Exactly. What?

“It’s Allesandro,” Tizi says. “Remember that.”

The name of the waiter at La Marianna trattoria di mare, in Rimini. He’s more than a waiter. He’s like the field marshall in the room. Below him is one other server and 4-5 sub-servers. Seafood in Italy often means little plates, lots of them. Lunch is a coordinated attack, good things delivered on time with focus and exactitude. The head server makes sure. Before Allesandro was Valentina. Before Valentina was Monica. Monica was more than field marshall. She was like Dwight D. Eisenhower on the floor. She knew and remembered everything.

Allesandro takes our order, tapping on a device. “You guys are from where?” he asks.

“Part time up in San Marino,” I say. “And also the States.”

He says he remembers now.

We want to be sure to call him by name. Not for better service. To express appreciation. In my man bag I have a small Moleskin notebook I brought precisely for this reason. And I haven’t used it yet. Instead I tell Tizi to remember and she tells me to remember, and we are both very likely to forget. Every night I take down a few notes, keeping a computer log–where we went, what we did, how far we walked, where we ate, what we ordered, names we want to remember. Two days ago, at another favorite restaurant, a server’s name: “Passatore server: Kadi.”

Forgetfulness is general in every area of life.

When we walk past an elementary school, the kids are outside, all wearing light blue smocks. I feel like I should know that word in Italian. When I ask, Tizi doesn’t remember. An hour later, out of nowhere she says, “Grembiule.”

“Yes,” I say. “But I was thinking of the little aprons your mother made for the kids when they were small.”