A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  By the time Gwen and Aunt Bea had collected their keys, trudged up to their room, unpacked and changed out of their travel clothes, it was time for that meal. A few members of their group were already seated when they walked into the hotel restaurant but, before Gwen could sit next to someone familiar, her aunt cried, “Sally!” and rushed up to a woman Gwen had never seen.

  “Is it really Beatrice?” the sixty-something woman said in a soft British accent. She embraced Aunt Bea. “Your photo on Facebook is an excellent likeness.”

  “Yours, too.” Her aunt radiated delight at Sally. “And where is Peter?”

  “He’ll be along shortly. It’s shameful the way he preens before any formal dining experience.” She shook her head in mock exasperation. “Worse than any sixteen-year-old girl, I’m afraid.”

  Aunt Bea introduced Gwen to Sally Bentley and, eventually, to Sally’s husband, Peter, as well. “The honeymooners,” her aunt called them, and Bea insisted on dining at the same table with the two of them. Thus, Gwen was subjected to the usual getting-to-know-you questions, which she always disliked because, in explaining her life to others, she could never escape how ordinary and boring she sounded:

  Yes, she was thirty, and a schoolteacher.

  Yes, she liked kids.

  No, she wasn’t married, however, she did have a serious boyfriend.

  No, she’d never been to Europe before. (Or, really, anywhere at all.)

  And, yes, her first impressions of Italy were definitely positive, but, no, she hadn’t seen more of Rome yet than what they’d passed on the drive from the airport to the hotel, etc.

  How very dull they must think her, even though she smiled at them and tried to be friendly.

  “Well, that will surely change soon,” Sally said with a kindly grin. “You shall get to start exploring Rome tonight. With us.”

  And Peter, upon learning that Gwen taught eighth-grade math, began regaling them with “jokes” related to her subject area. The man had an astonishingly comprehensive memory of juvenile math teasers and puns. And he didn’t hesitate to divulge each and every one of them—before they’d even made it through their appetizers to get to their entrées.

  “... but this one is my absolute favorite,” he said, after enough previous one-liners to exhaust even a grade-schooler.

  It was all she could do not to plead, Oh, please stop talking. Silence is preferable to inane chatter....

  But Aunt Bea said gamely, “Tell us.”

  “Right then.” He rubbed his mostly bald head and chortled in anticipation. “Who was the roundest knight at the table and why?”

  Gwen managed a faint “I don’t know.”

  Aunt Bea squinted and appeared to give the question some serious thought before twisting her lips and saying, “Lancelot, maybe? But I can’t figure out why.”

  “Stumped, are you?” Peter asked. “It’s Sir Cumference, of course. Because he ate a lot of pi!”

  Aunt Bea laughed in delight. “Oh, that’s funny!”

  “Peter’s always been a fan of King Arthur,” Sally explained, grinning back at Aunt Bea and patting her husband’s arm with obvious pride.

  Gwen bobbed her head politely at them, but she could tell it was going to be a long night.

  During their main course, she glanced around at the other tables and noticed a number of new faces—Brits who had filtered in and found S&M pals from “across the puddle” to chat with over dinner. Aunt Bea helpfully pointed out Cynthia Adams, the woman the ladies had mentioned earlier. She most assuredly did not look like a math professor, at least not Gwen’s idea of one. Maybe, Gwen thought, her first impression of the woman as a forty-something, slightly svelter Bridget Jones was closer to the truth, at least in appearances. She was dressed to entice and seemed decidedly intent on using this to her advantage. As was another English woman sitting by her—Louisa Garrity—who Sally informed her was “a young fifty-four” and married to a rather inattentive husband. Louisa and Cynthia were reportedly “the very best of friends.”

  “How nice for them,” Gwen murmured, striving for a tone of perfect neutrality, but she didn’t like the chilly vibe they gave off. Not at all. They were like British Popsicles. The “Britsicles,” she dubbed them privately.

  Finally, there was a father-son duo. The dad, Kamesh Balaraj, had been an immigrant to England from his native India a quarter of a century ago, and his son Ani, age fifteen, had been born in Guildford, Surrey. Sudoku masters, both of them, they’d qualified for Brussels along with a few others in the British group. According to Peter, they were on some Englishmen’s version of a guy bonding trip.

  Gwen nodded. They seemed okay, although it concerned her that the person in the room closest to her age was a teenage boy. Well, no. There was also Hans-Josef, she admitted, whom she spotted being pulled into the orbit of the Britsicles. Their tour guide stood next to Louisa and Cynthia’s table and listened to them with well-bred Austrian courtesy and stellar levels of refined respectfulness. Even from a distance, Gwen could tell the ladies were batting their eyelashes at him flirtatiously and pretending to hang on his every word. Or maybe that last part wasn’t pretense. They seemed determined to get him to sit down but had not, thus far, succeeded.

  Before they’d even managed to get to their piece of tiramisu for dessert, Gwen felt the heaviness of the meal affecting her stomach and the claustrophobic conversation affecting her brain. She excused herself without fanfare or explanation and slipped outside to the balcony overlooking Via Veneto to get some air.

  The bustling street was much like the meal, a bit too rich for her tastes, but the activity below at least injected her with a much-needed bolt of energy. Although exhaustion had her eyelids drooping and the new sensation of jet lag made her stance feel slightly imbalanced, she appreciated the reviving effects of the charged atmosphere.

  She gazed at the passersby, squinting slightly at the sinking summer sun and then back at the people. She caught sight of a young couple zipping by on a Vespa. They were laughing as the motor scooter zoomed down the street. Not wearing helmets, however, she noticed. And the contrast between the stride of a businessman in an expensive suit, leather briefcase in hand, and an old, old woman in a thin print dress, dragging a wheeled shopping cart behind her—the eggplant, zucchini and leeks bouncing inside the little metal cage—was profound. Both extremes existed in kinship on these Roman streets.

  Gwen couldn’t help but twist the information she’d gleaned from textbooks, guidebooks and the Internet on the history of Europe and try to imagine the past in play here. Only, in her mind’s eye, the power of that mental image (gladiators roaming the street, men and women clad in togas and sandals) was heightened by her other senses: the sound of feet clicking briskly or clomping stodgily along the Via Veneto. The warmth of the summer evening air. The faint scent of pasta sauce wafting up from the hotel kitchen. The smooth feel of the black, wrought-iron railing, cool to the touch beneath her fingertips.

  She felt a curious rush of exhilaration, but it was tempered with a tremor of her usual anxiety. History was about life that had come and gone. Any gladiator she might’ve enjoyed imagining was, of course, dead. And Rome had so much history. All of Europe did. It was, in a way, like a parallel universe, where the thread of this history connected the past and present with stunning vividness. So many humans had once trodden this sun-kissed land, and even this balcony where she was standing. Most were long ago buried and, in many cases, forgotten. How many years would pass before she, too, would be a wispy, unremembered woman in the shifting winds of time?

  She swiveled around, away from the balcony’s ledge, and almost plowed into her aunt.

  “Gwennie, are you all right?”

  She tried to nod but wasn’t able to manage it. “I—I’m not feeling well,” she blurted, not at all exaggerating.

  “Do you need to lie down?” her aunt asked, worry etching lines of concern into her already creased forehead.

  “Yes,” Gwen said without hesitatio
n. “I want to go to bed.”

  Aunt Bea’s eyebrows pulled even closer together. “I’ll walk you up to the room and stay with you.”

  But as they took a few steps in the direction of the exit, Gwen remembered. “Isn’t everyone going into Rome now?”

  “Yes, but I can visit the piazzas tomorrow, dear. Let’s get you upstairs.”

  Gwen forced herself to stop hyperventilating. I’m okay, I’m okay, she repeated like a mantra until she almost believed it. When they reached their room, she splashed some cold water on her face and urged her aunt to go out. “Please, Aunt Bea,” she said. “It’s just the jet lag. I’ve never flown out of the country before, so I’m not used to it. You go have fun on the town with your friends.”

  Her aunt gazed longingly at the window, but said, “I shouldn’t go anywhere if you’re—”

  “I’m fine,” Gwen said. I’m okay, I’m okay! And, though it took a full ten minutes of insisting, she finally got Beatrice out the door. Then she collapsed into bed, too exhausted even for fear to trespass on her dreams.

  The next morning, Gwen awoke with a resolute, refreshed air and a dogged determination to put yesterday’s lengthy travel day behind her. She fully intended to get up, get dressed and get a jump on the Friday sightseeing. Rome must be explored, and today was the day to do it.

  She slipped out of bed and, being mindful of not wanting to wake Aunt Beatrice, she did her flexibility stretches in careful silence. She then tiptoed to the small desk in the corner and pulled out one of the stationery pages provided, running her fingertip across the lettering at the top that said Hotel Adriatica in flowing gold script. Uncapping a nearby pen, she studiously compared the names of the most famous places in the city with the planned sites on the tour for that day. Breakfast was scheduled to begin in an hour, but then Hans-Josef and Guido were going to drive them on an orientation bus tour to take snapshots of:

  The Colosseum

  Circus Maximus

  Roman Forum

  Pantheon

  St. Peter’s Basilica

  This would be followed by a guided expedition through the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel around noon.

  Gwen wrote these down on the paper and further consulted the itinerary. There was a break at this point for a late lunch and, if desired, a return to the hotel. For those hardier souls, the bus would drop them off at Piazza Navona and they could wander around independently from there until dinnertime. Gwen referred to her Viva, Roma! guidebook and made note of any other classical Roman landmarks or well-known sites. She then added:

  Trevi Fountain

  Spanish Steps

  Piazza Barberini

  Tiber River

  Borghese Gallery

  There was more she could include, of course, but this looked fairly comprehensive. She studied the paper, regarding the places written on it much like she did the tasks on her classroom checklist at the start and end of every school year. These sites were objectives to attack and then cross off with a sense of satisfaction. She would see each one, get through it in a timely manner and then move on to the next. By the day’s end, she would have tackled Rome thoroughly and efficiently. She’d finally know something of Europe!

  She was in the process of drawing empty boxes next to each site, so she’d have the perfect place to put her check marks, when she heard a rustling sound behind her. She turned and saw her aunt. “Good morning, Aunt B—”

  “Oh, my dear. What in the name of the Holy Roman Empire are you doing?” Beatrice asked her, staring at Gwen’s sheet with an expression of astonishment.

  Gwen smiled and held up her carefully printed list. “Just writing down the sites I know we’ll want to see.” She pointed to the tour itinerary. “Tomorrow there’s that big excursion to Pompeii and the optional trip to the isle of Capri. We need to get this Rome stuff taken care of today.”

  Her aunt, still very much in sleep mode, rubbed her forehead and shot Gwen a perplexed look. “Taken care of, huh?” She sighed. “Today is just an introduction to Rome, so you’ll know a little of what the city holds in store. It’s just the beginning... .” Her eyes focused on Gwen’s sheet of paper again. “Reading your list has exhausted me, Gwennie. I may have to go back to bed.”

  Gwen laughed, thinking this was a joke. Aunt Bea, however, wasn’t kidding. She shuffled to her bed, climbed in and promptly fell asleep for another forty minutes, making it to breakfast with only enough time to grab a Nutella-slathered bread roll and an espresso en route to the tour bus. Gwen didn’t consider this a particularly healthful morning meal (rather unlike her own muesli with milk) but, as her aunt sat beside her in the bus’s big cushy seat and sent her several concerned glances in between sips of strong coffee, Gwen had sense enough not to say so aloud.

  With her list folded and tucked into her front pocket, Gwen faced off with Rome for the duration of the morning. She dutifully trailed after Hans-Josef as he pointed out the architectural highlights of the Colosseum, helped them to visualize the area that was once the Circus Maximus (it was pretty much just a lot of empty space now), talked them through the remains of the Forum and Pantheon as Guido slowed the bus so they could take pictures. Finally, they arrived at St. Peter’s and headed toward the Vatican Museums and the Sistine Chapel, where they’d had a special group reservation, thank goodness, and were able to avoid the hideous tourist lines.

  Much of the time, though, Gwen felt unequal to appreciating these sites. While she knew a fair number of academic facts about each and could recite a few more, if pressed, thanks to her guidebook (“Construction of the present St. Peter’s Basilica, over the site of the old Constantinian basilica, began on April 18, 1506 and was completed on November 18, 1626 ...”), and while she certainly had no trouble imagining the ancient Romans marching around in the crumbling ruins, she still found herself a bit disappointed in her own lack of connection with Rome. Blamed herself, of course—not the city—for not being more blown away by it.

  She stood in the jet stream of tourists flowing through the Sistine Chapel, all of them oohing and ahhing, praising it in about fifty different languages. She stared up at the famous painted ceiling where Michelangelo’s Adam—who was noticeably naked—was touching index fingers with God and, apparently, being given “Life.” She exhaled, trying to hide her mystification. What on Earth were people feeling (that she was missing) when they saw this? She wanted to like it and, certainly, it was a highly decorated ceiling with many pretty and even evocative scenes, yet they didn’t strike her as any more inspiring than a well-painted mural by a group of art students. What was it about classical art that spoke to people?

  As for the building itself, it was kind of dark, even a bit dank. Gwen swiveled around in disorientation when she heard some guy with a heavy Texan accent say, “Don’t’cha think his place coulda used some larger windows, Marge?” A few nearby tourists gasped but, though she never would’ve admitted a thought like that aloud for fear of sounding uncultured, she had to agree with the Texan.

  She sighed. Well, anyway, now she’d seen it and, if ever Richard or one of her colleagues brought up the subject in conversation, she could speak somewhat knowledgeably about it. She pulled out her list and checked “Sistine Chapel” off of it just as soon as she got enough light to see the paper clearly.

  Aunt Bea, who’d been one of the oohers and ahhers, caught her in the act. Her aunt crossed her arms and gave Gwen a displeased groan. “Put that silly thing away, Gwennie. You’re missing everything good.”

  Gwen tried to disagree with her. She’d seen every site so far. She’d paid attention to every single stone arch or broken pillar their guide had pointed out to them, even when she didn’t understand his avid enthusiasm for it. Intellectually, she accepted the importance of these sites as being historical treasures. Emotionally, though, she felt a bit cool toward them still. They left her with a feeling similar to that of caressing cold marble. A beautiful statue—like the Pietà in St. Peter’s—was something one appreciated from a dist
ance, but visitors didn’t touch it, and it would chill their hands if they did.

  Guido dropped them off at the Piazza Navona, where Hans-Josef instructed those of them staying downtown on good luncheon spots. The rest of the people returned with Hans-Josef, via Guido-driven bus, to the hotel.

  The honeymooners—Sally and Peter—who’d been trailing Gwen and Bea all morning, were, thankfully, tired and went back. So did Hester, Connie Sue and Alex. The Britsicles—Louisa and Cynthia—disappeared into a boutique. Dr. Louie and Davis went shopping as well. Zenia, Matilda and the British-Indian father-and-son team trooped off as a foursome to see an art gallery.

  “The Borghese has the best collection of Bernini sculptures anywhere,” Zenia had insisted to Bea and Gwen when the group was about to disperse. “A few great paintings, too. They’ve got a Titian, a Raphael, a Rubens. Come with us, you two! You shouldn’t miss it.”

  Gwen would’ve done it. She could’ve crossed the Borghese Gallery off her list right then and there. But her aunt said no. She said there was somewhere else she wanted to take Gwen next.

  So, after a late and very quick pasta lunch at a little café, Aunt Bea hired a taxi to take them to a place that wasn’t a major site at all—at least not one Gwen had heard about—Santa Maria in Cosmedin.

  “Uh, what’s the historical background of this ... church?” Gwen asked, stepping out of the taxi and feverishly flipping through her Viva, Roma! guidebook for more information. But her aunt didn’t need reference material to answer. Bea had this site committed to memory.

  “La Bocca della Verità is here,” her aunt told her. “The Mouth of Truth. It’s well-known in certain circles. Some think of it as a marble representation of the god of the Tiber River. Others consider it more of a lie-detecting oracle. Your uncle and I came to Rome many years ago and visited it then.” She laughed as if recalling some inside joke. “There’s a famous scene in the film Roman Holiday where Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn stop here, too.”