A Semester Abroad (13 page)

After a decent amount of wine and almond
ricciarelli
, the official cookie of Siena, Duccio decided we should go to Monteriggioni. This was another fortressed town in Tuscany and a little drive. Duccio was excited to show Michelle a part of the area she hadn’t seen. This time, Gaetano and I sat in the back seat together. Gaetano winked when Duccio took Michelle’s hand.

“He good, even though
di Nord
,” he whispered mixing English and Italian so Duccio couldn’t understand. “He very pride to show dis Toscana to ’er.”

Once we got to Monteriggioni, Gaetano and I hung back because Michelle and Duccio were able to manage on their own. We walked around the town, looking at the impressive fortress. I was enjoying this time with Gaetano. Now we only spoke Italian to each other. I was much more comfortable talking to him than the random people I ran into in town. But I was still surprised with every conversation I could carry.

Eventually Duccio had to get the car back or his mother would worry. This time in the car, Michelle leaned against Duccio’s shoulder and he kissed the top of her head. This was moving fast. I was envious again. Not because I wanted Duccio, but because it was so simple. Boy and girl like each other. They can’t speak the same language, but who really cares? I stared out the window, wishing everything could be so easy.

When we got to the piazza nearest Via Stalloreggi, we all got out of the car. I kissed Duccio and Gaetano on both cheeks. Duccio smiled at me. He spoke to me in English, “I very ’appy dis night,
bella
.”

“Yes, I can see that,” I smiled. “
Ci vediamo
.”

“
Ciao, bella
.” Duccio gave me a hug, and then I walked a little way up the street to let Michelle and Duccio have a proper goodbye. I couldn’t resist a peak back to see the two in a passionate embrace. I laughed at Gaetano’s mock shocked face from the front seat, and I turned away. At last, Michelle came behind me, grabbed my arm, laughed in my ear and swept me up in someone else’s happiness.

“I can’t believe it, G. I can’t believe the way he kissed me. Did you smell him? Was it me or he did he smell better than anything?’

“He smelled pretty good.”

“I can’t believe this. I cannot believe this. I couldn’t even understand half the shit he said, but I loved the way he said it.”

“Are you in love?”

“Oh. My. God. No, I can’t be. I just met the kid.”

“Kid? I think we’d have to call that a man.”

“A
uomo
. We should call him a
uomo
.” We only had two bottles of wine, but Michelle was drunk from something else. She was shouting in the quiet streets. “
Uomo Italiano bellissimo
.”

“Jeez,” I said, laughing as Michelle pulled me close and kissed my cheek. “Save it for the
uomo italiano
.”

“He wants to see me this weekend. We’re going to meet Friday night. Can you and Gaetano come? “

“I can’t, Michelle. I’m going away with Olivia and Suzie. You’ll be fine. You don’t need us crowding you.”

We went up into our apartment. It was dark. Michelle came into my room when she saw that Janine was already there, passed out in bed.

She washed her makeup off and pulled her hair back as it was when Duccio first saw her. She looked so young when she smiled at me and whispered, “Thanks, G, for everything.”

“I did shit,” I said. “You’re the hottie who got the hottie.”

“The
caldo
–ie,” Michelle said, destroying the Italian word for hot. “Good night, girl.”

“Good night.
Buona notte
.” Then Michelle left my room and I pulled off my socks and got quickly under the covers. But then I sat up in bed and listened. I wanted to see if Michelle stopped in the bathroom on our side, the one without the shower, to puke like she often did. But I didn’t hear her. That night, she was going to let everything settle and just enjoy being herself.

Olivia and Suzie were waiting for me at the station in Florence. Immediately, I noticed that the normal fun-loving Olivia had been replaced by someone who meant business. She informed me that we had about a half hour to our train. We grabbed an espresso from the bar in the station. We stood around the circular table with our backpacks between us and the table, so that we could protect them from the criminals we had been warned about. Our lives were in those backpacks. Not just clothes but passports, journals and money.

We compared the benefits of each of our backpacks and imagined the places we might go with them. Then we talked guidebooks. Suzie and I both had our own copies of Let’s Go tucked in our bags. This was the requisite guide for finding the cheap and definitely discovered places to eat, sleep and see. Suzie also had the Berkley guide, which seemed to have nicer pictures and more expensive suggestions.

Olivia clapped her hands when it was time to head to the track for the train. I was giddy with the idea that we were on our way. We were on a weekend trip to a great city, and it was possible because we were here in Italy. Any trip was possible.

“She’s been a little drill sergeant about this whole thing,” Suzie stage whispered.

“Somebody has to be,” Olivia said, matter-of-factly. She was the oldest of five, and it was in her nature to be the organizer. She made sure that each of us validated our tickets by stamping them in the little yellow machines at the head of each track.

We had our own compartment on the train. I left all the arrangements up to Olivia. She insisted that I could just show up at the designated time. She chose the slow
locale
train for us, so we flattened the seats and made them beds. This way we would arrive there in the morning, not the middle of the night. We wouldn’t have to pay for an extra night in a hotel.

Olivia pulled some crackers and cheese out of her bag. She divvied out slices of the hard
pecorino toscano,
using my Swiss Army knife. The conductor came to check our tickets.

“
Attenta le borse
,” he said, looking up at our bags on the racks. When the door slid closed, we climbed on the chairs and fastened our bags more securely to the racks.

“I wish we had something to tie the door with,” Suzie said.

“I’ll bring it next time.” Olivia said, handing us baby wipes for our hands.

“I’m sure you will,” I said, smiling at Suzie. Olivia set the alarm for 5:30, which was fifteen minutes before we were supposed to pull into the Stazione Centrale in Milan, according to Olivia’s new bible, Thomas Cook. Suzie shut the lights in our compartment and we said “
buona notte
” to each other in the darkness.

I slept poorly, aware of the lights from each of the stations we traveled through, but I liked the steady feel of the train beneath my body and the sound of Suzie’s gentle snoring.

Our giant backpacks toppled us forward as we walk up Via Pergolesi to the hotel. Olivia (of course) found Albergho La Pace in the Let’s Go. We left our bags at the hotel and explored Milano.

Gaetano told me not to expect too much from Milan, but I liked it a lot. Compared with Siena, the streets were wide and after a few hours, the morning rush began filling those streets with people with lives.

We went to the
duomo
because it was necessary to visit the cathedral in every city. We learned this from all of our culture classes. Going to each city’s cathedral meant you would get an idea of the style. It was a free tourist attraction, which made it more attractive. We spend forty-five minutes or so studying the sculpture and paintings inside. The stained-glass windows were beautiful, unlike anything in Siena, and so were the freaky gargoyles that lined the walls looking at us.

Afterward we took pictures in front of the
duomo
surrounded by pigeons. Then we got an espresso. The popular Italian pastime was perfect for backpackers because it was cheap and ideal for people watching. One thing about Italy that rubbed off on me was the ability to just sit, to observe. Things weren’t as rushed here. No one expected you to be on the move all the time. It was slow. It was walking around and looking, seeing. So I wouldn’t be able to say I saw everything you were supposed to see in Milan. I was content with what I was getting, a stillness.

As I listened to Olivia read about the cathedral we just saw, I realized that I wasn’t going to remember anything about the dates and artists represented. I was going to remember the old woman kneeling at the pew, next to the statuesque model type who sat with her hands in her lap and her eyes closed. They were both lost in prayer and would have made an excellent picture. Their
duomo
wasn’t a tourist attraction; it was a cathedral that was part of their lives.

The painting of
The Last Supper
was undergoing some kind of construction so we couldn’t see it. Olivia was bummed about this, but I didn’t really mind. Maybe I took the art in this Italian city for granted, but it was the hustle and bustle, the cool and stylish people who hurried in and out of the café that really interested me. Suzie didn’t seem to mind the missed opportunity either. There was more to traveling then checking off museums.

“I still haven’t seen the David,” Suzie said. “I just don’t want to pay the admission.”

Economics determined much of what we did. Our parents scrimped and saved to get us here, and now we did the same. And I was glad. I don’t regret any of the things I didn’t see. Instead, I remember those moments in piazzas, passing on the 10,000 lire admission fees and “splurging” on 2,000 lire gelato that tasted better than anything else.

After the
duomo,
we window shopped, stopping in front of many of the stores we would never be able to afford. The streets were alive. We bought some fresh bread and cheese and sat in a piazza. Among all the businesspeople, there were teen-agers gathered around a guitar singing “Imagine.” Somehow they seemed so much more determined to imagine “all de peephal leevin in ’armoneeah” than I ever could be.

Olivia read us more on the city between chews of bread. There was a pastry shop in one of the guides. It said, “Splurge for sweets like you’ve never tasted in your life.” Suzie, who had an incredible sweet tooth, insisted that we go.

“Ask the captain,” I said, looking to Olivia.

“Okay, I just hope it’s not too expensive.”

We looked like what we were, grubby traveling students, when we were seated at the
pasticceria
. At another table was a group of Italian ladies who lunch with extremely long hair and extremely short skirts. The waiters were in tuxes. On the table, there was a white linen tablecloth and fine china.

“We should have known when it wasn’t in Let’s Go,” I said.

“What should we do?” Suzie asked.

Then the waiter was there, asking us what we wanted in a formal way. We temporarily lost the ability to partially communicate in Italian at all. We smiled at each other, stupidly.
We can’t leave
, our smiles said. Finally, Suzie said, “
dolce
” and I said “
the
” and the waiter hurried off.

“What are we going to do?” Olivia asked.

“Eat pastries, I guess,” Suzie said hesitantly.

“And drink tea,” I said, more sure.

“Okay,” Olivia said, knowing, as we knew, that this would have worked out better if we stuck to the affordable suggestions in Let’s Go.

The waiter returned with a delicate pot of tea, a beautiful plate of lemon and a china bowl full of sugar. Another waiter placed a plate full of mini pastries in front of us. I looked at Olivia and Suzie, who were as equally delighted and horrified as I was. There was an abundance of scrumptious pastries. We each managed a perfect
grazie
.

“What are we supposed to do with all of this?” Suzie whispered.

“I have no idea.” Olivia said. “I count eighteen pastries.”

“How expensive is this going to be?” I asked.

“Eighteen pastries that look like that? Pretty expensive.” Olivia said.

“Plus tea,” I added.

“Plus tea,” Olivia said decisively so that we all laughed for a second and then got quiet, embarrassed. Perhaps it wasn’t cool to laugh in a place this fancy. Better to fly under the radar. “Maybe they charge us by the pastry.”

“Yeah, they can’t expect us to eat all this,” I looked around to see if anyone else was having this pastry predicament. “You think we just eat what we want and they reserve the rest? Is that what they do in Italy? Why isn’t it in the guidebook?”

“If it isn’t in the guidebook, I don’t know what to do,” Olivia said, feigning a quiet mental breakdown. We had to try hard not to laugh. I was feeling more delirious from the lack of sleep.

“But if they do charge us for all of them, I want to eat all of them.” Suzie was certain of this.

“I guess I’m pretty hungry, too.” I said.

“We’ve got a lot of time until dinner,” Olivia said, eyeing one of the chocolate delights.

“How often are we going to be eating pastries in Milan?” I asked.

“Never again,” said Suzie, grabbing hold of something covered in nuts. She plopped it into her mouth. She smiled like a satisfied cat. It was on.

“Well, I guess we have our answer,” Olivia said, and we began to eat. Once we decided, we got quite gluttonous. Six pastries each is a lot. We barely had time for our tea. At first, each time the waiter passed by, we froze, trying to gauge whether or not we were doing the right thing. Finally we gave up and gave ourselves over to the yummy concoctions.