A Slice of Italian Life Near the Painted Desert

The murmurs from the next table reminded me of cafe voices in Buenos Aires, where the spoken Spanish language carries an Italian inflection.

The aristocratic faces of the diners reminded me of people I had known when I lived in the Argentine capital.

But this cosmopolitan scene was not being played on an international stage. It was in Holbrook, Ariz. (Pop. about 5,000), a town that lies south of the Painted Desert, west of the Petrified Forest and east of Rimmy Jims.

On that cold and star-struck night, we had pulled off Interstate 40 in search of dinner. As we cruised West Hopi Drive, I saw a billboard: “Sleep in a Wigwam.”

It was an old-time Western motel with units that were white concrete tepees trimmed in red. There were air conditioners in each wigwam. There were not many cars.

Finally, we parked near the golden lights of the Butterfield Stage Co. Beyond swinging doors--and a “Rotary Meets Here” sign--was a steakhouse full of knotty-pine booths and rinky-dink music. Placards boasted of a salad bar with two kinds of dressing.

Europeans have long been drawn to America’s Wild West. The vast open spaces appeal to Old World travelers. Many express surprise at how grand the sights are and how far apart, too.

Across the room were two handsome couples in heavy hand-knit sweaters. Their hands flew in conversation. To our left was a party of six that seemed to include grandchildren. The accents were intriguing, though I could not catch the words.

I assumed these were the local gentry, descendants of Spanish conquistadors who had marched into the Southwest generations ago.

I assumed it was a family celebration. Perhaps a birthday?

My husband insisted they were tourists.

“We’ll see their tour bus when we leave,” he said.

To prove that my hunch was right, I beckoned to the waitress.

“They’re Italians,” she said, as my husband smiled. “From Northern Italy. They’re on a two-week bus tour of the Southwest. Las Vegas last night--Las Vegas, N.M.--and the Grand Canyon tomorrow. They’re staying next door at the Adobe Inn. We get a lot of tour groups through here.”

So much for intuition.

Europeans have long been drawn to America’s Wild West. The vast open spaces appeal to Old World travelers. Many express surprise at how grand the sights are and how far apart, too.

I have a Swiss friend who planned to hit a slew of national parks in a very few days, as if they were connected by an autostrada. An ice-free autostrada.

She was miffed to learn that the 10,000-foot Tioga Pass entry to Yosemite would still be blocked by snow when she arrived in June, driving from Yellowstone and Bryce and Zion.

What about tunnels? the efficient Swiss asked.

And while I never dreamed that Holbrook, Ariz., would be an overnight stop on a European tour, those Italians were having fun in small-town West.

As bills were presented, they began signaling for their guide, who translated questions to the waitress. A tip was not included, he explained, but cafe and sorbetto . . . of course.

They seemed happy enough with the dessert, but I saw no calls for seconds on American coffee.

I had been in their shoes many times, from Siena to Santa Margherita Ligure. Is service included? I ask, when faced with foreign tabs. What time do we board the bus?

It was below freezing that night in Holbrook. The Italians wrapped up in long mufflers and wool coats. They waved to the waitress and called “Arrivederci. “

I hope that they found the Butterfield Stage as rife with atmosphere as I found, say, the Ristorante le Terrazze at the Hotel Cisterna on the piazza in San Gimignano.

Frankly, I did not--but then I prefer Northern Italian cuisine to steakhouse fare. In fact, my favorite meal on the road in Arizona was a superb veal fiorentina (cooked in a white wine and lemon sauce). The veal was left over from a dinner in San Diego.

One of the joys of car travel is that I could pack it in an ice chest for a picnic by an irrigation canal, just beyond the hamlet of Hope.