San Pellegrino in a neat green bottle

The oscillation of the overhanging clouds made a hot and cold of the afternoon. Refusing the extra fuel costs of air conditioning, I drove out to get a haircut at the local barbershop. The shop itself is a hallway of separated stalls, like tiny dens, each with a chair, a mirror, a little TV and bookshelf, assorted magazines, and a stylist--some men, some women. And they only take cash, so my habit is to buy a $1.50 San Pellegrino mineral water and add the cost to my bill.

My father-in-law introduced me to San Pellegrino half a decade ago during our first trip to Germany. Always careful to stay hydrated, he carried a small cooler in his Honda filled with water, and, for himself, nearly always had a Pellegrino nearby. He and my mother-in-law kept a few bottles of the stuff downstairs in an little-used half-kitchen of their three-story home. I remember the red tiles under my socked feet, reading the Gospel of Mark before everyone else was awake, and just being thrilled to the core about being in Germany. Every stone, every brick, every cloud or hill, tree or flower seemed baptized in the waters of Deutschland.

I like the way the carbon dioxide lingers in a San Pellegrino (first bottled in 1899). Its dry wit stays on long after the usual acquaintances have gone to bed. Even flat, the water itself "bottled at the source, San Pellegrino Terme, Italy," still wants to let you know it is an import.

The last time we were in Germany, I resolved to see how much it would take to buy something there. In New England there are camps--seasonal bungalows unusable in winter but good enough in Summertime to make do for awhile. Unfortunately, my German, despite my best intentions, never gets beyond "Do you speak German?" "I would like a glass of water, please." "How much is this CD?" There is a glass ceiling to language learning, a great gulf between the tourist's tongue and a native's. Once, quite pleased with myself, I went a little way into the jungle: I asked a man where the elevator was in German, cobbling it together from bits of this and that. My ruse was volk enough, apparently. He spat back a host of staccato syllables-and-vowels in the rise and fall pentameter that is spoken Deutsch. Best yet: I understood him.

I'd like to think that drinking this San Pellegrino would bring me a little closer to understanding my father-in-law, too. Yet I suspect his choice of mineral water was largely dictated by the commissary and clever product placement. I raised the subject with him--an ex-Army colonel--of the U.S. soldier's who were then on trial for killing Iraqi civilians. "Yeah," he grunted, "It's silly putting people on trial for killing people who ought to be dead in the first place." I just noticed: San Pellegrino has no calories or fat--who can't feel good about that?