Revive the Archive: Vito Grippi’s “Tequila Boom Boom” (2004)

Revive the Archive is a weekly series that brings new eyes to previously published works. This week we look at “Tequila Boom Boom” by Vito Grippi. This piece was originally published in volume 10 of The York Review

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On a cobblestone street in Terrasini, Sicily, the bartender prepares our shots. Fill the glass halfway with tequila, fill the rest of the glass with club soda, cover with a coaster, hold it firmly, boom-boom, slam it on the bar twice and serve.

It was our last night in the Mediterranean. Our plane was leaving at 8 o’clock the next morning, but my cousin Sergio insisted that he would take us out one more night before we left. We had already been in this paradise for about three and a half weeks. Three weeks of dancing, drinking, eating, experiencing, and falling in love with new places every day. The smell of the sea, fresh octopus — bought from the old man in a rowboat off the coast, family members I didn’t know I had, and friends that I never thought I’d make.

“Vito — andiamo. Ci beviamo una birra e torniamo subito.” Vito, let’s go. We’ll go out for a beer and we’ll come right back. My cousin Sergio was right. How could we not go out one last time, knowing that by this time the next day we’d be back in Pennsylvania. Besides, saying no to Sergio was almost impossible. Now, thinking about his bulging eyes and featherweight frame, I realize that his tightly wound curly hair explains it all. Sergio is a tightly wound force of nature — one who without question would keep us out partying until the early hours of the morning on nights when he would have to be at work at 7am. We all piled in our cars and left for the bar.

Although Sergio and I are only a few years apart, we’ve been separated by oceans our whole life. Before this trip, I had only seen him a few times. Once, when I was five and my family visited the island, and on two occasions when Sergio’s family visited the United States. I remember his fascination with the fact that we had so many freedoms here. Ironically, years later, he would tell me how surprised he was with all the restrictions we had in the land of the free.

We came to the small sea port village of Terrasini and parked our car along one of the narrow streets. The bar, like most of the bars in northern Sicily, was outside — a sidewalk cafe with the iron tables and chairs sitting unsteadily on the cobblestone street. From where we sat we could hear and smell the deep blue water of the Mediterranean. We were all there, me, Amy, my brother, his girlfriend, Sergio, Giovanni, Salvatore, Vincenzo, and a few other guys that I had never seen before — all of us brought together for this celebration ritual.

“Veeto, Eh-mee, com weet me. Forrr a drreenk.” My cousin, knowing that I am fluent in Italian, could not keep himself from trying his English. He and Amy spent most of our vacation trying to teach each other their native languages. They eventually developed an efficient form of Italioenglish that they named Karate. The name Karate was given because most of the verbs within the language were accompanied with hand signals.

We approached the bar, and il barista was already getting our drinks. “What are we drinking,” I asked, knowing that if my cousin ordered I would probably miss my flight the next morning. BOOM-BOOM! The evil concoction exploded on the bar and sprayed everyone within ten feet. “Drreeenk, Dreenk!” my cousin said as he shoved the erupting class in my face. Two gulps and the fire that started in my stomach quickly rose through my body. I could feel the sweat coming off of my face before the drink even hit the bottom of my gut. Before I could speak, the last three weeks of my life had suddenly reoccurred in my mind — playing the guitar on Nonna’s terrace on the side of the mountain, the old man with the octopus, golden cathedrals, Greek ruins, the body parts of saints preserved in Palermo, soccer with locals, swimming in caves, snorkeling, making love, reading great books, and dancing. We spent nights dancing till the sun came up — nights when we could barely stay on our feet, but instead had the rum and the music carry us along. BOOM-BOOM!

That sound was heard throughout the night as we talked about politics, soccer, and music. We had conversations in English, Italian, and Karate. I remember looking at Amy halfway through the night. I had brought her to this magical world, thousands of miles from her home. I could see her whole face glowing as she tried to use some of the Italian she was learning. And every time our eyes met it was as if she was thanking me for exposing her to this ancient place. At the same time, I thanked her for letting me share this part of me with her. That night as she smiled and brushed her hair behind her ear, I realized that I would eventually marry her.

“Barista! Due botteglie di champagne per favore.” Sergio grabbed the two bottles of champagne from the bar tender and started walking towards the beach. “Andiamo! Les go!” he said, motioning with his hand that we should follow him. We were going to the beach to toast this wonderful night. Once there, we shook the bottles of champagne and popped the corks straight up into the air — filling our glasses and bathing in the spirits. It was almost four o’clock in the morning, and there were others already on the beach with the same intentions. While we drank our champagne and we talked about future trips where we would meet again, someone lit a joint. It had been years since I had last smoked and the smell quickly reminded me of times when I was young. Before this night on the beach, I had not truly felt this free since I was fifteen or sixteen. As I stood surrounded by these new friends from this modem, old world, I couldn’t help but feel sadness knowing that I may never see some of them again.

Four o’clock passed us by without a second thought. It was time to end the night — our plane was scheduled to leave in less than four hours. But, first we had to make one more stop. Il castello di Carini. I had to see the castle one last time before I left.

When we got to the castle, Amy, Sergio, Giovanni and I were the only ones left in our group. The others were not yet satisfied with the beach. At the castle, the mood of the night quickly changed. This was goodbye, a shaking of hands, empty promises of plans for next summer, a kiss on each cheek and good night. Driving up the narrow streets towards my family’s house Amy and I were both silent. We both knew that for the rest of our lives we would never have a night like that again. A night where we broke language and culture barriers. A night where a group of people got together to bid farewell to the strangers visiting from the new world. A night where we could stand on a beach at the edge of a thousand-year-old city, and drink, laugh, and get high on each other — get high on the night. BOOM, BOOM!

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Revive the Archive: Emily Deardorff’s “I Could Not Speak Your Mother’s Tongue” (2008)

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Where Are They Now? Featuring: Dillon Samuelson