A sheet of paper whooshes under the door.
UFFIZI TOUR 9 A.M. SHARP.
8 A.M. IN THE LOBBY.
DON’T BE LATE.
Annoyance returns like a geyser, and I shred the paper into a pile of tiny confetti pieces on the floor.
The rumbling sound of what can only be the second coming of Pompeii jolts me awake. I sit up in the gray early-morning light of the hotel room, the duvet a tangle at the foot of the bed, and try to locate the source of the horrible noise. If jet lag has a noise, it sounds like this.
Of course, Riya sleeps through it in her bed near the window. A truck could drive across her head and she wouldn’t wake up. She’s always been like that. Whenever we’d camp in Tahoe over the years, every snap of a twig would leave me wide-eyed, pulling my sleeping bag to my chin, but Riya would snore on next to me, her black hair a bramble across the pillow. This trip will prove no different, I’m sure.
I pad across the room and peer out in time to see a street sweeper make its way down the empty street. We appear to be the only souls awake. Then it hits me. I’m in Florence. Italy. It sends an eager shiver through me. I check my phone and notice Dad’s texts with Riya last night. Wow, I must have really been out. I do a quick calculation of the time change. Florence is nine hours ahead and it’s 4:10 a.m. here so it must be 7:10 p.m. at home. Dad would be just finishing dinner.
I text him: just woke up to a street sweeper that sounds like you snoring only like fifty times louder.
A minute later he writes: Must feel homey. I just heated up one of your frozen enchilada trays!
Me: don’t eat the whole thing.
Dad: I just might. You made me too much food!
I suddenly ache for my own bed and a street without sweepers and enchiladas that have black and pinto beans and the guacamole I make from scratch. I probably won’t be able to find a single enchilada in all of Italy.
Me: make sure you take the foil off before you put it in the microwave.
Dad: Not my first enchilada!
Me: okay. i’m going to try to sleep again.
Dad: Good luck! I’m going to turn in early tonight. Your exciting old dad will be out by eight …
Me: bye, love you.
Dad: Love you back.
He’s not joking about the sleeping thing. Ever since Mom left last January, he sleeps a lot. Like maybe he’ll wake up one day and she won’t be dating our dentist and acting like we should all just be happy to go to family therapy together, be happy she’s “found” herself.
We hadn’t known she was lost.
I try to go back to sleep, but a couple of hours later, I can’t stand it anymore, so I slip on my glasses, the yellow sundress, and my Tevas, and head downstairs. Neel is drinking coffee in the small breakfast area of the hotel. He reads a newspaper, his brow knitted.
“You’re up early,” I say, checking my phone. 6:42.
“Some monstrous machine woke me at four. It was touch and go after that.”
“Same.” I browse the breakfast table—a selection of breads and pastries, some baskets of butters and jams—but mostly use it as an excuse to study Neel. For someone who couldn’t sleep, he seems fresh and alert in a pale green polo shirt and the pants and loafers from last night. Maybe it’s the espresso. “Where’d you get that?” I point to his cup.
He flags a woman in a crisp white shirt and motions to his coffee and then to me. She nods and hurries from the room.
I slip into a seat next to him. “Thanks.” He returns to his paper, the Guardian. “Anything interesting?”
“Probably not to you.” He sips his espresso.
“Wow, big assumption for so early in the morning.” The woman sets down my own steaming cup and the smell of it makes my eyes cross. “Um, do you have milk?” She motions to the breakfast station. After pouring as much milk as the tiny cup will hold and sipping it down (strong!) to pour in some more, I return to the table.
Neel is watching me, his paper folded in half. “I’m reading about the economic impact of refugees in the UK. I’m studying economics at uni. I’m sure Riya’s mentioned it.”
“Riya doesn’t really talk about you.” I enjoy telling him this more than I probably should. “Are you interested in the refugees themselves or just their economic impact? Your country has an interesting history on that front, as you know.”
He blinks. “As does yours.”
“Fair enough.” I stir sugar into my coffee with a tiny spoon and then go in search of some pastries, bringing a full plate back to our table. “It seems like it’s a constant balancing act between the human rights issue and the economic one, don’t you think? And I always lean toward the human rights side of things, but that’s just me.” I take a big bite of a croissant. He blinks again, not bothering to hide his surprise, and I grin at him through the pastry. I actually wrote a paper on this exact topic for AP History last year, but he doesn’t have to know that. He can think I just pulled that one right out of the Italian air.
He leans forward in his seat. “Riya tells me you’re quite the history aficionado.”
“I like older things.” A heated flush follows the words out of my mouth. What did I just say? What if he thinks I meant him?
He considers me for a moment, and I try to focus on eating enough croissant to offset the thick coffee. That and not making eye contact. Finally, he snaps his paper back open. “Well, today will be full of older things, I should think.” Just when I might be in the clear, he leans in, adding, “At the minimum, I’ll be along for the ride.”
As we hurry left on Via del Corso, Neel points out the arch in Piazza della Repubblica, but Riya just grumbles something about how he could have woken her up sooner. “I texted you,” he tells her. “But you turned off your mobile.”
Glowering, she marches on, mumbling about espresso. She didn’t have time for coffee, and the lack of it fuels her sour mood. We turn left again onto Via dei Calzaiuoli, passing a string of shops I don’t recognize. Furla. Wolford. Coin. When Riya slows in front of Coin, her face full of longing, I hang back to wait for her.
“It’s not going anywhere,” Neel says over his shoulder. “We’re late.”
“I didn’t book this tour,” she tells me.
“We can shop soon,” I insist. “And I can’t wait to see the Uffizi.”
Her expression softens until Neel shouts at us to hurry again.
As we follow him toward the Piazza della Signoria, I try to drink in every detail of Florence around me, even at this fast-forward speed. After a few more minutes, Riya calls, “I need coffee. There’s a shop right—”
“You should have gotten up earlier,” Neel cuts her off, and picks up the pace.
She motions as if she’s strangling him. “If I wanted this much cardio,” she grumbles, “I would find an Italian spin class!”
“What’s the big deal?” I hang back with her. “You barely used to drink a mocha.”
“Well, now I drink double espressos,” she snaps.
Grouchy much? I keep silent and trudge on after Neel. Soon we’re facing the Palazzo Vecchio, the Uffizi looming next to us. The line already snakes along the massive columned building, but Neel hurries past it. “Private tour,” he tells one of the museum staff near the entrance, and she points him in the right direction.
I nudge Riya. “Private tour, swanky-swanky.”
She exaggerates wiping the sweat from her forehead. “Is sweaty the new swanky? Seriously, next time you guys have to come wake me up. It’s bad enough Neel hijacked our day with a nine o’clock tour, but now I’m all sweaty and gross.”
“So, just the sweat is out of the ordinary, then?” Neel quips before moving off to find our guide.
She glares after him. “I swear I will throw him in the Arno and not feel remorse. Him and his old-man pants.”
“You’re fun this morning. But you don’t look gross,” I assure her. Actually, she’s adorable in her purple dress and belt from yesterday. I take a deep breath and look ar
ound the piazza. I feel better today, fresher, even with the early wake-up, and I have the buzz I get in my stomach when I’m about to go to a museum. And not just any museum. The Uffizi in Florence! Home of pieces by Michelangelo, Caravaggio, Botticelli, and so many other mega-famous artists.
Riya rubs her temples. “Would it have been so hard to stop for a coffee?”
Let it go about the coffee. I tuck a loose strand of hair from my ponytail behind my ear, sweat already forming at my hairline. “I don’t feel sorry for you. I’ve been up since the crack of street cleaner.”
She eyes me. “And you think I’m fun in the morning?” When I shrug, her voice softens. “This is Neel’s fault. He’s driving me crazy.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”
“I promise Neel won’t get to run our whole schedule. This trip is for us.” She drops her gaze, a pained look creeping across her features. “I know we need to talk.”
“I know, too.” My phone rings, the name Stephanie Byrd emerging on the screen.
Riya notices. “You can pick up. We have time.”
I shake my head, slipping the unanswered phone into my backpack. “I’m really looking forward to this tour.”
Riya holds my gaze. “You know what would be cute? You should change the caller ID for your parents to Papa Byrd and Mama Byrd. Then you could be Baby Byrd.”
“Do you remember that book we used to read in preschool?” I ask her. “That one where the baby bird wanders around looking for its mom?”
“Are You My Mother? I loved that book.”
“Right. It sees the dog and the cow and stuff and keeps asking, ‘Are you my mother?’”
Riya laughs. “I think it even asks a plane.”
I nod. “I’ve been feeling like that baby bird for months.”
Riya glances toward the hidden phone in my backpack. “Abby—”
“Okay, ladies. Tour time.” Neel returns with our guide in tow. Matteo—a squat, middle-aged Italian man with a wild amount of reddish-brown hair. He’s like a suit-wearing grown-up version of one of Rafael’s little cherubs. We start our tour through the lavish space of the Uffizi, the hours melting into the past as we roam the different rooms—international Gothic, the light and dark of the early Renaissance, Filippo Lippi, Leonardo da Vinci—one recognizable name after the next. Seeing them all in one place catches my breath in my chest. Matteo is a patient and informative guide and doesn’t seem to mind the dozens of questions I ask, even random ones like, “Filippo Lippi married a nun, right?”
Studying another painting commissioned by the Medici family, Neel comments, “The concept of patronage is so interesting; I mean, how many of these works would exist without the elite class financing them?”
Riya groans and wanders off into the next room. I hurry to catch her. “You okay?”
“Sure, just kind of want to take it all in.” That’s not what she’s doing. I know she has always preferred the osmosis approach to any experience, to soak it all in instead of focusing on facts, but she’s visibly annoyed at Neel’s presence and clearly letting it get to her.
We continue on, finally stopping in front of The Birth of Venus. Matteo motions to the famous curves of her body as she stands demurely on her shell. When he finishes talking, he steps aside so we can study the painting. Neel leans into me. “You must be especially interested in the role of antiquity in Renaissance art.”
I try to see the brushstrokes Matteo just mentioned. “I am, yes.”
He peers at the Botticelli. “It’s impressive when a young person values history. Usually, teenagers are too self-absorbed to see the importance.”
“You’re a teenager,” I remind him, but he’s moved away to ask Matteo another question about the meaning of the Zephyrs in the painting, so I drift over to where Riya stands studying a smaller painting on a far wall. Adopting a fake British accent, I murmur, “Speaking of patronage, your cousin can be quite the patronizing arse.” We break into the sort of giggle fit that prompts Matteo to hurry us into the next room.
Eventually, we make our way out of the Uffizi through the Vasarian Corridor, and Matteo’s voice lowers into a dramatic hush. “We’re now truly walking in the footsteps of the Medici family. This corridor linked them to their private palace, the Palazzo Pitti,” he explains. My skin tingles as I study the portraits lining the walls, their faces stern and powerful. This place feels haunted, though I don’t say so to Riya. I tease her about her fierce belief in ghosts, but in places like these I start believing in them, too. These people were powerful and greedy and rich. And some of them, if you believe Matteo’s tour info, died in pretty sketchy ways. Those kinds of spirits hang around. I stop, closing my eyes for a moment, waiting for that history shiver I sometimes get in places like this one.
“Boo!” Riya jumps at me from behind. I start, letting out a little yelp. “Gotcha. This place is totally haunted.”
“Oh, yes,” Matteo murmurs solemnly, coming up alongside us. “It is haunted.”
Outside, Matteo helps us skip another line before we step into the green expanse of the Boboli Gardens. He gives us a quick history of the gardens and I hear, just in the edges of it, the rehearsed quality of his speech. Mopping his brow with a white handkerchief, he smiles. “Please, enjoy the gardens at your leisure.” He waves us on, tucking the cloth back into his suit pocket. We take a few uncertain steps, used to being pulled in his wake the last few hours, but he is checking his watch, off to his next tour, and we’re suddenly alone.
The Boboli Gardens spread out around me, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve just stepped back in time into the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It’s hard not to. Once, Riya tried to help me make a replica of the hanging gardens in my backyard, but we accidentally flooded the deck when we tried to re-create the various waterfalls the gardens supposedly had. Dad wasn’t too happy when he came out to read a book in his gravity chair only to find it partly submerged in a pool of muddy water.
Riya reads my mind. “Remember when we flooded the deck?”
“Dad turned three different shades of red.”
She grimaces. “Yeah, he wasn’t a happy daddy that day.”
He’s not a happy daddy now.
I almost didn’t come on this trip it’s been so bad. When Mom first left, he wore the same jeans and flannel shirt for two weeks until I forced him to change. Then he got a haircut and went back to his job as a city planner. At night, though, he sat in front of the TV watching documentaries and golf. And he doesn’t even play golf. I did all the laundry and cooking for two months before he started to realize we needed things like groceries and toilet paper. With my bagging job at the Blue Market, it was easy for me to bring that stuff home, but it was like he didn’t even notice. He’s been better the last couple of months, but I hope he’s okay with me gone.
I shake the thought from my head. I’m in Italy, I remind myself. I need to focus on these beautiful gardens. After about five minutes of taking it all in, I break our wandering silence. “The Hanging Gardens of Babylon are the only one of the ancient wonders whose location can’t be proven. Some people doubt they existed at all.”
Riya points out a beautiful urn, dripping with green vines. “I know. You may have mentioned it once or twice. Or a thousand times.”
I give her a playful shove. “Well, I’m mentioning it again and pleading relevance. Look at this place. You did this on purpose. This is our first wonder, right? This garden.”
She pulls me to a nearby bench. “Okay, I know how your mind works, so I’m going to say this now. I didn’t plan any wonders. Part of this trip was so we could create new wonders, but I want them to happen naturally in each of the cities we go to. Maybe it will be this garden, or maybe it will be something else.”
I pull off a sandal and rub the ball of my foot. Even my supposed walking sandals aren’t holding up on all these cobblestones and uneven ground. “Well, this heat will not be one of my wonders.”
&nbs
p; Neel appears on the path near us. “Let’s go, ladies. No time for sitting around.”
I whisper in Riya’s ear. “Your cousin will definitely not be one, either.”
She nods. “I told you. The Arno. Splash.”
Later that evening, Neel continues to prove this. “Seriously, he’s trying to kill us.” I lean heavily on the stone edge of the bridge, watching the sunset turn the water of the Arno into the blue-purple of a bruise. Every cell in my body throbs with our day—the Uffizi, the gardens, a walking tour of Florence, the heat a constant press around us. And I’m pretty sure I’m still sticky with jet lag. At one point in the late afternoon, Riya just plopped down in the middle of a cobbled street and refused to get up until Neel found us some shade and a plate of actual food.
“Don’t bridges often have evil trolls lurking beneath them?” She stretches her arms over her head. “Where’s ours?”
I scan the crowd around us on the bridge, pointing out Neel across the way, talking intensely on his cell phone, his voice raised. “Ugh. That call looks pleasant.”
Riya perks up, her eyes following mine. “I bet it’s Moira. She wasn’t thrilled when she didn’t get a grand tour invite.” Speaking of evil, Riya’s expression has a shade of fairy-tale witch as she delivers this choice bit of news.
“Who’s Moira?”
“Misery with a lab coat and a handbag. Neel’s girlfriend. Well, sort of depends on the day you ask him, but I think today she’s his girlfriend.”
I try to ignore the quick twist in my stomach at the word girlfriend. “You’ve met her?”
“A few times. She’s two years older than he is. And you’ll think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not: She’s the worst. Rude, entitled. Leave it to Neel to find someone bossier and more of a know-it-all than he is. She’s not on this grand tour because she’s a grand pain in the—”
The Wonder of Us Page 3