by Sandy Barker
“I just said that.”
“Yes, but you’re not some super-hot French guy who used to be in love with me.”
“True.”
I twirled some spaghetti onto my fork. My appetite had abandoned me, but if we were going to traverse Rome for the next few hours, I needed to eat something.
“Have you at least made plans to see each other again?” she asked.
“No. And it makes me feel a little bit sick.” So that’s why I wasn’t hungry anymore. I put the fork down.
“I totally get it. I’d want to have something on the calendar if I were you, something to look forward to.”
“Especially now, since he’s kissed me. That was another wish, by the way.”
She had a mouthful of pasta, but I could tell her close-lipped smile was a grin in disguise. “So, what was your third wish?” she said after she swallowed.
I’d told her numbers one and two—I figured I might as well tell her everything. “I wished for Jean-Luc to forgive me for breaking off our friendship.”
“Ohhh, that’s sweet,” said Lou. She dragged out “sweet” and I hoped it wasn’t pity I saw on her face.
“Actually, I apologised again last night.” I twirled the stem of my wine glass between my fingers and nearly spilled it.
I took a sip as Lou replied, “Oh, good! And?”
“He said I was forgiven.” As I mulled over the thought, I realised I felt a lightness, as though a long-held burden, something I’d been used to lugging around, had gone.
“So, two wishes have come true,” said Lou.
“Oh, my God, you’re right. How did I not realise? I’m such an idiot.”
“Or love-struck.”
“I’m not ‘love-struck’, Lou. I may be a little lust-struck, however. Scratch that, I am definitely lust-struck.”
“Well, yeah. Hello? He looks like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel.”
“What, like Fabio or something?” I laughed.
“Nooo. Not one of those. Like chick lit, you know. I bet he’s got a great body.”
“I bet he does too. I’ve felt some of it. It’s … he’s …” I struggled to find words and Lou laughed at me.
“Yeah, it’s definitely and he’s definitely.”
“But it’s not love, Lou.”
“Sure.” She looked dubious.
“It’s lust,” I said, my left hand marking one end of a spectrum, “and it’s a rekindled friendship.” My right hand marked the opposite end of the spectrum. “Those two things are totally different. I’m hoping to get a little more action down this end of the spectrum without making a huge mess of this end.” I couldn’t ignore Lou’s scrutinising look. “What?”
“You know what true friendship plus lust equals?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Like if you were to put those two things together in a relationship equation, what do you think those two things—the ones you put on opposite ends of the spectrum—would add up to?”
“I don’t follow.”
“I’m going to take your word for it that you’re not being deliberately obtuse.” Counsellor Lou had arrived at lunch. “Cat, friendship plus lust is love.” She wafted her hand over the table. “This part, this part in the middle that you seem so afraid of, that’s where love is.”
“But I don’t want to be in love.”
“Sometimes, love doesn’t give a crap whether you want it or not.” Lou punctuated her love speech with a giant bite of pasta, which I watched her chew while a frown settled onto my face.
I had two thoughts stewing. One: I really didn’t want to fall in love—with Jean-Luc or anyone. And, two: Lou had said “crap”, which in her world was a swear word. She must have really meant the whole “love doesn’t care” thing.
To quote my friend Lou, crap!
Chapter 13
The rest of our time in Rome was wonderful—harried and action-packed, but I loved it. I definitely wanted to return and I wondered if there was some brass somewhere that I was supposed to be rubbing. Then I realised how superstitious that was, and I am not the superstitious type.
I made a vow to stop wishing on coins and throwing them into fountains and to stop rubbing brass all over Europe. If I saw a black cat, I would pet it and I’d happily walk under any ladders propped up against buildings.
Although I really did want that Isabella Rossellini wish to come true. I still couldn’t believe I’d seen her in person.
Lou and I had a funny moment as we were walking to the Spanish Steps—they were just steps, by the way. Nice steps, sure—people seemed very happy to sit on them and while away the time—but really, they were steps. I digress. As we passed a department store, there she was, Isabella Rossellini, her face twelve feet tall. I stopped and pointed. “That, Lou, is her.”
She looked at the exquisite photograph. “Sorry, it’s who?”
“My second wish.”
“Ohhh. Yeah, I think I’ve seen her before.” I rolled my eyes. How could she not have?
Spanish Steps
From the Spanish Steps, we walked north to Piazza del Popolo and climbed the hill to the massive park which overlooks the city. “I’m beat,” said Lou as she took refuge on a park bench.
I joined her. “Yes. Lots of walking the past couple of days.”
“Well, at least it burns off the pasta.”
We hung out there for a little while, resisting the urge to buy gelato from a nearby cart. How good can cart gelato be, anyway, even in Rome?
“Where are we meeting Jaelee and Dani again?”
“Not far. Via del Corso. It’s down there somewhere.” I pointed in its general direction.
“I don’t know if I can handle shopping today. It’s just walking that costs money.”
“Hah! Hilarious. I could text them and tell them to meet us at a wine bar or something. Jaelee did say shopping then prosecco.”
“Text them. Say, ‘prosecco, no shopping.’ Then we can find somewhere to go.”
“Jean-Luc took me to this great wine bar yesterday, but it’s a bit of a walk from here.”
“Don’t say the ‘W’ word.”
“Sorry.”
“Honestly, I’ll go anywhere—close. There must be some place down there.” She pointed to the Piazza del Popolo below us.
“I’ll look.”
And that’s how we ended up tipsy at four in the afternoon. Dani and Jaelee met us laden with bags—seriously, how were they cramming this stuff into their luggage?—and caught up to us soon afterwards. “Another bottle, por favor,” Jaelee called out, speaking Spanish to the Italians. The calling out part was unnecessary. It was a very small place.
By the time we got to Anna’s restaurant to meet the guys, we were completely sloshed. Thank goodness for the pin I’d dropped on Google Maps the night before, or it would have been a minor miracle if I’d found it.
Carlo and Anna greeted me like a long-lost friend and though I wasn’t usually the sort of person who liked to clock up social karma, I was well chuffed.
Carlo squeezed together two tables and the six of us clambered around. Knees pressed against knees, but I knew they’d think the meal was worth it. As the veteran, I told them how it all worked.
Surprisingly, my meal was completely different from the previous night, though, not surprisingly, every bite of it was delicious.
As we were leaving, Anna herself came around the counter to kiss me goodbye. I made a mental note to invite her and Carlo to the wedding, which made it official. I was off my trolley and just plain drunk.
Craig took charge and got us to the pick-up point ahead of schedule. Lou was cognisant enough to clap her hand over my mouth as I started spouting not very nice things about Georgina when the coach pulled up.
I was put to bed and shaken awake with enough time to down some headache tablets, grab a very quick shower in the hideous concrete ablution block, and get on the coach with all my belongings by 8:00am.
“Have I
mentioned how much I love you, Lou?” I said as we took our seats.
Her tight lips told me that the feeling wasn’t mutual at that particular moment. This was confirmed by what she said next. “I’ve had a lot of experience putting a drunk person to bed.” Oh dear. I was really going to have to make it up to her.
***
The drive to Venice was five hours. Sorry. You can’t drive to Venice. The drive to Fusina, where we were staying, was five hours. Then we’d catch a water taxi to Venice.
After enduring the day song, which Georgina played every morning right before she got on the microphone to tell us the day’s itinerary, I fell into a deep sleep, my face pressed against the window. I should say that it wasn’t a bad song, but after the tour, it was going to be a long time before I could listen to Pharrell Williams’s “Happy” without cringing.
I slept until the mid-morning rest stop.
“Lou, seriously, I do love you.”
“Uh huh.”
“Can I buy you a tea? How about a pastry? What can I get you? Morning tea is on me.”
I could tell she was trying to stay miffed, but Lou was one of those people who got cross and almost instantly forgave, so she was doing a poor job of it. And, I can do pretty amazing puppy-dog eyes, especially when I want my bus bestie to forgive me for being drunk.
She pointed to a pastry in the glass cabinet and muttered, “And tea.” I ordered. Sipping my tea as we settled back on the coach, I started to feel more like myself.
“I had fun in Rome,” I said, feeling the waters.
“Mmm.”
“Did you?” I was half-turned in my seat watching her and she honoured me with a sideways glance and half a smile that told me she was giving in to my charm.
“Yes. I had a good time in Rome.”
“I’m really sorry I got so drunk.”
“It’s okay.”
“I forget sometimes that I’m only five-foot-one-and-three-quarters. In my head, I’m six-foot-two, so I tend to drink like a man—a big one.” She snort-laughed and I think a little tea came out of her nose. I handed her the napkin from my pastry. “I really am sorry. And thank you for looking after me.”
“No problem. By the way, I really needed this.” She held up the tea. “I have a huge hangover.”
“Oh, my God, Lou!” I started digging around in my bag. “You should have said! Here.” I found my stash of ibuprofen and paracetamol and popped two of each into my hand. “Take these.” She eyed them dubiously. “I know. It seems like a lot, but they work together, and it’s totally safe. Trust me.” She must have, because she tipped them into her mouth and took a sip of tea.
She started snoozing not long after—Lou, who couldn’t sleep sitting up. She must have been shattered, the poor woman. I gently took her empty takeaway cup from her. Our Mama Lou—so busy looking after everyone else.
***
The campsite at Fusina, where we would be sleeping in tiny caravans for two, was dreadful. As soon as we stepped off the coach we were swarmed by mosquitoes, our caravan smelled like stale urine, and it was a good five-minute walk to the ablution block.
And we had exactly fifteen minutes before we were due at the dock to take the water taxi into Venice. Merde, merde, merde.
I prioritised the following: changing clothes and brushing my teeth—hangover teeth are furry and disgusting and must take precedence when you are about to spend six hours exploring a fifteen-hundred-year-old city.
The first priority was easy. When we got to our caravan, I flung the contents of my case about until I found a dress I hadn’t worn yet and changed into it, slipping my jacket on over the top.
To brush my teeth in the ablution block would have taken far too long, so I did a camper’s brush, which included swishing from a water bottle and spitting into the bushes next to our steps. Lou made a face to indicate I might have slipped out of her good books once again. With these two tasks completed and three minutes left until we were due at the dock, I took a moment to zhuzh my hair with some leave-in conditioner, slather on some SPF30 tinted moisturiser, and swipe on some lip gloss.
We sprinted to the dock and made it onto the water taxi with thirty seconds to spare. And even though we weren’t late, we were the last ones on board and, once again, I’d put us in Georgina’s firing line. If glares were bullets, I’d have been dead about a hundred times over.
You know what, Georgina? The schedule is too frigging tight! Fifteen minutes to get our bags, get our caravan assignment, find our caravan, then get ready for an evening out in Venice? Im-bloody-possible. Grrr.
It didn’t take long for me to forget all about Georg-bloody-ina, because Venice materialised ahead—and gawking in awe became involuntary. Ah, Venice. The first thing to hit me was the smell. We were inside a water taxi, yet the heady brininess of the water and air permeated. It wasn’t unpleasant, just distinctive, just Venice.
As we docked, which took an incredibly long time, I succumbed to apprehension. With regards to sightseeing, I had no idea where to start and I didn’t want to miss anything important. Plus, I was still mildly hungover, and the boat ride had unsettled my stomach.
Lou eyed my bouncing knee. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m just excited—and a little daunted. I mean, look, Lou. How are we going to see all that?”
Dani leant across the aisle. “You should come hang out with Jaelee and me today. She’s been before.”
My head spun towards Dani and I got a little dizzy. Am I still drunk? “Really, Jae?”
“Oh yeah, I came here after college with my boyfriend, Roger.” Jaelee did not strike me as the type of woman who dated guys called Roger, but I let it go.
“I’ve already pre-booked for us to go up the campanile,” said Dani. She must have read the blank look on my face. “That.” She pointed to a giant tower and I peered up at it through the window.
“Oh. Wow. I want to go up that. Lou?”
“Oh yeah, for sure.”
“You’ve already got tickets though. Do you think we could get some?” How had I not done any research on Venice? What was I, a tourist? Actually, a tourist would have done all the research, and what I quickly realised was that with only six hours, we needed to act like bloody tourists.
“Done!” Dani held up her phone triumphantly.
“Done, what’s done?”
“I booked you and Louise tickets for the same time as us. Four-thirty.”
“Dani! Thank you. We’ll fix you up, of course.”
“Yeah, no problem. Buy me lunch or something.”
I grinned at Lou. “We’re going up the camper-thingie.”
She shook her head at me. “Uh huh.”
We disembarked and, though she was hardly my favourite person, I listened carefully to Georgina as she told us the pick-up location. I peered down at my phone, which was a little blurry—good grief, how much did I drink yesterday?—and compared my map pin to Lou’s, so if I got lost, I didn’t actually get lost. “Yep,” she confirmed.
The tour group dispersed in pairs and small groups and Lou and I walked over to Jaelee and Dani. “Right,” I said, unable to contain my enthusiasm. “What’s first?”
“I need to eat,” said Jae. “I want a pizza.”
I blinked twice, once for each thought. First, I was in Venice. Did I really want to waste time eating? And second, I knew that Jae actually ate sometimes—I’d seen her do it—but pizza? It seemed a little “off-brand” for Jaelee.
“Well, do you know a good place? Like, from when you were here before?” asked Lou.
Jae threw her a look to convey how stupid she thought the question was. “That was nearly ten years ago, and this is Venice. It’s impossible to find anything again. I mean, the whole point of Venice is to get lost.”
At that moment, I wanted Jaelee to get lost. How rude. I opened my mouth to say something, but Dani stepped up.
“No need to be a bitch about it, Jaelee.”
Jae was clear
ly taken aback. I wondered if it was because she didn’t know she’d been bitchy or because she was used to being bitchy without anyone calling her on it. I’d been on the receiving end of it a few times and I’m a big girl and all, but still, Lou was Lou and she definitely didn’t deserve it.
“Oh, sorry.” She shook her head, as though shaking the bitch away. “Sorry, Louise. Can I start over?” It was a rhetorical question and we stared at her, waiting. “Venice is … well, the best thing to do is just to wander and soak it all in. If we find a place we want to stop, we will, but the walkways and bridges and streets—they’re the real drawcard.”
“Okay, sounds good.” Lou, always so quick to forgive.
“So, if it’s all about getting lost, how are we going to find our way back here?” Dani looked up at the camper-thingie.
“There are signs. I’ll show you when we see one.”
“All right, great,” I said, hoping to get us moving. Pizza sounded good and I was getting hungry.
“Let’s go have a quick look at Saint Mark’s first, though,” said Jae. “We won’t have to line up for long and it’s definitely worth seeing. It’s, like, a thousand years old. Then I’ll take you around to the Bridge of Sighs.” Oh! I’ve heard of that! “Then pizza. Okay?”
We agreed and let Jaelee lead us from the waterfront, past a giant pink building with lots of arches (I later learnt it was the Doge’s Palace) to San Marco’s Basilica. When we arrived, I almost didn’t want to go in. The outside was so ornate and interesting I could have stayed right there just soaking in all the details. Unexpectedly, I decided to do just that. “Hey, I’m not coming in. I’ll wait for you here.”
“You sure?” asked Lou.
“Yes, totally. This is …” I looked up at the wondrous structure. “I’m happy here.” How very traveller of me. While the others joined a short queue to get inside, I took out my phone and did a quick search on Wikipedia.
I know, it’s a little cringe-worthy, but I learnt a lot, like how the cathedral—sorry, basilica—was an excellent example of Byzantine and European architecture. East meets west, with its onion shaped domes and mosaics from the east, and Gothic archways and stonework, which reminded me a little of Sainte-Chapelle.