by Holly Greene
‘Juliet’s balcony’ itself was fairly simple, made of stone and actually much smaller than she'd imagined. Nonetheless she took some obligatory photos of it before going inside the actual house.
Inside it was cool but not dark, thanks to discreetly installed modern lights.
The Casa had some old-world tiling on the floor and an elaborately paneled ceiling. The theme of stone arches continued inside, with arches and pillars separating the rooms of the house, and from in here Lily had a better look at the iron lattice of the windows and door panels.
There was a bit of furniture and art scattered throughout the rooms, and she took a while to look at all of the informational placards on the walls. According to the placards the house dated back to the 1200s and had sustained heavy damage over the years, leading to judicious restorations with architectural elements of the Medieval Age to help preserve the look and feel of the home as it would have been when Juliet was alive. (If thought Lily, but kept that thought to herself.)
She had to admit that a lot of care had gone into refurbishing the old house, and the collection of costumes inside gave an interesting peek at life in old Verona. Lily scribbled more notes as she went and snapped a few more pictures for reference.
As much as she was impressed with the historical details of the house, Lily couldn't shake off her inner cynic as she watched the crowds. Giddy young women were going up to the balcony to declare dramatically, “What light through yonder window breaks?” or the closest thing they could manage before dissolving into fits of laughter while their friends snapped pictures from below or called for moody poses leaning on the balcony railing. Tourists were murmuring excitedly over the costumes and historical placards throughout the house as though a real celebrity had once graced these rooms.
For her part, Lily thought that it was a whole lot of nonsense. In all likelihood Juliet Capulet had never existed, or if she had, her story was certainly not as dramatic as Shakespeare had made it out to be.
According to her sparse research the Bard wasn't even the first writer to dramatise this sort of story, which made her suspect he wrote it more to capitalise on a public thirst for drama than out of any sudden stirring of inspiration over two dead young lovers.
And who thought that the story was romantic, anyway? Lily didn't understand the pull. Oh, sure, the whole star-crossed lovers part was nice, but the suicide in a crypt? Not so much.
She preferred love stories where the hero and heroine escaped alive and intact and could continue their romance happily ever after.
6
She was still musing over these thoughts when she looked at her watch and realised it was now midday; she would have to find someplace for lunch before continuing with her sightseeing.
Back in the courtyard she consulted her smartphone, looking for a list of good local cafes or trattorias where she might find a bite to eat. There was a plethora of choices, she realised, and so when she returned to the street to hail a cab she asked her driver for a recommendation.
“Somewhere local? I take you to Marco and Valentina’s BellaVita.” He glanced at her phone. “Not on your guide list maybe, but you will not be disappointed.”
Lily wasn't so sure; she couldn't find the trattoria he mentioned in a web search. Still, she reasoned that if she disliked the place she could simply find somewhere else, and directed the driver to take her there as quickly as possible. She was really starting to realise that she was starving.
The eatery in question was tucked away down a quiet side street, not far from the famous Casa di Giulietta but far enough that the crowds weren't humming outside the door.
It was the sort of place Lily might have walked by without a second thought. With some trepidation she pushed open the front door and went inside, but her doubts were almost immediately dispelled.
She'd heard people describe “stepping through a doorway into another world” but she'd never experienced it herself. Going into the trattoria was just such an experience.
Inside, the small restaurant was decorated in a rustic yet inviting fashion, with homey wood tables and chairs inviting diners to retire to quieter corners or group around one of the large common tables at the centre of the room.
The ceiling was low and boasted exposed wooden beams from which hung strings of lantern lights, casting a soft ambiance over the room. Old pieces of artwork, framed photographs and neatly clipped and framed newspaper articles covered the walls, and a generous wine rack at one end of the restaurant showed off a selection of local wine bottles.
It was more than just the interior décor that caught Lily's attention however; it was the atmosphere. There was music playing somewhere, but the trattoria had a quiet, almost restful feel.
It felt like ... like stepping into someone's home, she decided; like going into their kitchen and feeling that you belonged there, and would be immediately served a healthy portion of delicious food and some excellent company besides.
She couldn't decide why she suddenly had that feeling but decided it must be the combo of hunger and the smell of something delicious wafting from out back.
Lily had been so caught up in her reflections on the trattoria that she hadn't noticed the elderly Italian man polishing glasses behind the low bar that ran along one wall. He had a healthy tan, a shock of white hair neatly combed back, and surprisingly green eyes that twinkled when she smiled at her. “Benvenuto! Welcome to BellaVita. I am Marco; this is my wife Valentina.”
From the kitchen a woman emerged, wiping her hands on an apron. “Ah benvenuto! Sit, we will bring you lunch.”
Lily wasn't used to this kind of casual dining, but she did as she was bid while the couple began bringing dishes from the kitchen. There were no menus, apparently; just a steady stream of appetisers, antipastos and side dishes, with a large decanter of wine placed at her elbow to accompany the meal. Lily was soon surrounded by the local cuisine: cold meats and cheeses wrapped in bread; vegetables, both hot and cold; and a platter of smoked fishes and chicken. There was plenty of bruschetta and zuppa before the main dishes, and a warm smile and exclamation of “Buon appetito!” with each new dish laid on the table.
Finally Lily sat back in her chair with a sigh. Far from being a hole-in-the-wall establishment, this little restaurant had served up one of the best meals of her life.
The couple, Marco and Valentina who owned the trattoria, seemed happy to sit at the common table with their guest and chat as she drank a strong espresso after dinner. Gradually Lily learned a bit of their story: married for nearly fifty years, they had run the trattoria for most of that time, and had no plans to close any time soon.
“It's practically a part of the family,” Valentina laughed, as Marco grasped her hand with a smile. The two beamed at each other and shared a look that Lily instantly recognised: the look of two people so deeply in love that nothing could touch it.
“And what about you?” Valentina said, returning her attention to their guest. “Ci perdoni. We've been going on about ourselves and not asking anything about you. What brings you to Verona?”
Lily assured them that she very much enjoyed listening to them talk, and told them briefly about her job as a novelist. They nodded respectfully at that, as most people did once they found out what she did for a living. But here in this little dining room, halfway around the world, her name in print and all of her material accomplishments didn't seem to matter so much.
“And so you are in Verona to write?” Marco prodded gently, and she hesitated. “Yes, only ...well ...I'm just not sure where to begin. I mostly write love stories, you see …” The couple nodded, brightening. “But I just can't seem to get my latest one started.” She didn't have the heart to tell a couple so clearly in love that it was her inner cynic making the project difficult, and not mere writer's block.
“Where better to find inspiration than a city so steeped in love?” Valentina said with a smile, and Lily smiled back.
“I suppose that's true. I was laughing at the tourist
s at Juliet's house earlier, but in a way I suppose I'm just the same. I guess I came here looking for Juliet. I could use a touch of her guidance. For the book, and for myself, I suppose.”
The older couple gave each other a long look that Lily couldn't discern. “And have you found her?” Valentina asked gently, and Lily laughed ruefully. “No. I just found a lot of tourists with cameras. But I guess the romance of this city just doesn't work for me, because I'm not really feeling inspired at all.”
Valentina surprised her by reaching across the table to pat her hand. “I wouldn't give up so soon, my dear. So many people come to this city looking for different things, and they all have different ideas about love. I think perhaps you won't really find Juliet until you stop looking.”
Lily considered the woman's odd remark for a moment. Before she could think of an answer, though, the older woman stood. “But enough about serious things! Before you go looking for Juliet again, you must try my zabaglione. I don't believe anything difficult should be done until you've had dessert.”
And with a wink and smile, Valentina returned once more to the kitchen.
7
When Sarah woke, she had to take a long moment to remember where she was.
Certainly not in her Chicago condo, she decided, listening to the low babble of sound from outside. There were no police sirens, angry honking horns from impatient drivers, or other sounds of rush and bustle. Instead she heard church bells tolling out the time in the distance, the quiet hum of distant traffic, and what sounded like people talking as they walked, though she couldn't understand them. Suddenly it hit her: she was in Verona!
She bounced up in bed excitedly and stretched luxuriously before sliding out from underneath the duvet. The thick drapes at the windows were still drawn, letting only a bit of the morning sun filter through. She shrugged on a fluffy bathrobe and skipped over to open the drapes, then unlatched the double doors and stepped out onto the balcony.
Immediately she was struck by the difference between this city's rush hour and a typical morning in her home city.
Here people didn't seem so hurried; they moved along as though they had places to be of course, but the general attitude seemed to be that those places would still be there, no matter what time they arrived. People conversed in Italian as they walked, but there weren't as many cell phones as Sarah was used to and there was little sign of the impatient, demanding tone that people seemed to use constantly in Chicago.
The attitude here in Italy was definitely much more laid-back.
She leaned over the railing a bit for a better view of the cobblestone streets below. The church bells were louder out here, echoing in the distance.
An older Italian woman with a floral scarf tied over her greying hair was selling flowers from a stall in the street, laughing and chatting with a group of women who had stopped to buy fresh flowers. From the baskets and bags they were carrying, Sarah guessed they had made an early trip to the market for bread and vegetables and were now on their way back home. Here and there men and women seemed to be going to their workplaces; she spied a trio of small boys in school uniforms racing with glee through the street, weaving through the crowd, and she wondered idly if they were going to school or had just snuck out.
She heard footsteps behind her, and Nate joined her on the balcony, tying on his own bathrobe.
He took an appreciative deep breath of the fresh autumn air. “Buongiorno, sweetheart,” he said, affecting a deep Italian accent and giving Sarah a kiss. “What are you looking at?”
“Just the people,” she said with a smile, leaning on the railing. “Look at them. They're so different from the crowds back home; they look so relaxed, so happy, even though they're just going about a normal day.” I wish we could capture some of that mood she thought to herself, but didn't say out loud.
Nate stayed by her elbow a moment longer, then ruffled her hair affectionately. “Maybe it's some of that famous Italian magic,” he said teasingly. “Come on now, do you want to stand in the window and gawk all day, or do you want to get out there and explore?”
Sarah smiled and stepped back inside, shutting the balcony door behind her. Maybe Nate was right; maybe there was some magic at work here, but could it work on them?
Though it seemed to be having an effect already, she thought, noting how much more relaxed Nate seemed already.
The couple dressed at a leisurely pace and set out to explore their surroundings.
Sarah had been unsure about the weather, but they had lucked into a glorious late September weekend with full sunshine and mild temperatures, and she soon took off her jacket and stuffed it in her shoulder bag so she could enjoy the feel of the sun on her arms.
Encouraged by the relaxed pace of the locals, they ambled slowly along down the street, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of the morning.
The first stop was a small cafe just down the street from their hotel, where Nate and Sarah ducked in to get breakfast. The middle-aged man behind the counter was enthusiastic about showing his American guests the full spread of dishes available for breakfast: cappuccinos and other hot, milky coffees; trays of cornettos and other pastries filled with cream, jam or chocolate; biscottis and breads; fruit salads; yogurt; and muesli, which Sarah was unsure of until she realised that it was akin to granola and fruit with milk.
Her relief must have shown on her face, because the man laughed gently. “Don't worry, signora. You might not understand all the menu items, but I think you'll find you enjoy Italian cuisine very much.” He grinned. “You know, in some parts of Italy, we used to break the fast with a glass of red wine and biscuits.” He laughed again at the look on Nate and Sarah's faces. “Ah, don’t worry. Just caffè e latte and some pastries for Americans, si?”
In the end Nate selected a pastry with jam, Sarah chose one full of rich chocolate, and they ordered two frothy cappuccinos.
Having eaten, they laid out their map of the city and guidebook and began plotting their day. Much of the city had modern roads and taxis, of course, but with the gorgeous weather the couple hoped to spend much of their time in Verona walking, so they could better take in the sights.
Eventually they agreed to begin their tour at one end of the city and work their way slowly across over the next two days, giving themselves plenty of time to linger anywhere they might like.
8
Their first stop was the Verona Arena, which according to the guidebook had been built by the Romans in 30 A.D.
“Can you just imagine,” Nate said, “building something that would last all those years?” The sheer size of the stone arches was impressive, and Sarah was glad to have her camera at hand to snap a few pictures. As they walked around the arena, she tried to imagine what it would have been like to be a spectator there when it was first built, but her imagination just wasn't up to the task—the magnitude of the place was overpowering. “It says here that 30,000 spectators could fit inside for events,” she noted, holding up the guidebook.
Nate read over her shoulder. “They still pack in quite the crowds for concerts, it seems. Twenty thousand at a time. Looks like they have a pretty impressive summer opera program, too.”
Sarah shut the book, only a little disappointed. They'd spent a bit of time walking around the Arena, and she'd enjoyed it immensely, but to see a performance inside would have been breathtaking.
As if he could read her thoughts, Nate smiled a little. “Hey, we missed it this year, but maybe another year.”
Really? Sarah smiled at him and flipped to another page in the guidebook. The magic of Verona, indeed. If she'd known this city was all they needed to get Nate smiling again, she'd have flown here months ago.
Next they wandered through the Piazza Bra, the city square adjoining the Arena. A large garden full of fragrant cedar and pine trees welcomed them, and they sat on a park bench in the shade to enjoy the scene. The wide streets were filled with other tourists, snapping photos, enjoying the gardens, or grabbing something to eat
from one of the cafes. Here the paving returned to the old cobblestone variety, and the buildings surrounding the piazza all had a rustic, time-weathered look.
They were painted in weathered shades of tan, rust, yellow and beige, and most featured wrought-iron or stone balconies on the upper floors. Small flocks of pigeons were enjoying a leisurely mid-morning hunt for scraps left in the park by careless picnickers.
Nate pointed out the fountain in the middle of the square and a large bronze statue of a man on a horse. “The first king of Italy, Victor Emmanuel the Second. They erected the statue after his death.”
“And did he do anything particular to merit a statue? Besides being a king, of course.”
“Of course.” Nate studied the guidebook again. “It says here that he was the first king of a united Italy since the sixth century. Oh, check out his full name, it's a mouthful: Vittorio Emanuele Maria Alberto Eugenio Ferdinando Tommaso di Savoia. You can bet that just rolled off his mama's tongue when she was mad.”
Sarah burst into laughter, and after a moment Nate joined in. When the moment passed, he glanced at her and gave her a funny smile. “What?”
Sarah shrugged, unable to contain what she knew was a goofy grin. Instead she put her head on his shoulder, and he moved an arm around her, pulling her closer on the bench. “This is nice,” she said.
“What is? Mocking the birth names of dead royalty?”
“You know what I mean,” she said with a grin, poking him in the side. “Us, being here, having fun. No stress.” She looked up at him. “I've missed just having fun with you, like we used to.”
Nate stroked her hair, looking serious. “I've missed it too. I want this vacation to be a fresh start for us.”
She smiled her agreement, and he gave her a quick kiss on the nose. “Now, I don't know about you, but all this walking is making me hungry. Is that a cafe I see over there?”