by C. D'Angelo
Honestly, I can use the time to process everything we’ve learned and seen so far and hopefully to avoid the stress about what is to come; the unknown. Rachel does not get along with that well.
“Hey Rach, look at the fountain!” Brian exclaims as we approach the piazza. “It’s the most extravagant fountain I’ve ever seen.” His eyes are wide and his mouth slightly open in awe. I realize that I am looking at him more than the fountain because of his exaggerated response, but once I shift my attention to the striking beauty in front of me, I know why he is reacting in this manner.
“Oh…my…God. It’s—wow. I love it.” The fountain in the middle of the piazza almost leaves me speechless.
“Let’s get closer,” Brian says, walking rapidly to its base.
“Look at that pure white stone. They must have to wash it every day to keep it that clean.” I walk up to the large sculpture, I mean fountain. It is a work of art. Hey, someone designed it.
“Yeah, that’s Brac stone.” He spits out that little fact like he’s telling me the sun is in the sky. Oh yes, it’s totally common knowledge. But he is artistically inclined, not only in the kitchen.
I shoot him a confused look and taunt him just for funsies. “Oh really? So, tell me more, Michelangelo.”
“What? Like I can’t know anything except the perfect slogan for exercise shoes? Maybe I researched a little for this trip as well,” he says while giving a loose hug around my shoulders. “Brac stone is from Croatia and it is a white limestone. It is used all over Europe and is even the stone that was used to build the White House.”
“No way. That’s pretty cool. Thanks for the fun fact, Brian.” I love when his geekiness comes out because it’s rare.
I peer closer and see many coins in the fountain. Hmm, that tradition isn’t just an American one. In fact, there is money from everywhere. I don’t even recognize some of the types of coins. I wonder how many countries’ money is in here.
“Brian, let’s make a wish and throw in some coins. I think we are supposed to throw it over a shoulder though. Do you happen to know that fun fact?” Sarcasm is my specialty. He can’t match that or my nerdiness, unfortunately for me.
“Let me look it up real quick. I wouldn’t want to lead you astray, my darling.” He is pretty good at sarcasm too.
“I’m glad your company paid for international data.”
He keeps looking at his phone. “Always ready to be contacted by them. But hey, we get to use it when we need, so that’s fine.”
“Yes, what would we do if we didn’t know the life altering answer to this coin question?” I laugh and he ignores me because of his focus. Are we blending into one person now?
“Turns out we can do whatever we want. Seems like the biggest consensus is that you would throw in coins with your right hand but over your left shoulder, while your back is facing the fountain. Really though, this guideline is only something people follow for the Trevi fountain in Rome. If you throw coins into that fountain in that way, it is supposed to mean you will return to Rome.”
“So, it doesn’t translate to Genoa fountains? I plan to return so I don’t need to do that whole process, you know. But eh, may as well for fun.” I dig some Euro coins out of my pocket and go through the proper steps. I am a rule follower of course. While I throw them into the fountain, I also make sure to promise myself that I will return to Genoa. For sure. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Brian doesn’t take the same precaution as me and thoughtlessly chucks a few coins in there, straight on, facing it squarely. I hope he at least made a wish. Probably not, though.
I turn to walk away and he grabs my hand to stop me. He looks directly into my eyes and tells me, “You look so pretty standing next to this fountain. I want to make sure I tell you that.”
“I… Thank you.” I lean over to kiss him and my knees weaken with both passion and relief. I realize that I don’t need him to tell me this anymore. I missed it for so long and now that he made a point to say those words again, I love them, but am also okay without them. Don’t get me wrong, a girl likes to hear compliments from her boyfriend, but now the joy isn’t because of desperation.
It is difficult to pull ourselves away from the majestic Brac fountain, but we continue walking in the piazza area. There are bars all around here and they look enticing for a quick rest. But then I remember the no stools and only sitting at a table if paying for it rule in Italy. Being active (yes, I am saying standing is active so sue me) in this culture is fascinating to me, coming from a lazier American culture. But, my desire to sit a second ceases when I see something that peaks my interest.
“Ooh, a knick-knack shop. Let’s go in,” I say on impulse, pulling Brian by his hand.
The store is packed top to bottom with mounds of souvenirs. The Italian flag and its colors are everywhere, on every type of item imaginable. I can buy an Italian themed spoon rest as easy as I can purchase a simple magnet. And even though the famous sculpture David is in Florence, not Genoa, his likeness is on numerous items here.
“Brian,” I blurt out with a chuckle, “look at that apron!” I point as if in fifth grade and continue to giggle. Brian’s eyes grow wide and he looks uncomfortable.
“Um, yeah. That is…something. I love to cook, but don’t think I will be wearing that while I do.”
The bottom half of an apron shows the statue’s nether region in large scale form, which would be in the exact right place to match the apron wearer. Smart idea, but nah. I give the designer credit for creativity, that’s for sure.
“I’m going to get it for Maggie. It’s just dirty enough for her. I want to bring her something for watching Harrison.”
“Yeah, that’s perfect for her.”
Meandering through the narrow aisles, trying not to knock anything off shelves, my eyes spot the card decks. I walk over right away and can’t help but pick them up. Having these special Italian cards in my hands is soothing in some strange way. It feels like a tangible connection to my grandpa. Turning them over, I see there is a description about Italian cards in general, and specifically northern Italian cards of this region of Italy. Skimming the information briefly, because I will surely buy these and read it thoroughly multiple times later, I learn that they originated from a Latin influence and some Italian cards are different than these, depending on the region. Also, they are similar to other European countries’ cards, like France and Germany. Interesting. I have to buy them asap and learn Scopa with these babies.
Walking out of the store with the goodies, I daydream about playing Scopa like a pro. Grandpa would have been proud that I want to learn the game. I won’t disappoint him with the skills I’ll have someday. Maybe I’ll be able to join a pick-up game with the elders in Genoa when, not if, I return. Look at me, getting all social and adventurous.
Walking around a little more, I hit a low in physical energy level again, but strangely enough continue to feel, dare I say it, happy. I’m just tired.
“Brian, let’s get dinner. I think the excitement of the day made time slip away from me, and my stomach.”
“I can eat.”
“Look over there on the corner.” He points and starts walking toward a ristorante.
Seeming perfect for a rest, we get a table, guzzle down what seems like a gallon of sparkling water, and eat focaccia bread from the basket the waiter set down on the tiny square table.
After ordering both of our pesto filled entrees, I blurt out, “Brian, remember I was going to say something more about Grandpa today at Cella’s house?”
“Nope, but I am sure you do have many more details for me so ready, set, go!”
“Yes,” I say, smiling and proceeding. “Did you ever think about why Grandpa was so big on growing his own produce?”
“Not really, now that you say it. So, tell me the analyzed reason, Dr. Rachel.” He takes another chunk of bread and gnaws on it wh
ile I speak, with exaggerated wide eyes.
“Thanks for being interested.” I laugh. “The intent was not only for the unprocessed taste in meals, but also there was a familial lesson probably taught to him about being able to depend on yourself for your food. At least that’s what I have concluded from what I’ve learned this past year. The ability to spend less money on these products was part of the goal for financially poor Italians. The pride in creating nutrition for their own family was ingrained in most Italians of that time.”
“That is surprisingly pretty fascinating. I bet that was how a lot of immigrants felt and why they farmed, even if only in their own back yards. You are making me wonder about my own family. Maybe I even come from a long line of chefs.”
“Maybe. You can investigate it someday. I know a person who can help you,” I say while pointing at myself comically. “I thought you would be interested in this food history. And I’ve never thought of all these things in the past because what child thinks in these terms? I mean, now as an adult, I even wonder how my grandparents afforded to buy a house. No wonder they never liked to leave it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Being poor immigrants in the first half of the 20th century was a feat. Not only did they not have money to go on a vacation, but a trip away from home wasn’t even in their world of ideas. Why would someone leave their cherished and hard-earned residence? And who would watch their home if they left? They couldn’t leave the house dark at night. The burglars would most definitely come.”
“Oh, okay Rachel.” An eye roll follows, of course.
“No, seriously, that was one of the conversations I heard Grandma and Grandpa have with my parents. When Mom and Dad would suggest how nice it would be for them to get away, they shut them down instantly.”
“People used to stay in their own neighborhoods more often than nowadays. I know that from my own grandparents.” He looks behind him to see if the waiter is bringing our food, I think. He must be starving, or is bored out of his mind. Wait, just starving. I can tell by his eye contact. Therapist skills, you know.
“Yup, their place of happiness and comfort was that home I knew so well during all of my childhood. And their pride in home ownership couldn’t be shaken. They worked so hard for that piece of American land. They also loved their Italian neighbors and community, all with their prized grids of vegetable gardens outside, their large white yard statues of birds, happy children, or whatever else, and most importantly, their last name’s initial displayed proudly somewhere on their homes. The big ‘G’ was on Grandma and Grandpa’s mailbox. It was kind of embarrassing, but now I understand it.”
“Well, I’m proud of our apartment, and we don’t even own it. I can see why they were that way. Maybe we will be that way with a house in the future.” He raises his eyebrows and seems to wait for a response.
My heart jumps but my mouth doesn’t open. I look down and manage to say, “Yeah… Many of those traditions and ways of life have been left at their old home. When Grandpa had to move in with us, he was too distraught about Grandma dying to do any gardening, even though Dad gave him full reign of the backyard. I don’t want to think about that time period.” I shake my head like I can shake the thought out through my ears.
Brian lets both lines of discussion fade away. “Let’s think of how wonderful today was and how much we accomplished.” He knows how to help reset me.
“Grandpa would have been happy, I hope, that I had the opportunity to see his original garden. I mean, probably… I think.”
“I’m sure he would. That hobby and way of life was too large for him not to have wanted you to see every bit of it.”
Feeling reassured, I say, “True. And what a day.” I put my hand on my forehead as my eyes grow big. “Oh, here come our meals.”
Seconds later, Brian barely mutters “Mangia” before his mouth is full of pesto fettuccine.
Back at our hotel, I go with my urge to make something right and answer Brian’s statement that was more like a question.
I sit on the edge of the bed, twist to see him on the other side of the room, and say, “I just want you to know that I also hope we have a house together someday.” I look away and shake my leg touching the floor.
He walks around the bed to face me. “I know.” He leans down to kiss me then backs away.
“I’m glad. I don’t want to set my expectations on anything so it took me a while to respond. I’m sorry, Brian. And that I left you hanging.”
“No apology needed. I’m not going anywhere.”
I feel my entire body relax, not realizing how tense I was seconds ago. “Well, in that case, want to be my Scopa partner?”
“I’ll be your partner for anything you want.”
Chapter 41
“The best way to travel to this address is by taxi,” the front desk attendant tells us this morning, looking at the address for Great-Aunt Angeline. “It’s too far to walk and too complicated for visitors to drive there. The cliffs along the coast make it dangerous for out of town guests.”
“We don’t have a car anyway, so we will take a cab,” I say.
“Good. Make sure to be careful, my friends. When you walk anywhere up there, you need to be aware of the steep slopes and loose gravel,” he warns.
“We will be. Thanks for the information, signore,” I say as we walk toward the door. There is no time to waste today since we have a long lost relative to meet. We step outside of the hotel and walk out to the busy street to hail a cab.
I tighten my new salmon colored floral scarf with my hand that’s adorned with a near-matching delicate bracelet, which Maggie gave me a few years ago. I have felt the urge to dress more vibrant since being in this foreign, yet familiar land so I’m glad I brought the bracelet along with me. By the time I leave here, I may look like Annabelle. I giggle at the thought.
Getting in the cab, I realize and blurt out to Brian in a scream-like whisper, “OH MY GOD!”
“What?”
“We need to get a gift to bring, of course. I can’t believe I almost forgot.”
“Shameful, Rachel. You are a horrible Italian.”
“Thanks a lot. Now, we have to ask the driver to stop somewhere on the way.” Looking at the cab driver, I ask, “Scusi, signore. Parli inglese?”
“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?” He knows English well. Score.
“Are there any pasticcerias along our way? We need to stop to buy something for my family we are visiting, um, meeting today.” I don’t even have to think about what gift we will bring because when I find something that works, I stick with it. Pastry worked well yesterday so pastry will work today. I won’t fix what isn’t broken.
“Yes, that is no problem at all. There is one place that I love to go to so I will take you there. Aurelio makes the best pastry that I have ever tasted.”
A few minutes later, we arrive at the pasticceria. “We won’t take long,” I tell our cab driver.
“I will stop the meter. Do not worry. Take your time,” he says.
How Italian of him.
“You are so kind. Thank you.”
Brian and I still rush like the Americans that we are, scurrying into the pastry shop. I don’t want him to wait for us too long, plus I don’t want to delay going to meet my family any longer.
This shop is pretty small, but still has a nice variety of sweets. I scan the room for the options. “The amaretti cookies look like the best choice. What do you think, Brian?”
“Didn’t we have something like that at our Easter dinner? I loved them.”
“Yes, exactly. They’re a traditional cookie of this season. I like the crispy almonds on these. I hope I don’t eat the box of them in the car.”
“I’ll hold you back,” Brian jokes.
I walk to the register and see Aurelio, I assume, straightening up a back shelf. He notices
me and comes over. “Buongiorno.”
“Buongiorno.” And that’s where my words stop. I awkwardly smile. Just like everyone else, he seems to know I need English.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yes, I’ll take these.”
He looks over my shoulder and waves to our cab driver who waves back. “Oh, you have a good one there.”
“He is very nice. We got lucky this morning,” Brian chimes in.
After paying and saying, “Grazie and ciao,” we are back in the cab and on our way. We are on our way to Great-Aunt Angeline’s now. I can’t believe it.
Driving along the shoreline, I see numerous shipping ports and imagine one of them as being where Grandpa set off for his new life in America. I’ll have to ask Great-Aunt Angeline which one he left from so we can visit it. What an opportunity.
Fisherman are scattered all over the water in their various sized boats, while the elegant city buzzes on around them. I wonder what their days entail out on that glassy Ligurian Sea, catching the fresh fish we enjoy in the local meals. Mmm, those meals.
“No wonder there is such great seafood here. Look at all that action down there,” Brian comments.
“I was just thinking about it too. Fishing is one of the city’s oldest livelihoods, I’ve read. The city was built around sailing and shipping.”
“Interesting. Is there anything you didn’t read about this place?” He smiles.
“Nope. I covered every inch.”
“I’m not surprised.” He laughs.
We drive higher and higher up the cliff, next to the sparkling cobalt blue water. Our hotel’s desk attendant wasn’t lying. This road is steep. But one sharp turn off the street leads to an immediate stop. My heart jumps.
“Here we are,” the cab driver says to us.
Brian takes out money to pay him and I ask, “Can you wait until someone answers the door and you see us go inside before leaving?” I can only imagine being stranded here on the rocky cliff, where we can slide into that water on the loose gravel. Eek.