Sisterchicks in Gondolas!

by Robin Jones Gunn

  “I hope we find more people who speak English.”

  “I have an Italian phrase book if we get stuck. Don’t worry, Sue. We’ll find our way.”

  Sue didn’t look convinced. At that point, I was feeling comfortable enough for both of us. Energized, actually. Venice was new to me yet somehow sweetly, faintly familiar. I felt as if a part of me that had been hibernating for decades was awakening and beckoning me to open my eyes wide to all that was around me.

  We approached an open area—a piazza—and headed for the shade of a scruffy-looking tree with a generous canopy of leaves. It was the first tree I recalled seeing so far. I smiled at the brave tree, imagining how it must have sprung from the uneven cobblestones hundreds of years ago, and the inhabitants had celebrated the fledgling by declaring a ban on building within a modest fifty-yard radius of the welcome intruder. It was a protected tree. Rare and honored. And all who gathered under the shade of its branches must surely appreciate it for its singularity.

  Sue pointed to a café on the corner. “Do you suppose that’s it? Is that Camp-o Apo—whatever it was?”

  The curved letters painted on the outside of the storefront read “Paolo’s.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I looked around. The walkways radiated from this hub in four different directions.

  “Maybe he knows where we can find Campo Apostoli.” I nodded toward a gentleman in a dark suit. He was seated on one of the park benches beneath the tree’s shade, reading a newspaper.

  “Are you actually thinking of going over there to ask him, Jenna?”

  “Actually, I was thinking you should go ask him.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  Moistening her lips, she looked at me and in a low voice said, “I asked you for this, didn’t I? When you invited me to come, I said I would join you in this insane undertaking as long as you agreed to throw me in the deep end, and that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “You can do this, you know.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “We’ll find out, now, won’t we?”

  With her determined chin leading the way, Sue took small steps toward the stranger. I followed close behind, thinking how much I admired my brother’s wife. She was a strong, courageous, and underestimated woman. I was thrilled when she had caught a glimpse of those qualities in herself and, without my prompting, had made the “deep end” request before we had left home.

  I figured this was my first chance to make good on that promise.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Sue said, and the man lifted his eyes to study us. She spoke slowly and loudly, as if he could understand her better if she treated him as someone who was hard of hearing. “Do you know where we might find a place called Camp-o A-po-stal-ee?”

  He looked at Sue as if she were a strange little red-feathered bird that had landed on the cobblestones before him and now stood there helplessly peeping with her head cocked.

  Reaching for the e-mail in my hand, Sue pointed to the words and stated, “Camp-o A-po-stal-ee.”

  An expression of recognition on the man’s face was followed by a nod. “Qui,” he said, pointing to the bench and making a circle with his finger around the small plaza area.

  “Kwee?” Sue repeated his single, definitive word.

  “Si. Qui. Campo Apostoli. Qui.”

  “This is Campo Apostoli?” I asked, putting together the pieces. “This little park is Campo Apostoli?”

  Now he was the one tilting his head and looking at me like a curious bird. “Si,” he said. “Qui. Campo Apostoli.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said. “I remember now. A campo is like a plaza. This must be it then.”

  Giving him her sweetest smile, Sue tried out her first Italian word. “Grawt-see.”

  He gave her a grimaced response.

  “It’s my accent, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. She tried again. “Grat-see.”

  The man held up his hand with all his fingers pinched together at the tips and touched the edge of his lips. He spoke in slow, exaggerated Italian and measured out the word, “Gra-tsye,” effortlessly, putting a spin on his “r.” Again he repeated the word with the accent on the first syllable and continued to expressively use his hand. “Gra-tsye.”

  Sue tried again, this time involving her hand in the process, as if she were trying to pluck the word from the edge of her lips. “Graw-tsye.”

  The man turned to me, as if we were students in his open-air classroom, and it was my turn to recite the morning lesson. He didn’t know that my Midwest background, along with my fascination with accents, would make this an easier task for me than for Sue.

  “Grazie.” I found the word carried a familiar feeling on my tongue, even though it had been ages since I’d last tried it.

  “Bella!” he declared with a clap of his hands.

  “You little show-off!” Sue teased.

  A loud clanging sound echoed from Paolo’s café in the corner of the piazza. We turned to watch as a stocky man in a white shirt rolled up a metal awning. He then went to work, removing chairs that had been stacked during the night and placing them around the outdoor tables.

  “Looks like the café is opening. Do you want to wait over there? We can sit at a table and order some breakfast,” I suggested.

  Sue nodded, and I said “ciao” to our gracious teacher.

  He repeated a long sentence in Italian that I hoped was polite.

  “What does ‘chow’ mean?” Sue asked. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “‘Hello,’ ‘good-bye,’ ‘see you later.’”

  “You really should do all the conversing, Jenna.”

  “Why? Because I can say grazie and ciao? Those are the only words I know.”

  “And camp-o. That’s three times as many as I know. And people here understand you. They just look at me like I’m the most pitiful thing they’ve seen in a month of Sundays.”

  “No they don’t.”

  I stepped up to the counter of the open café. In front of us was a freezer and under the frosted dome were several shallow metal bins of something that I felt happy to see after all these years. Gelato. Rich, creamy, dense Italian ice cream.

  “Buon giorno,” the man in the white shirt greeted us.

  “Buon giorno,” I repeated. “Two gelato?” I held up two fingers like a peace sign.

  “Due,” he said, instructing me by holding up his thumb and forefinger and pointing them to the side like a gun. I remembered then how Italians counted, always starting with their thumb as “one.”

  “Si, due gelato, per favore.” I turned to Sue. “What flavor do you want?”

  “What do you mean, ‘flavor’? What are you doing? You’re carrying on now in full sentences. I’m lost.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Gelato. Italian ice cream. The world’s best ice cream, to be precise.”

  “For breakfast?”

  “Sure, why not? We’re on vacation. We can eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if we want.”

  “Okay,” Sue said slowly. I realized how quickly I could take charge. I had promised Sue I wouldn’t overpower her on this trip. Being a single mom for so many years had placed me in the role of the designated leader almost every day. I was entering a new season of life; it was time to pull back. Relax.

  “Would you like ice cream or something else?” I asked Sue.

  “No, ice cream is fine. It’s milk, right? I’ll tell myself it’s a breakfast drink, only frozen.”

  “What flavor do you want?”

  “I don’t know. What flavors do they have?”

  I knew I didn’t want to try this man’s patience so I suggested chocolate.

  “Cioccolato?” he said, going to work with the metal scooping paddle in his hand, sliding the server into the creamy chocolate.

  “Chalk-o-lot-o?” Sue repeated. “Well, I’m happy to know that the word ‘chocolate’ is so similar in our two languages. That could be the only word I manage to remember all week!
”

  “Then it’s a good thing it’s one of the more essential words.” I reached for several euros to pay the waiter. “And sorry about running ahead of you there. You will let me know when I’m getting too bossy, won’t you?”

  “Jenna, that wasn’t bossy. Don’t worry; I’ll let know you when you’re bossy. Not that I think you will be. I just didn’t realize you were going to start carrying on in complete Italian paragraphs with every man we met within our first hour in Venice. You move fast, girl!”

  I laughed, and Sue gave me “the smile.” The one with which she looks directly at me with her warm, brown eyes, and everything about her expression and posture says, “We’re sisters. Sisters by marriage. Sisters of the heart. Sisters in a spirit of irrevocable bonding. That’s not going to change. Not now. Not ever. But even if we weren’t sisters, I’d still like you. I’d still want to be your friend.”

  I held my cup of chocolate gelato and fought back an urge to give way to a flood of tears.

  I know. How pathetic, right? Crying over frozen milk. Actually, even though I’m sure a touch of jet lag was involved, I think the real reason I wanted to cry was because of the way Sue accepted me just the way I was. That had not always been the case. We had experienced a long history of family disconnection, which is why I still found her acceptance of me so startling. Every time she looked at me like that I felt I was being offered a tender gift in the second season of life. And for every woman, but especially, I think, for single moms, friendship is such a welcome gift.

  “Chock-o-lat-o,” Sue repeated as she headed for one of the outdoor tables. “I have to remember that word.”

  “You will,” I said, pulling myself together. “You’ll remember this.” The comment might have been more for me than for Sue. I had a feeling I would remember this morning for the rest of my life.

  Two

  Parking my luggage beside one of the outdoor tables of Paolo’s café, I sat down and watched Sue take her first taste of gelato.

  Her eyes opened wide. She sat up straight and looked at me as if I had just fulfilled some long-forgotten secret wish of hers.

  “Sweet peaches, Jenna! You weren’t kidding about this being the world’s best ice cream.” She went for another taste. “What do they put in this stuff? It’s fabulous.”

  “I know.” I let another spoonful melt on my tongue. “It has something to do with how they make gelato in small batches with milk instead of cream and how the process doesn’t use a lot of air.”

  “I think I have a new project,” Sue said. This declaration coming from the scrapbook queen was not surprising. The only surprise was that the announcement arrived earlier in the trip than I would have expected. But then, she had been looking for something to organize since she knew I was an unreliable subject.

  “What’s your new project?”

  “I’m going to try every flavor of Italian gelato at least once while we’re here.”

  “Excellent project. Will you be needing an assistant?”

  “You know it! How many flavors did you see in the freezer here? Six? Maybe eight? I think we should try a new flavor every day. Every morning, if we wanted!” Sue laughed at the whimsy of her goal.

  “You know this isn’t the only gelato stand in Venice,” I said, expanding her vision. “And not all of them have the same flavors. Soon you are going to find out that you’re a woman with many gelato options in Italy.”

  Sue shrugged with cunning. “I’ve never been one to turn away from a challenge. You know that. Remember, this trip is all about jumping into the deep end. If testing all the gelato in Venice requires that I work morning, noon, and night, well, so be it.”

  “So be it,” I agreed.

  We finished our gelato, exchanging only happy “mmm’s” and knowing nods.

  I leaned back, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. The morning air felt cool and calming and was tinged with the faintest scent of fresh coffee brewing somewhere nearby. Church bells chimed the glad hour, calling the faithful to worship.

  “When is Steph supposed to meet us?” Sue asked.

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “And what time do the men arrive?”

  “Not until tonight. Around six. You saw the final e-mail with the schedule, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “We can relax, Sue. We have all day to get organized.”

  “I don’t know if I remember how to relax.”

  “Would another round of gelato help?”

  Sue laughed. “Maybe later.”

  We settled back, watching the foot traffic move down the Strada Nuova. The thoroughfare hummed with Sabbath comers and goers. Two older women strolled past our table, leisurely walking arm in arm, possibly on their way to or from church. Both wore flattering skirts that skimmed the top of their knees. They had on silky blouses that caught the morning breeze and billowed around the shoulders. Slim-styled leather shoes covered their tanned feet. Classy women.

  One of the shop owners stepped outside his door and called out something to the women. They turned to greet him. He leaned against the side of the building, looking like a forty-five-year-old rebel without a cause. A motorcycle might have helped accessorize his missing cause, but motorized vehicles weren’t allowed on these streets. Two girls came skipping in our direction. They looked to be about eight or nine and could have been twins. Both were dressed in black-and-white striped, knit dresses and both wore their dark hair up in bobbing ponytails. Arms linked, they skipped in unison, giggling at some shared secret.

  Oblivious to us, our luggage, and our curious gazes, the young innocents entered Paolo’s. Emerging a moment later, they worked together to open a packet of gum and judiciously tore the first stick in half to share it.

  Sue nodded in their direction. “Aren’t they the cutest? Sisters, I’m guessing. Sunday treats all around.”

  She sighed, as if beginning to relax for the first time since she had left her house. “This is really something, Jenna. I keep wondering when I’m going to wake up.”

  “It’s not a dream. You’re really in Venice.”

  Sue looked down as a tiptoeing pigeon patrolled the ground around our table in search of morning crumbs. Without a word, she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. The usual concern crinkles that ran in dipped lines across her forehead vanished.

  “It’s good to see you like this,” I told her.

  “See me like what?” She opened her eyes and touched the side of her mouth. “Do I have chocolate on my face?”

  “No, you don’t have chocolate on your face. You look like goodness and mercy are hot on your trail.”

  Sue gave me a peculiar look. “Goodness and mercy?”

  I didn’t know what had sparked the image of invisible goodness and untouchable mercy. Was it the skipping sisters? Sue playfully looked behind her chair. “I don’t see them. Maybe they’re following you.”

  “I certainly hope so.” The constant flow of pedestrians and the absence of wheels and engines were becoming more noticeable as another wave of church bells filled the air with their resonating chimes.

  Another woman walking toward the café caught our waiter’s eye, and he called out a greeting. The slim young woman wore sunglasses and had her blond hair twisted up in a clip with one long strand trailing over her shoulder in an artful curve. She stopped to chat with our waiter, leaning forward so he could make a kissing gesture on her right cheek and then her left. He continued to talk during the effortless greeting.

  The two of them spoke for a few moments, he nodded, and then the young woman strode in our direction, looking at us inquisitively.

  “Buon giorno.” Her greeting was calm and direct. “Are you Jenna?”

  “Yes. You must be Steph.”

  “I am. How was your flight?”

  “Great. This is Sue.”

  The three of us shook hands politely.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Steph said.

  Sue spoke slowly, as if try
ing to make sure Steph understood her. “We-are-glad-you-speak-English.”

  When Steph didn’t respond right away, Sue added, “Your-English-is-very-good.”

  Steph removed her sunglasses with a bemused expression on her face. “Thanks. I’m from Kansas. I was raised on the stuff.”

  “Oh! I thought you lived here.”

  “I do. I’m a student.” Steph casually pulled up a chair and gave us a few more details about the overseas study program she was participating in and about her uncle who owned the apartment and had hired her to handle the rentals for English-speaking guests.

  Our attentive waiter delivered a demure cup of dark coffee for Steph. On the side of the cup’s saucer were two uneven cubes of raw sugar.

  “Would either of you care for a cappuccino?” Steph asked. “Paolo here makes the best cappuccinos on this side. This is one of my favorite morning stops.”

  “Sure,” we agreed.

  Steph held up her thumb and forefinger the way I’d seen Paolo do earlier as she ordered two cappuccinos for us in Italian.

  He responded to Steph, speaking in Italian but all the while looking at us with a grin.

  “He wants to know if you would like some more gelato to go with the cappuccinos.”

  Sue and I exchanged sheepish expressions and shook our heads. Our breakfast secret had been discovered.

  Steph said something to Paolo in Italian and then turned her head as he walked away and called back a response to her over his shoulder.

  “I hope you don’t mind being treated like Italian women now.” Steph’s mischievous eyes reflected how much she loved her life in Italy. “I told Paolo you’re going to be here for a while and that you’re not just one-day tourists passing through. He’ll watch for you. Every time you stop here for a gelato or cappuccino, he’s going to flirt with you. It’s tradition. Makes older Italian men feel young, I think.”

  I didn’t know about Sue, but Paolo’s cultural expressions already were making me feel a little younger, although I wasn’t quick to admit that to beautiful, young Steph. One day, years from now, she would know what I was feeling. For now it was gracious of her to spread her canopy of youthfulness so that it covered Sue and me. “So, what flavor gelato did you two have this morning?”