Chapter 09: Bacio e La Principessa

The human tide that swamped World Showcase earlier is beginning to subside. 

"You wanna finish it?" I ask, swirling the last dregs of the black and cider around the pint glass.

"Nah, it's okay," she says. With her head resting on my shoulder, I can feel that she's smiling, and I know that expression - she's got her eyes closed like a cat in a puddle of sunlight. Her voice is as happy and as soft as that sun on a warm carpet. "You can kill it."

"Suit yourself," I tell her, and knock back the rest of the black and cider. "Ready to go?"

"Maybe in a few minutes," she says. "It's nice right here for now."

We're doing all right on time, so we spend a little while relaxing in the pub. Frankly, it's nice not to have to hurry around. We exit about fifteen minutes later, and the crowd has thinned considerably. Lines are backed up around rides and shows, leaving the two of us more than enough space to cruise World Showcase.

"Okay," I say, "I forgot just how pretty the Italy pavillion was."

Before us is, in miniature, la piazza di San Marco - San Marco's Square, transplanted and distilled down for its placement in Florida. There are no rides, nor are there any shows - it's just a very beautiful, very romantic Venetian piazza with restaurants and shops and smiling Italians conversing rapid-fire with one another from behind the counters. 

Emily squeezes my hand as she smiles up at me. "Are we gonna get un bacio?" 

I know that's just the lead-in question. The follow up is, of course, going to be, will you be ordering it in Italian? 

"Of course!" I respond, taking care of questions both said and implied. 

The Italy pavilion store is dark and cool. It's not the dry, oppressive cold of overcranked air conditioning, but rather the cool of old stonework, like you'd find in an old Italian building that had been repurposed many times over the years. (I'm not sure how Disney managed this illusion, but it's a good one.)

"Hello welcome to ee-taly," says the girl behind the counter, all one word, no punctuation. 

"Buonasera!" I say, unable to keep the grin off my face. 

"Buonasera!" she says. "Parli italiano?" she asks - do you speak Italian? 

"Solo un po'." Just a little, I reply. Emily is absolutely soaking this up. "Ho studiato un po' in Perugia." I studied a little in Perugia. 

"Ah, Perugia," the girl replies. "Ti piace il ciocolatto Perugina?"  She asks if I like Perugina chocolates - the company that makes Baci. 

"Si, mi piace molto il ciocolatto Perugina. Un Bacio, per favore!" Yes, I say, I like it a lot - and I would like two of them. My Italian, while rusty, is holding up well enough. The girl - Carla, says her nametag, from Firenze - laughs and rings up a Baci chocolate kiss. Emily takes it with a "Grazie!" while Carla smiles and replies "Prego!"

"That was so cool!" Em says, bouncing beside me. "I like it when you speak Italian." 

"But I'm rusty," I say, and add with a grin, "I bet Carla was just humoring me."

"James Alfred Cotton the Third, you speak great Italian and you are the most wonderful boyfriend in the world. Now c'mere and let's share this Baci."

Standing in the middle of the San Marco square, Em and I unwrap our Bacio. It's a much different sort of confection from the chocolate kisses we have here in the States. It's larger and softer, with a hazelnut sitting just under the chocolate skin on top. Best of all, inside the silver wrapping is a little wax-paper fortune or saying.

"Ask a toad what beauty is," it says, "and he will answer you that it is his wife."

Em and I laugh. "So we're toads then?"

"There are worse things to be," she grins, and bites into the candy. I take the other half and pop it into my mouth. The chocolate is softer and meltier but it encases a sort of whipped hazelnut-Nutella-chocolate nougat. It's gorgeously delicious.

"Oh man," Em says around a mouthful of chocolate. "That was fantastic." 

"Mmph," I reply, still chewing on mine. "Not a bad stop on our adventure," I say, and pull out the next envelope.

#4

This whole thing certainly does parallel a particular favorite book of yours, doesn't it?

There will, however, be no night train to Paris. Why would you need one when you can simply walk?

I want you to go see the 12:30 showing of Serveur Amusant in France. Until then, you are free to explore France and the surrounding countryside. You must stay in Europe, however, or perhaps go view the wonders of the ocean in the aquarium. You know your humble travelling companion very well - humor me kindly! 

Unlike in the book, there are no cemeteries, but there are little outdoor cafes, and there is wine! I think you will find something to take home to your family. 

Following Serveur Amusant, you are free to explore Europe and Future World at your leisure, but you must be in place at 2:30 in Le Cellier for lunch.

See you there!

- The One Who Moves

"Off to France, then!" I say, and give Em a kiss on the nose. "Ready?"

"Sure!" she says. "Next stop France!"

Chapter 08: Something New

The hot, sticky mid-spring air never feels quite so oppressive as when you're waiting for World Showcase to open, while standing among a Mickey-ear-wearing throng at 10:59AM. Choked with guests, the walkway through Epcot is a dammed river as more people pile up behind us.

 "I swear all I want is something refreshing," I moan. "Like a freaking kaki-gori." (Side note: if you are in Epcot, you must stop by the Japan pavilion and try the flavored shaved ice known as "kaki-gori." It is the most delicious fruity brain freeze to which you will subject your cortex.)

 Emily shakes our clasped hands.

"We're here to get the cider and black," she says. "Something new, remember?"

While in this sort of weather, one wouldn't be surprised to hear a phrase such as "I could use a beer" - and the large, sweaty gentleman whose left armpit is perilously close to my nose has just uttered such a phrase - it's not exactly common to hear someone pining for a beverage from our most special of Special Relationships.

I smile at her. "Yeah. Something new."

In truth, something new quite accurately describes this entire experience for me. I've spent the better part of the past year planning this grand game and I know I still have much more to go. It's not every day one proposes marriage, and it's not everyone who's lucky enough to propose to their best friend. Right now, though, I'm barely beginning the ride. There are eleven envelopes left and each one, I hope, will encapsulate the experience I'm going through, distilling it down to a memorable moment between myself and Emily.

The clock finally ticks over to 11AM and, like clockwork, the cast members swing the wrought-iron gates to World Showcase open before us and the crowd begins to move. The game is afoot.

Or underfoot, I think, dodging a posse of five-year-olds waving massive lollipops at one another.

The crowd breaks up, little by little, as we move into World Showcase. For every few people breaking away from the herd, those on the outside move apart. We're like the particles of a gas, spreading to fill its container. (Of course, Sweaty Armpit Man to my right takes the gas metaphor perhaps a bit literally.)

Disney's version of London awaits us after Canada. We're traveling counterclockwise (anticlockwise, I suppose, if we're going to be Commonwealth about things) around World Showcase and soon enough we're greeted by red phone booths, Old Wold stonework and carefully manicured gardens. Mary Poppins has been hewn from a hedge, complete with umbrella, the picture of restrained perfection.


 "Okay," Emily says, nodding towards the red phone booths, "we have got to get our pictures taken in those things someday."

Our stop is the Rose and Crown pub, a more than welcome respite from the madhouse outside. It is every inch the charming old English pub - or at least what we in the colonies picture as one. The atmosphere is cool, the lighting is best described as 'sufficient,' and the serving area made from richly lacquered wood, slightly chipped and dented from many a pint glass. Luckily for us, relatively few people are inside, so we manage to snag one of the coveted tables for ourselves.

The gentleman behind the bar greets us as Em sits down. "Hello there; welcome to the Rose and Crown!"

"Hi there," says Em, waving over at him. I give her a kiss on the tip of her nose - she blushes - and walk to the bar for the black and cider. The old man has a wry grin on his face as he balances a Guinness glass on a dime, suspending it practically in midair on only a sliver of its base. His name is Carl, from Leicester, England, and he's drawing a pint of Guinness.

"'Ello there! What can I get for you?"

"Something new," I say, a smile playing across my face. "I'll try the Black & Cider."

 Carl's eyebrows raise a little. "Not a lot of people who order that one," he says, drawing a pint of Strongbow cider. I'm not sure if it's authentic British pub fare or something that Disney made up, but hell, it's worth a shot anyways.

He draws a measure of blackcurrant cordial with an alchemist's precision, lowering it over the cider. In the brass-upon-wood atmosphere of the Rose and Crown, he's practically straight out of a Victorian penny dreadful, a chemist mixing up a brew. The blackcurrant drops explode into soft billows of garnet as they hit the cider, and before long the whole thing has taken on a deep red hue.

"Here you go!" Carl crows. "Enjoy!"

"Thanks!" I make sure to include a generous tip as I pay.
Back at the table, Em is waiting patiently - and by that, I mean playing on her phone.

I lower myself into the booth next to her. "All right, you. Here's your something new - cheers!"

She takes the pint glass in both hands and lifting it to her lips. Her expression is tough to read. She may as well be analyzing a thesis document - it's the same face she wears when she tastes wine or beer.
"Oh man," she says, smiling. "That is awesome. Give it a try."

The cider and black's tones play across the tongue, two opposing energies in balance. The cider is tart and crisp, while the blackcurrant adds a sweet, smoky mellowness to counteract it. Taken by itself, the cider would perhaps be a bit too acerbic, while the blackcurrant would be cloying. In tandem, they are delicious.

"That is good."
She takes the glass back and has another pull, laying her head down on my shoulder. We sit there in the pub, safe from the crush of the crowd outside, relaxing together with nothing to bother us.

After a while, I give her a nudge. "Ready for the next envelope?"

"Sure!" she says, and pulls the next one out.

#3 
 Let's play that old game again. 
"Today I Live In Italy."

What does Italy represent? Like England, it revels in its beautiful past. Italy is a place of elegant architecture and sun-dappled streets. It is not a particularly ergonomic place to be. Yet people flock there. 

I think it's because, more than anything, Italy is romantic. And not just in the bad-movie kind of way, my dear, nascent Time Lady. Italy is romantic, for better and for worse. Everything gets romanticized. Everything. From music to football to food. Everything must represent the attitudes of those involved and represent their personalities. It is the lens through which you can see the character of the Italian people - one perhaps clearer than any other culture. 

Italy is a place that is happening in the moment. It certainly does demand more italics than any of the rest, that's for certain. 

 So what do I want you to do? I want you to find a candy shop. 

In Italian, a kiss is un bacio. (Pronounce it "bah - cho." Trust me.) This next task will be the lens through which you and your traveling companion see and are seen. It is a clearing of the air. It is sweet and it is timeless. 

To tie this together, I want you to find a candy Bacio - a chocolate kiss - and share it while strolling through beautiful Italy. Because what is a clearer and more romantic lens than that? 

See you there. 

 - The One Who Moves 

"Next stop, Italia," I say, squeezing her shoulder.

"Of course, mio principe," she grins.