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Luca is a tax accountant. An Italian tax accountant, which means that he is, in his own description, "an artist," because there are several hundred tax laws on the books in Italy and all of them contradict each other. So filing a tax return here requires jazzlike improvisation. I think it's funny that he's a tax accountant, because it seems like such stiff work for such a lighthearted guy. On the other hand, Luca thinks it's funny that there's another side of me—this Yoga side—that he's never seen. He can't imagine why I would want to go to India—and to an Ashram, of all places!—when I could just stay in Italy all year, which is obviously where I belong. Whenever he watches me sopping up the leftover gravy from my plate with a hunk of bread and then licking my fingers, he says, "What are you going to eat when you go to India?" Sometimes he calls me Gandhi, in a most ironic tone, generally when I'm opening the second bottle of wine.
盧卡是稅務會計師。如他自己描述，一個意大利稅務會計師意味著他是個“藝術家”，因為意大利有數百條稅法，而且全部相互矛盾。因此在此地申報所得稅需要爵士樂般的即興創作。我認為他是個稅務會計師真滑稽，因為這對一個無憂無慮的人來說似乎是件艱難的工作。另一方面，盧卡認為我那個他沒見過的另一面——瑜伽那一面——也很滑稽。他想不通我為何想去印度——而且還挑了個道場——干嘛不整年待在顯然令我如魚得水的意大利。每逢他看著我拿面包沾取盤里剩下的肉汁，然后舔舔手指時，就說：“你去印度要吃什么？”有時他語氣嘲弄地叫我甘地，通常在我開第二瓶酒的時候。
Luca has traveled a fair amount, though he claims he could never live anywhere but in Rome, near his mother, since he is an Italian man, after all—what can he say? But it's not just his mamma who keeps him around. He's in his early thirties, and has had the same girlfriend since he was a teenager (the lovely Giuliana, whom Luca describes fondly and aptly as acqua e sapone—"soap and water" in her sweet innocence). All his friends are the same friends he's had since childhood, and all from the same neighborhood. They watch the soccer matches together every Sunday—either at the stadium or in a bar (if the Roman teams are playing away)—and then they all return separately to the homes where they grew up, in order to eat the big Sunday afternoon meals cooked by their respective mothers and grandmothers.
盧卡經常旅行，盡管他宣稱他只能住在羅馬，離他母親很近的地方，畢竟他是個意大利男人，能怎么樣呢？然而讓他留下的原因不僅是他的媽媽。他三十歲出頭，從十幾歲起就和同一個女朋友在一起（可愛的茱莉亞娜，盧卡親熱而恰當地形容她是“acqua e sapone”——“肥皂和水”，因為她既甜美又純真）。他的朋友都是從小認識的，來自相同的鄰里。他們每個禮拜天一起看足球賽——在體育場或酒吧（羅馬隊去外地比賽的時候）——而后每個人分別回到自己成長的家，吃母親和祖母準備的周日大餐。
I wouldn't move from Rome, either, if I were Luca Spaghetti.
換作我是斯帕蓋蒂，我也不想搬離羅馬。
Luca has visited America a few times, though, and likes it. He finds New York City fascinating but thinks that people work too hard there, though he admits they seem to enjoy it. Whereas Romans work hard and resent it massively. What Luca Spaghetti doesn't like is American food, which he says can be described in two words: "Amtrak Pizza."
不過，盧卡去了幾次美國，也喜歡美國。他覺得紐約很迷人，卻認為那里的人工作太賣力，盡管他承認他們似乎以此為樂。而羅馬人工作雖賣力， 卻痛恨得很。盧卡不喜歡美國食物，他說美國食物可以用四個字形容：“鐵路比薩”。
I was with Luca the first time I ever tried eating the intestines of a newborn lamb. This is a Roman specialty. Food-wise, Rome is actually a pretty rough town, known for its coarse traditional fare like guts and tongues—all the parts of the animal the rich people up north throw away. My lamb intestines tasted OK, as long as I didn't think too much about what they were. They were served in a heavy, buttery, savory gravy that itself was terrific, but the intestines had a kind of . . . well . . . intestinal consistency. Kind of like liver, but mushier. I did well with them until I started trying to think how I would describe this dish, and I thought, It doesn't look like intestines. It actually looks like tapeworms. Then I pushed it aside and asked for a salad.
我第一次吃初生小羊的腸子是跟盧卡一起的，這是羅馬的特產。就食物而言，羅馬是頗為簡陋的城市，以粗糙的傳統食物知名，比方內臟、舌頭——北方富人扔掉的動物下腳料。我的羊腸嘗起來還行，只要我不去多想它是什么玩意。又濃又香的肉汁本身很棒，但腸子卻具有一種……“腸”的黏稠度，有點像肝，但比較糊。我原本吃得很好，直到開始嘗試描述這道菜的時候，我心想，這看起來不像腸子，倒像條蟲。而后我把盤子推到一旁，要了沙拉。
"You don't like it?" asked Luca, who loves the stuff.
“你不喜歡？”盧卡問道，他喜歡這道菜。
"No, he couldn't have, Luca. Gandhi was a vegetarian."
“不可能，盧卡。甘地吃素。”
"But vegetarians can eat this," Luca insisted. "Because intestines aren't even meat, Liz. They're just shit." Eat, Pray, Love
“但吃素的人可以吃這道菜，”盧卡堅持。“因為腸子甚至不是肉，小莉。只是屎罷了。”
