Smiling at Old Men

It gently slips across my face – slinking and sliding until it spreads into a gesture that expresses an indescribable joy. My smile is procured by the texture of their thick wool sweaters, the bristle of their five o’clock shadow and the scent of their musty cologne. They walk the streets cloaked in trim and tailored pea coats, the morning chill drawing them to the piazze where they greet their long-time neighbors. They are the rare few who still open doors and give up their seats upon the entrance of a woman, young or old. They are the men who flew planes over Western Europe in World War II and married their childhood sweethearts after courting them for years.

A space in my heart is reserved for these elderly men who have made such an impression upon me during my first few weeks in Italy. After the passing of my grandfathers at an early age, they provide me with a sense of patriarchal guidance that I secretly desire.

I first met Oscar, Loredana’s ninety-year-old gentleman-friend, at a Sunday banquet inside the Ospedale degli Innocenti. In a booming voice, he described to me the great beauty and importance of the ancient grounds, a light in his eyes serving as proof of his knowledge and affection for Florence.

Vittorio is Loredana’s other companion. He smells of sweet cinnamon and wears a matching tweed ensemble. One afternoon, I shared with him pieces of creamy Bolognese chocolate while he shared with me his memories of this famous town.

Once, by chance, I happened upon a performance by a group of 20 men, gathered in a semicircle singing with a low bravado the strains of Italy’s history – her rich past, her generous gifts to her people, her promising future. Their voices resonated within the covered corner of the palazzo, filling the night with the stories of these proud men who once ran across Tuscany’s green hills but now slowly inch their way to the supermercato.

Maybe they were mammoni, heartthrob teenagers or hardworking fathers. Maybe they delivered morning newspapers, measured prescriptions at a pharmacy or twirled their wives around the kitchen under the slight glow of the silver moonlight.

It seems as though these men possess hearts that are tender and pure, hearts that have loved, been loved and will continue to love for the rest of their lives.

How much time they have left I do not know, but tomorrow, I will smile at them, a smile that lets them know that I am honored to have crossed their path on these narrow cobblestone streets.