Read Wish You Were Italian Online
Authors: Kristin Rae
Wish You Were Italian (6 page)
And I can’t help being a little mopey that I made two friends I’ll never see again. Thankfully, just the thought of Rome outside my window, waiting to be explored, perks me up a little bit. I have no set plans today. I have all the time in the world.
But there’s still business to take care of.
I sign in to my new bogus e-mail account and check for the program director’s response to the message I sent last night, telling her I’m no longer attending. I must have revised it a dozen times before I was confident it sounded like it came from an adult—and stuffy enough to come from my mother.
And there it is! I hold my breath as I open her reply, and exhale in relief when I see she’s friendly and understanding about it. But she brought up the money issue, the one thing I’d forgotten to cover. I don’t know what kind of arrangement Mom had with them, but I can’t imagine they’d turn down the money just because there’s not a student to go with it. The last thing I need is Mom investigating an unexpected refund.
I work up another professional-sounding message, apologizing again for any inconvenience and assuring her that all agreedupon financial support would continue. Fingers crossed that’s the end of all that.
I also compose a message to Gram. She doesn’t get on the Internet much, but I’m hoping with me gone, she’ll check her
e-mail more frequently. I tell her how much I miss her already, how beautiful Italy is, and how I got whistled at in the airport. The only truths I’m able to share no matter how much I’m dying to spill everything else.
I download the photos I’ve taken so far onto my computer and scroll through them, stopping at the picture of me with Darren and Nina. Before I even realize I’m doing it, I zoom in on Darren so only his face takes up the screen. He really does have nice eyes. And the stubble is a good look for him. Masculine. Rugged.
I shake my head as I insert the memory card back into my camera. It’s useless to think about him.
I set off for day two and study the map. Darren said something about a metro, so after spotting an
M
with a red circle around it close to the Spanish Steps, I figure that’s my best shot at starting Morgan’s assignment.
On my way, I spot a middle-aged couple walking out of the open doorway of a little corner shop, pulling pastries out of a paper sack. The woman takes a bite and her eyes grow wide before holding it up for the man to try. Mouth watering, I pick up the pace and turn into the modest bakery comprising several two-person tables shoved against the wall, an L-shaped display case housing the carb goodies, a couple of drink refrigerators, and a row of space-age-looking coffeemakers.
“
Giorno
,” says one of the girls working behind the counter. She looks like she’s around my age, maybe a year or two older.
“
Giorno.
” My reply is timid, slow to dip my toes into the waters of Italian communication.
She smiles brightly. “What can I get you?”
I gape at her. “How did you know—?”
“It is a combination. Camera around your neck? Tourist. Fair skin and lighter hair? Rules out quite a few countries. Accent? Definitely American.”
“I only said one word, and it was Italian.”
She laughs. “I get a lot of practice.”
“Well, your English is perfect.” I’m amazed. And jealous.
“Thank you. My parents made sure that I learned from an early age. And my uncle’s family lives in New York, so I spend much time there. Most every summer.”
I have to force myself not to think about the Mafia.
“I’m going to school there in a few months. After I help my aunt at her restaurant in Riomaggiore. Summer is too much for her alone with my idiot cousins,” she adds with a laugh. I wonder if all Italian girls are this talkative or if she’s just been Americanized.
A few locals wander in and strike up a lively conversation with an older man behind the counter. I shift away from them to make room and stare inside the case.
She points to the pastry I’m drooling over. “This one?”
“Sure.”
She snatches a flaky rectangle drizzled with chocolate and tosses it into a paper sack.
“So where’s Rio … ma … ?” I stop before completely butchering the name.
“Riomaggiore? Very north of here, on the Italian Riviera. Cinque Terre.”
“You’re kidding?” My stomach twists. What are the odds that this place is mentioned to me two days in a row? I don’t usually
look for signs, but I can’t help feeling like something cosmic is going on here.
She tilts her head to the side, observing me. “You have been?”
“No,” I say, then add softly, “But I think I’m supposed to go.”
Her eyebrows scrunch together, but she smiles and leans closer to me, resting her elbows on the counter, hand still gripping the open paper sack. “What do you mean?”
I clear my throat, not even sure what to say exactly. “Well, it seems to keep coming up. Makes me feel like it might be important. Like I need to go.”
“
I’ve heard it’s one of the best places to photograph in the country. … You should go.… Your summer’s free now
.”
As I think about taking pictures of a sunset over the Mediterranean, I subconsciously place a hand on my camera, not even realizing it until the girl looks down and her smile spreads. I pull my hand away quickly, not so much embarrassed, but there’s really no reason to pet my camera.
“It truly is beautiful,” she says. “There is no other place like it. Far better than being in the city.” She holds the sack out to me and I hand her a couple of coins. “It will change your life,” she adds.
I suck in a startled breath. That’s exactly what Gram said to me just before I left.
Cosmic? I’m thinking yes.
The sun is roasting me, already high overhead as I stand across the street from the Spanish Steps. All I see are people, people, and more people packed like sardines on the steps and swarming the fountain of a sinking boat fenced off in the center of the street. They barely shift out of the way as cars attempt to pass, even when drivers honk and yell out their windows at them. No one cares that they’re standing in the middle of a functioning road.
I take a few pictures of the steps just to document the chaos, but I’d probably have to come back at the crack of dawn to get anything usable. Considering the jet lag I’m still feeling, I don’t see that happening.
The station is a few blocks north, so I push my way through the sweaty tourists and soon find the entrance to the trains, disappointed to learn they’re underground and I can’t see the city from an L train perspective like back home. I snag a metro map
when I buy my ticket and try to study the names as the solid block of people keeps me moving forward. The stop I’m at is called Spagna, obviously after the Spanish Steps. None of the other names mean anything to me, they’re just a jumble of fancy words ending in -ia and -io and …
COLOSSEO!
Bingo. Morgan’s only rule was that I had to get off somewhere that sounded interesting, and I have yet to actually go
inside
the Colosseum. And then there’s the whole Roman Forum to explore too. Win, win.
Eventually, I find my way to the correct platform and shimmy to the edge of the crowd where I’m able to fully expand my lungs. The electronic display above our heads flashes in red that the train is one minute out, and cool, humid air pushes through the tunnel ahead of it. I let it wash over me and swirl my hair around, grateful for the temporary reprieve from the heat.
The graffiti-covered train glides to a stop, and a flood of people pour out of the doorways while those on the platform try to squeeze their way in past them. I was never a cheerleader, but a cheer rings loud and clear in my mind: Be, aggressive. B-e aggressive.
I adjust my bag to hang directly in front of me and cradle the camera with my hands. Someone steps on my heel and my foot nearly comes out of my shoe, but I clench my teeth and lean forward with my shoulders until I make it inside. I keep a firm grip on my possessions through the ride and change of trains, relaxing only when I see sunlight spilling down the steps of my exit. I emerge to the surface and stop dead in my tracks at the sight of the Colosseum towering overhead. Even though I saw it yesterday, it still takes my breath away.
I wait for more than an hour in the sticky heat to get inside, and for the first time, I’m glad I’m on this trip alone because I have no words. Brick, stone, and concrete are everywhere, forming walls, paths, stairways blocked off by locked gates, arched windows to the outside. Fragments of statues and tablets depicting Latin are strewn about various rooms and along walls, former decorations from when the Colosseum functioned as more than just a tourist attraction. As it stands now, it’s hard to imagine that it was ever any other way, a bustling stadium with spectators like Wrigley Field … except with swords and death matches instead of hot dogs and baseballs.
I circle the entire building twice, once on each level, taking several hundred photos, desperate to document everything. In the gift shop on the second floor, I buy two small calendars with pictures from all over Italy—one for Morgan and one for me. I imagine us hanging them at the start of senior year in the last lockers we’ll ever have. There’s an end in sight, an end to my routine.
Time is constantly moving forward, and the proof is all around me.
As much as I hate to tear myself away from the Colosseum, I’ve taken more pictures than I’ll ever be able to edit, and there’s still plenty to see elsewhere. I exit and make my way past the Arch of Constantine and the men dressed like Roman soldiers posing with tourists, to the entrance of the Roman Forum.
From what I remember about history, there was a time when Rome had control of pretty much everything. I walk the streets, trying to piece together how it all must have looked with complete walls and rooftops like a regular city in place of the now-crumbled pillars reaching in vain toward the sky.
Hunger takes over after a couple of hours roaming the Forum and Palatine Hill, and I can’t ignore it anymore. I snake my way to the metro to head back to home base, missing my first attempt at boarding and nearly getting a black eye in the process. The next train thankfully has plenty of room for me, and I stand in an open spot near the door on the other side of the aisle.
I glance out the grimy window to the crowd across the tracks waiting for the train that goes the other direction.
The doors behind me slap shut the instant I see him on the platform. My breath catches.
Darren
.
Nina stands next to him, her nose in a book. His red T-shirt stretches over muscles I hadn’t noticed yesterday, and the bulk of a green backpack hangs in front of him and under his arm.
I will him to look up.
He casually scans the length of the train, his eyes passing right over me. But then his head turns back to me and his eyebrows pull together. The slightest hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
I raise my arm to wave, but the sudden movement of the train forces me to brace myself against the door. I press my palm onto the window, instinctively taking a step forward as if there was some way I could get to him.
But my train plunges into the dark tunnel and he’s gone. Again.
ASSIGNMENT NUMERO TRE: FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD Write down everything you’ve eaten so far
.
Several chocolate pastries
This stuff is
ice cream to the
MAX. I
tried mint, some vanilla-ish flavor
I
don’t remember how to
spell,
pistachio, chocolate, and pomegranate. SO good
.