Bensonhurst Exodus. We had nearly run away together to Alicante, the city she loved most, but fate was against us. I didn’t have the heart to abandon my father and sick mother. Staying in New York was never an option for her.

     Smart, beautiful, and a talented artist, Gaviota was the one who got away. She was my first true love. Any photos I had are long gone—destroyed by a jealous ex.

     I do, however, keep the medal of Francisco Franco and José Antonio Primo de Rivera that she gave me, tucked in my curio cabinet alongside the other strange relics of my past.

     Caressing my hand, Annalisa tried to read my palm, but I wouldn’t let her.

     “Haven’t you learned your lesson yet, Zingara?” I warned her.

     Overcome by a rush of blood, I held her slender hands against my chest—we stopped talking at last—and I stole a kiss. Continue reading