Sisterchicks in Gondolas! (12 page)

She looked at me and took a little sniff. “You smell so good now, Jenna. Fresh from the shower. I may need a little refresher before we head out. I’ll be fast.”

“Take your time.” I pulled one of the chairs over to the open kitchen window and estimated it would take less than five minutes for my hair to dry in that spot. I loved sitting alone in the quiet, catching occasional phrases from the men in the other room. Malachi’s voice was the most distinct.

I closed my eyes and leaned into the sunlight. In a private moment of bliss, I allowed my mind the luxury of tumbling around a few thoughts. Was my life characterized by “offerings” or “sacrifices”? Did I even try to give anything to others?

Of course I did. I moved to Dallas to give my brother and Sue time and help and encouragement. That had been a sacrifice, hadn’t it? I’d left my daughter and my home and a familiar life. Yes, familiar but small.

In some ways, had I merely traded one small, secure life for another equally small, safe life?

I wasn’t disturbed by the questions. It felt good to ask them. The only nudging in my spirit was the old 3 a.m. thought about not being “done” yet. For some reason this trip to Venice didn’t seem as if it was going to be “it,” whatever “it” was.

Floating into a relaxed and sleepy state, I was content to know that I wasn’t “done” and that this trip wasn’t “it.”

S
ue entered the kitchen
as I was dropping into that cushy layer of sleep where it felt like my muscles were floating in a warm bath.

“Ready?” she asked softly, touching my shoulder. “Or do you want to sleep some more?”

I blinked. “No, I’m ready. I’m awake.” I was so relaxed I could have fallen into a deep nap the way I had the day before and slept away the afternoon.

“The air seems heavier during the afternoons here.” I drew in a deep breath and stretched my neck. “If you stop moving, it feels as if the air covers you like an invisible blanket.”

“You do look relaxed,” Sue said.

Forcing myself to rise from the chair, I watched Sue tie up her wet hair with a bandana. A wide smile lit her face.

“What?” I checked the side of my mouth to see if part of my “relaxed” look included drooling while I had slept.

“Nothing. I’m just happy.”

“You are?”

She nodded. “This is great, Jenna. All of it. Walking to the grocery store, the singing guys at the fruit stand, cooking these creative meals … not to mention washing my hair in a marble sink.”

Her smile was matched by a glistening of tears. That’s when I knew Sue was “here.” All the way.

“Thank you, Jenna, for inviting me to come with you. I know I’ve said that before, but I really mean it. You had a lot of friends you could have asked to come and help you to cook for these guys. Thanks for asking me.”

“You were my first choice, Sue.” As a tease I added, “Of course, it does help that you actually know how to cook.”

“Even so, you didn’t have to ask me.”

“Well, I did. And I’m glad I did. So, are we ready to go shopping?”

“Born ready.”

Once we were on our way, I was more awake. Sue directed us confidently down the main route to Paolo’s and the Strada Nuova. I noticed she avoided the side street with the corner fruit market. The first shop we came to was closed.

“Steph wasn’t kidding,” Sue said. “It looks as if all these shops do close in the afternoon. I’m hoping that if we head
toward the more touristy areas, we’ll find shops that are open.”

A few more minutes of walking along the main thoroughfares brought us to a string of English-speaking, Visa-accepting shops. Their doors were wide open. Dozens of carts covered with colorful souvenirs were positioned strategically in front of the shops. Masks of all shapes and colors hung from the carts.

Sue and I stopped at the first cart, and Sue picked out a bright red mask that had a long, bird-like beak. She held it up so that her eyes appeared in the oval eye slits.

“That’s kind of creepy.”

“What about this one?” She exchanged the bird mask for a frowning face that looked like the “tragedy” mask often seen with the “comedy” mask as a universal logo for theater.

“Depressing,” Sue said, mimicking my frown. “What are these made from? They’re so hard.”

“Papier-mâché,” the vendor said as he sat on a stool watching the foot traffic go by. He answered us over his shoulder without looking directly at us. We had become accustomed to people around us not understanding English.

“Oh, thanks.” Sue returned the mask to the hanging hook.

We wandered to the next cart and bought a few tiny trinkets—key chains in the shape of little gondolas, a few
bookmarks, and some postcards. Several hawkers who were displaying leather purses and an odd assortment of pottery called to us as we walked past their blankets of goods spread out on the street.

To avoid their pleas, Sue and I stepped into a clothing store. The salesclerk seemed to size us up and determine our nationality instantly. She greeted us, “Good afternoon. Everything on the two front racks is on sale.”

Sue and I went through all the sale items. Nothing caught our eye, so we said “thanks” instead of “grazie” and moved on to the next store.

A green cashmere sweater prompted Sue to pause and gaze in the window. “That is gorgeous, but I need cooler clothes. Where are the summer cottons?”

The salesperson standing just inside the doorway with a cell phone held to her ear obviously understood Sue and pointed us to the rack of summer items inside the store. We went through the rack and reached for skirts at the same moment. Holding them out for examination, we realized we each had selected the same style skirt but in different colors.

Sue laughed. “Are we going to have to call dibs on these?”

“Why? They’re different colors. Let’s try them on.” Hers was a light cocoa-brown color. The one I held up was a deep blue.

We shared a mirror in the dressing room area that was separated from the store by a fabric curtain. The skirts fit both of us perfectly.

“Bella,” the saleswoman said when she stepped into the changing area to check on us. Translating, she repeated, “Beautiful on you. Would you like to see some blouses to match?”

Before we could say yes or no, she left the dressing room and quickly returned with several blouses for us to try on. I decided not to even put on any of them since I had brought enough cool blouses with me.

“So, what do you think of this one?” Sue asked once she buttoned up the second selection.

“I liked the first one better. This one is too wide across the shoulders. It looks funny. Try on the third one.”

Sue ended up buying two of the blouses: a blue one and a cocoa-brown shade that nicely matched the skirt. I purchased just the skirt.

I understood why Sue was so eager to buy the tops, though. Not only did she need cooler options to wear, but also with her skin tone and hair, she was more limited in the colors that looked good on her. Both the blouses looked fabulous on her.

“If y’all don’t mind,” Sue said to the salesclerk, “I’d love to wear this out of here. To go. Do y’all let people do that? Wear clothes out of the store?”

“Of course.” The salesclerk removed the tags from Sue’s skirt and the cocoa blouse and then turned to me with her small pair of scissors.

“Go ahead, Jenna. Wear your skirt, too.”

“Okay.” I never had worn clothes out of a store before, but why not?

Making our way to the Rialto Bridge a few moments later, Sue and I displayed a new swish to our walk.

“I think we should celebrate our shopping success with a new flavor of gelato, don’t you?” Sue asked.

“I was wondering when you would suggest that.”

The crowds of pedestrians thickened as we approached the Rialto Bridge. Caught up in the crush of people, Sue and I moved with the crowd over the wide expanse while dozens of languages swirled around us. Hundreds of people passed each other on the covered bridge, and we were jostled about like bumper cars at a fair.

On both sides of us, rows of stalls were set up to sell kitschy trinkets and fresh vegetables to the obliging visitors. And although I couldn’t see fish stands, the odor in the heat of the afternoon made me think the fish market had to be nearby as well.

Sue and I didn’t pause at any of the stalls but stayed close, keeping our purses even closer. This place felt like a million miles away from our palace neighborhood and the quiet Campo Apostoli.

A few minutes later, as we stood in line at a gelato
stand, we looked back on the covered bridge and began to appreciate its size and beauty. Symmetrical, arched windows ran the stone expanse’s length. The bridge itself was arched and as impressive as any Renaissance cathedral. Gondolas and various other boats floated beneath it.

“So many people,” Sue said. “I didn’t expect so many people here.”

“Do you want to pass on buying gelato here and find another place?”

“No, this is okay.”

As we waited in line, the afternoon heat seemed to rise up from the walkway in invisible flames.

“This is the most expensive gelato so far,” Sue said, as we contemplated the list of flavors.

I noticed the line behind us was now a dozen people long. “They sure do a good business here.”

“Do they have nectarine?” Sue asked. “I forgot how to say it.”

I scanned the list for pesca nettarina but didn’t see it. We each ordered a single scoop and then stepped out of the flow of tourist traffic to find a place to eat. It wasn’t an easy task. The Grand Canal was only a few feet away, but no place had been provided to sit. We were pressed on every side by sweaty, irritable tourists speaking half a dozen languages.

“This is crazy.” Sue pulled back from the crowd and led me down a less congested alleyway. We stood under the
awning of a shop that sold spices. The display in the window was a collection of small bowls on varied tiers, with each bowl containing a different spice or herb in its natural state with a hand-printed sign beneath in Italian. The only one I recognized was oregano. I imagined this shop looked exactly the same for the last half a millennium.

“There has to be another route back to where we just came from. Here, hold this.” Sue handed me her cup of gelato and pulled out the map.

I dipped my plastic spoon into her melon gelato and gave my rating on the spot. “Oh, this is nice. I’d give this one a 9.”

“I’m giving it a 3.” Sue didn’t look up from the map.

“A 3? Why?”

“It tastes like cantaloupe. I don’t like cantaloupe.”

“Are you just saying that because I said I didn’t like nectarines?”

“No, I don’t like cantaloupe.”

“So why did you pick the melon flavor?”

“To get it over with.”

I made a face at my wacky sister-in-law. “You don’t have to order the ones you don’t like, you know. You have lots of other flavors to choose from.”

Sue ignored me and turned her full attention to the map.

I helped myself to another spoonful of melon gelato and gave an appreciative “mmm.”

Looking up at me sideways, Sue said, “I can see you’re enjoying this research as much as I am.”

“I’d say I’m enjoying it more,” I said with a playful smirk. “But that might have something to do with my ordering flavors I think I’ll like.”

“Go ahead; tease me all you want. I made the decision under pressure.”

“What pressure?”

Sue squared her shoulders. “I wanted to order for myself. The word for
melon
looked like I could pronounce it, so I ordered it because I figured I wouldn’t completely mess up how to say it.”

“Oh, Sue.” I was about to tell her that of all the gelato stands we would visit that one definitely had employees who would have understood English as well as French and German and probably Japanese since it was located in such a high-traffic tourist area. Instead I said, “Do you want to trade?”

She looked at my gelato. “What did you get?”

“Fior di latte.”

Her eyebrows rose.

I translated roughly based on my impressions from my first taste. “Vanilla.”

“Okay, I’ll trade. But next time I’ll have you order for me, and I’m going to pick the most exotic flavor on the list.”

“That would probably be the
pannettone con zabajone.”

“And what is that?”

“I have no idea. I saw it on the list, but I wasn’t brave enough to try it.”

Sue tilted up her chin. “Well, that’s what I’m selecting next time, and if you’re nice to me, I just might let you have a taste.”

“Well, fine. And if you’re nice to me, I just might let you pay for it.”

With our noses in the air, we strutted back across the Rialto Bridge.