In the charming piazza, couples dine while parents watch their children chase each other, allowing them to squeal with glee. A woman sits at a low counter of a bar, enjoying a glass of wine and light meal while working on her laptop. Next to her, two girlfriends drink cocktails. Tucked into the corner of the public space, an elderly man and a teenage girl share a table. When they finish their dinners, the young woman thanks her “Opa.” A few moments later, she tells him she loves him.
This scene did not take place in Milan, Florence, Rome, nor Venice. It occurred in an Olive Garden in suburban Philadelphia. My husband and I had stopped for a quick bite before attending a concert, choosing to sit at a booth near the bar, located close to the waiting area of the restaurant. It was a busy Saturday night, the activity brought to mind a similar tableau happening over 4,000 miles away in the country shaped like a boot. I do not suggest that the food at Olive Garden be compared to authentic Italian fare, but I did find myself briefly transported to the land that gave us fettuccine Alfredo, lasagna and spaghetti bolognese. Of course, with my visual impairment, the environment can easily be viewed as something it is not, but this slice of Americana screamed Italy to me.
Mister Rain, bless his heart, even offered to emulate the statue of David.
#SisterRain #ALittleSightALotOfHeart #LegallyBlindWriter #lifeisgood #OliveGarden
