Good Things Come To Those Who Share Their Cheese

She looked at me for a moment, thinking. 
"I don't know...I mean, there would probably be rice." 

I reassured the Lorenzo de'Medici advisor that I didn't need anything special; I was merely curious as to what would be offered at the Welcome Dinner and whether or not I should plan accordingly and eat prior to going. 

She looked up, smiled, and said, "I'm sure they can do something. Just come find me at the beginning of the dinner. We'll get something figured out."

When it came time to leave that evening for the dinner, my two roommates decided that they would rather stay in. I shrugged. It was a free dinner--I wasn't going to pass that up. I started the 25 minute walk across town to attempt to find this restaurant where the reception would be.

It wasn't a restaurant. It was a palace. 

Tables stretched across the banquet halls, full of trays with fresh bread and bruschetta, calzones, and heaping bowls of pasta. I looked for my advisor, but in the sea of thousands of students lining up for free food, she was nowhere to be found. 

I approached the table, and asked the waiter if there was food "senza glutine." He held out his hand, saying, "Wait right there. Don't leave. Don't go anywhere." He disappeared into the crowd, and I stood awkwardly as students pushed past me to reach the baked ziti. 

The server reappeared with a bowl of risotto and pomorodo. 

It was one of the best things I have ever tasted in my entire life. I had five plates of risotto that night--I'm still dreaming about it. 

I ran into one of the advisors, and mentioned that I was looking for my advisor. When she asked why, I explained briefly, and she insisted on helping me, even though I was perfectly satisfied with the risotto. She was determined, and led me through the crowds to the kitchen, where she spoke in rapid Italian to the chefs. They told me to return to the kitchen in 15 minutes for my own personal pasta. 

As I waited, the tables were cleared and dessert was served. Flan, trifles, and puddings galore. I recognized a panna cotta, which we had made in our cooking class a few days ago. I had been able to eat that, so I filed in line and scooped some on my plate. A waiter passed me, and I thought, better safe than sorry. I asked him if it was gluten free, and he left to inquire with the chef. He returned with a horrified look on his face, waving his arms shouting "No! No! Don't eat!" 

I set the plate aside as if it were poison. 

Then, I heard another girl in line ask if the dessert was gluten free. The server she asked assured her it was, and she heaped some on her plate and walked away. I looked at my discarded plate, thought about the contradicting reviews on the dessert's glutinosity, and thought, Well if she's going down, I'm going down with her.

Yeah, there was gluten in it. 

But it was delicious. Fruity and full of caramel and amazing. I regret it, but it was nice while it lasted. Sin is like a snowflake in a river. Pleasure for one second, then washed away.

I went back to the kitchen to inquire about the status of my pasta. The waiter said it would be another 15 minutes. I told him it was no trouble and that I had eaten risotto and didn't want them to go to great lengths. I thanked him and turned to walk away, but he motioned for me to stay. He disappeared, only to reappear with the largest platter of mozzarella I have ever seen in my life. It took all the waiter's upper arm strength to hold this platter. I looked at him quizzically. He smiled and said, "For you!" 

"Oh, okay...wow, thanks!" I picked up the fork to take a piece in appreciation.

"No." He shook his head. "The whole thing is for you."

I looked at him, shocked. "What am I going to do with all this mozzarella???" 

He shrugged, passing the platter to me. "Share with friends," he said. And then walked away.

I stood there, dumbfounded, with the world's largest plate of cheese ever. I waded my way through the crowd and found a table where I could set my treasure. I wasn't there long before I heard someone demand, "How did you get that mozzarella?" 

I stuttered at the group of girls who surrounded me. "I...don't know...they gave it to me." Then I remembered what the server said. "Here!" I thrust the platter towards them. Before I could think, I heard myself say, "Be my friend and have some cheese!"

The BEST risotto...ever

The girl who had demanded information regarding the acquisition of my cheese just looked at me, but her friend grabbed a handful, saying, "Don't mind if I do" as she shoved it in her mouth. She covered her mouth with her hand as she munched, and said in a thick Dutch accent: "So, where did you get this?" 

I began to speak, then stopped, too tired to explain in depth. "Oh," I shrugged, "the waiter gave it to me because of my food allergies."

"Oh, what allergies do you have?" She was genuinely curious.

I sighed. "It's called Celiac."

Her eyes lit up. "Shut. Up. I have Celiac!" 

So, we were best friends for the rest of the night. We talked about our diagnoses (she received hers at the age of 2), how we cope with it here in Italy, and what happens to us when we eat gluten. 

When you talk to another Celiac about how your symptoms manifest themselves, it is quite fascinating. You start to sound like a group of young Little League boys comparing their baseball cards:
"Well, I have extreme nassau and diarrhea."
"Oh, cool! I get bloated beyond belief and extremely cranky!"
"No way! I get really disoriented easily and sometimes I even faint!"
"I just sleep a lot."
"Ah, man, I wish I could trade you! I would love to just sleep a lot!"

As we talked, she mentioned how hard it was to participate in some of the social functions that had already been offered, such as the cooking class. I nodded in agreement, but said that I still enjoyed the cooking class because they prepared me my own plate of pasta. 

"They did?" she asked.

"Well, yeah," I said. "As soon as they knew I was Celiac, they organized the whole thing. And I even got gloves to wear to make the pasta."

"Oh." She looked down, disappointed. "I didn't even go. I figured there would be no point.

I stood there, with my huge platter of cheese and belly full of risotto, thinking about all the accommodations people had been kind enough to make for me. I felt blessed, and at the same time, like a bit of a burden. However, by making my condition known and not letting it keep me from going to restaurants, cooking classes, and food tours, I was able to experience so much. I felt proud of myself for putting myself out there and trying to do what everyone else was doing. I was proud for trying to get the most out of my experience. 

After about 20 more minutes of talking with Giorgette (my new Celiac friend), we looked around to see the hall completely abandoned. We were the last ones, with the exception of the staff, who were scooping up discarded plates and wine glasses off the floor. We laughed at the fact that we hadn't even noticed everyone leaving. We grabbed our purses and prepared to depart. 

"Wait!" I turned and looked behind me. Standing there was a waiter, grinning, holding a huge plate of pasta. 

"For you," he said, handing it to me. "Gluten free?" 

I looked down at the plate, and heard Giorgette from behind me say, "Shut. Up."

Celiac Selfie!

"Oh," I said, taken aback by their kindness. "Wow, um, thanks!"

There was no fork. Giorgette and I stood around this plate, eating the delicious gluten free pasta with our hands in an empty palace, enjoying the fellowship of someone who finally understood. 

Good things come to those who share their cheese.

Pasta...for two!