My favorite face in Italy.

His is my favorite face in all of Italy. The lines that crease his forehead, the light whisper of age that sprinkles his temples, the rugged handsomeness of his features all seem to illuminate the kindness and earnestness that undoubtedly reside within him.

His name is Francesco, and he owns Parma, a small but well stocked grocery store. The shelves are lined with an assortment of culinary treats, ranging from truffle sauce to cioccolata amara, dust collecting on their labels. The storefront boast a wide range of meats and cheeses, most hailing from Italy, others still encased in the wrapping of their former home countries. Walls intersect with stairways, aisles overlap with main walkways and the smell of pure, salty meat lingers overhead.

Francesco mostly stands behind the miniature checkout counter, engaging with locals and smiling at tidbits of gossip. His white apron is impeccable, never graced with a stain or blemish. He is never scurrilous nor is he bad tempered—he waves from the stoop to passersby and listens when one complains about the new cold front that has overtaken the city.

I like to think about his home life, his world outside of the hectic walls of Parma. Does he have a wife? A family? Are his shirts as impeccable at home as they are in the store? Does he eat the fresh and wholesome ingredients that Parma displays? I like to picture him, whistling softly under his breath, stirring a sauce for a daughter or son, commenting on their trivial yet exceedingly important troubles at school.

I’ve only seen him once in the outside world. I was walking home from the gym, my sneakers in hand, when I glanced further up the descending escalator to see Francesco and a very pretty woman conversing. As the opposing escalator reached my section I saw that the woman was yelling and gesturing loudly with her hands, throwing them up in disagreement. He saw me looking at them and smiled a broad smile. With a simple shrug of his shoulders, the argument ended and kisses ensued.

I like to think of Italy as a picture book of faces. Throughout the course of a day, one is constantly inundated with images by brief encounters with others. Stoic faces, aging smiles, exultant exclamations, line my thoughts and dreams of Italy, each circulating back to support a theory, or elucidating a pleasant or unpleasant experience.

It is as if the characters of Italy will forever inhabit my thoughts and reminiscences, changing the way that I view the world and people in it.

Like the snapshots from the pages it seems as if the aspects and characters from history have come to life. The old man who’s leathered hands grip a cane tightly as he makes his way through the heaving crowd. The strict faced, tight-lipped policemen who roam the alleys with their clubs bouncing sternly in their hands. The gypsies, although fearsome, gleam through the street with their eccentric colors and gaudy cups, musically jingling their cherished change.

~

To prove my loyalty to Francesco and his trendy store, I visit Parma everyday. Sometimes I purchase tomatoes and fresh Mozzarella di Buffola, for a quick Insalata Caprese. Other times I just buy some tea or chocolates, allowing myself to try and speak Italian with my favorite head grocer.

Our conversations don’t consist of much, seeing as how my Italian is rather limited. But we understand each other on an emotional level, and on a level of basic necessity: food. He flits through the store, loading his arms with crackers, sugar, flour, casually and discreetly adding to your shopping list.

The store is always swarming. Women with their babies attached to their hips, teenagers calling out for a panino, confused American students, aimlessly wandering the maze like aisles of the store.

But his face is never changing. Even when the harsh wind of Perugia seems to lock everyone inside, the rains casting a dreary spell over the city, Francesco always seems to be smiling.