The Oracle of Salerno

Vincent was the owner of a B&B in Salerno. He wore pink shorts, black cord bracelets stacked on one wrist, and a wedding ring that may or may not have been more of a suggestion than a fact. He didn’t speak a word of English but carried on full conversations with us using Google Translate, which somehow made every exchange sound simultaneously robotic and sultry.

His pink shorts alone were a statement—bold, unapologetic, and at least two inches shorter than social norms recommend. Paired with those bracelets and that ring, he radiated the energy of someone who was definitely fabulous and definitely not interested in women, but who also had important things to say—things that required tequila.

We’d been knocking back shots for hours, Google Translate working overtime like some underpaid oracle trapped in an iPhone. It was like playing an international game of telephone—with better booze and a lot more sexual tension. Not between Vincent and me, mind you. His wedding ring was legit, and besides, I was fairly certain I wasn’t his type. But he did make me question all my life choices, including my current lack of flair and international intrigue.

He held up his phone. "So, darling," the monotone voice purred, "you're looking for a man?"

I nodded, uncertain if the spinning room was from tequila or just the usual dizziness of being single and over 40.

"First rule," it said, "stop looking. Men are like cats. The moment you ignore them, they’re all over you."

I snorted. “So I should be a crazy cat lady, but for men?”

Vincent grinned. “Second rule: wear something ridiculous. Like my shorts. It weeds out the boring ones.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll raid my grandma’s closet. Nothing says date me like mothball chic.”

He held up the phone again, dead serious: “Third rule: always carry a banana in your purse.”

I blinked. “A... banana?”

“For scale, of course,” the voice replied. “How else will you know if he measures up?”

And that’s when I absolutely lost it—cackling like a deranged tourist on a budget wine tour. There I was, in a Salerno courtyard, taking dating advice from a man in pink shorts via a robot voice while my liver waved a tiny white flag.

But Vincent wasn’t done.

Between shots, I confided that I’d once been an artist, until I rage-quit during the pandemic after falling off a ladder and shattering my elbow. Since then, I hadn’t picked up a brush. I told him about my portraits—fragments of people, just torsos, hands, or legs. I couldn’t explain why.

Vincent typed. “Art is like taking a shit. You can’t force it, but if you don’t do it, you’ll explode.”

I choked on my drink. “Charming.”

“You photograph body parts,” his phone continued. “Why not assholes? Everyone’s got one. Some people are one.”

I blinked. “Is that... literal or metaphorical?”

“Both,” the phone chirped. “You’re not painting whole people because you don’t feel whole. It’s not deep. It’s not edgy. It’s avoidance.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your art is like your love life,” he added, as if this was a TED Talk. “You’re so focused on the parts, you forget the whole.”

I was simultaneously insulted and intrigued.

“Start with the assholes in your life,” the voice continued. “Paint them. Photograph them. Immortalize their worst traits. Then work your way up to the heart.”

The tequila was hitting hard, but not as hard as that line.

“What if I’m not good anymore?” I whispered.

Vincent’s laugh didn’t need translation. He typed furiously: “Good? Who gives a shit about good? Be awful. Be unsettling. Be the nightmare someone can’t forget. Just be.”

And damn if I didn’t feel something shift. Like the artistic plug had been pulled and the creative plumbing was starting to gurgle again.

“To assholes and art,” I said, raising my glass.

Vincent clinked his against mine and typed one more manifesto: “Art shows are like orgies for the eyes. Everyone’s naked—but it’s the souls, not the bodies.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I once curated a show called The Ass-thetic,” he added. “Just paintings of butts. Critics called it ‘cheeky.’ Huge success.”

I laughed so hard I nearly tipped off my chair.

“Art isn’t about being liked,” the phone droned. “It’s about making people feel something. Even if it’s nausea.”

I paused, suddenly inspired. “So I should aim for discomfort?”

“Always,” he said, thumbs flying. “Indifference is the enemy. Offend. Seduce. Confuse. Make them stare.”

It was ridiculous. It was divine. It was exactly what I needed.

I didn’t know if I’d make great art again. But I’d make something. Even if it was a gallery full of disembodied limbs and misdirected emotions.

“Okay,” I said, toasting the air. “To making something. Even if it’s a mess.”

Vincent raised his glass. “Especially if it’s a mess,” the phone translated.

And that’s where we left it—me, an ex-artist with a tequila buzz and a brand-new art manifesto, and Vincent, the pink-shorted oracle of Salerno, grinning like he’d just saved my soul.

Good night Salerno.