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 trying 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?”

“Chocolate.”

“Always a good choice. Next time try the stracciatella al caffe if you like coffee with chunks of chocolate. Or try the fior di latte. Very creamy. Oh, or panna cotta. That’s my all-time favorite. Unless you prefer fruit. In that case, the sorbettos are pretty amazing. Try the limoncello or the Bellini peach.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sue said, going for a pen in her bag. “I have to write this down.”

Steph laughed. “Are you serious?”

“It’s research,” Sue said with a straight face. She opened to the first page of the simple, small spiral notebook and suddenly started to cry.

“Sue, what’s wrong?”

“The pages are blank,” she said in a tight voice.

I gave Steph an apologetic look. I had no idea what my companion was talking about.

“I’m sorry.” Sue sniffed back the few tears that had escaped. “It’s just that I have another notebook like this at home. That notebook is filled with doctors’ numbers, pharmacy hours, and all of my relatives’ cell phone numbers. This notebook is new. It’s blank. It just hit me that I’m about to make a fresh start.”

“And you’re using the first page to list gelato flavors,” I reminded her. “How’s that for evidence of goodness and mercy?”

Sue handed the notebook to Steph. “Could you write down those flavors you mentioned?”

“Okay.”

“She likes details,” I explained.

“Not a problem.” Steph grinned. “My mom is exactly the same way. If she doesn’t write things down, she forgets everything. She even has a notepad by the phone to take notes during conversations.”

Suddenly I felt small again. For a few glorious hours that morning I’d felt young and free, as if the world were my oyster. (Whatever that saying means.) We were riding vaporettos with young Italian chefs, eating ice cream for breakfast, and being set up by lovely Steph for future flirting.

Then, boom! There it was. The striking reminder that Sue and I were old enough to be this young woman’s mother. While Sue might have been having a hard time realizing where she was, I think I was having a hard time remembering how old I was.

Seemingly unfazed by the “like my mom” comment, Sue explained to Steph, “I’m doing an independent study of all the gelato in Venice.”

“All the gelato in Venezia? That’s quite an undertaking.”

“I realize that. It’s grueling work, but I’m dedicated to my research, and I will see this project through to its conclusion.”

“Plus she has an assistant,” I added brightly.

Steph looked at us as if trying to decide if we were playing a joke on her. A smile grew on her rosy lips. “You two are hilarious.”

“No,” I said. “You don’t know my sister-in-law. She’s serious about this.”

Steph laughed and then leaned forward, as if we were best friends sharing confessions over our coffee. “I have to tell you something. When I first heard the renters were two women over fifty, no offense, but I didn’t expect two women like you.”

“What did you expect?” I wanted to know.

“Well, you know. Older women. Over fifty. Gray-haired ladies like my mom.” She hesitated and added, “I thought I’d have to carry your luggage for you and do your grocery shopping. But you two are nothing like my mom. She never could make a trip like this. You two rock! You’re definitely a couple of Sisterchicks.”

The term was new to us, but Sue and I exchanged favorable glances and embraced the title. I hoped the word carried the connotation that we were women who were younger on the inside than we appeared to be on the outside.

Paolo approached with our perfectly frothed cappuccinos. We leaned back in our patio chairs and leisurely sipped the satisfying brew.

“This is nice,” I said. I mostly was referring to the leisurely pace of the morning and the way we were able to sit enjoying conversation with this young American woman. Steph must have thought I was referring to the cappuccino.

“I’ll warn you now,” she said. “It will be difficult to go home and try to find coffee like this. The Italians treat their barista skills as a serious art form. You probably already know this, since so many of the coffee terms in the U.S. are in Italian, but ‘espresso’ is an Italian term.”

Sue and I nodded, but honestly, I hadn’t paid much attention before. Although I did love ordering a caramel macchiato every now and then, just so I could say the lilting word aloud. Especially if I decided to have the venti size.

“Are you ready for me to try to impress you with my Italian?” Steph asked.

“Of course we are,” Sue said sweetly.

“Espresso comes from the phrase, espressamente preparato per chi lo richiede, and that means, ‘expressly prepared for the one who requests it.’ Paolo holds to that tradition. Each cup is made expressly for you. It’s an Italian hospitality thing.”

“It’s a wonderful hospitality thing.” I returned to my cup for another sip.

Across from the café, a young man stepped into the shade of one of the four-story buildings and opened a violin case. He tuned up and began to play out in the open, as if this were a great concert hall and today was first audition. We were the only audience sitting and listening.

“How beautiful,” I murmured.

“Vivaldi. Four Seasons.” Sue hummed along with the tune that was only slightly familiar to me. “He’s very good. And look at him, just standing out there in the middle of the street, playing his heart out. You would never see something like that where we live.”

“You’ll see musicians everywhere in Venezia,” Steph said. “And you’ll hear a lot of Vivaldi while you’re here. Vivaldi lived in Venezia, you know. Venetians love to perform his work. Make sure you go to San Marco at least one night while you’re here. My favorite orchestra is at the Florian, but all of them are good. You’ll be charged a lot just to sit and listen, but that’s part of being in Venezia, right?”

I wasn’t sure what Steph was talking about, but I was sure that Sue’s tour book would explain what the Florian was and why we should go listen to the orchestra playing there.

Steph pulled a few coins from her purse, and Sue and I did the same. We managed to come up with enough euros to cover the bill Paolo had left on the table.

“What about the tip?” Sue asked.

Steph brushed off the notion. “You can round up the total if you like. Locals don’t tip at the small cafés and trattorias. Only tourists.”

“At the cafés and what?” Sue asked.

“Trattorias. They’re the small lunch places. They look like bars and have simple menus with sandwiches and some pasta dishes. Some are called osterias.”

Sue gave Steph a confused look.

“You’ll figure it out. There are lots of places to eat here. All you have to remember is that if you want to be treated like a local, don’t leave a big tip at a small place like this. It’s practically an insult. You can tip at the nicer restaurants if you want, but the service fee usually is included.”

“That’s a change from home,” Sue said.

“A lot of the men here who work as waiters do this as a career choice. They’re not working their way through school. This is their dream job. They love to serve and to socialize. Paolo, for instance, is the fourth-generation owner of this café. His great-grandfather, also named Paolo, started the café more than a hundred years ago. And most Venetians would consider this a ‘new’ café. Venezia is a tight, traditional community. They still see themselves as pretty independent from the rest of Italy.”

We all called out our farewells to Paolo. He blew a kiss at us. Well, I’m sure the kiss was aimed at Steph, but it still was nice to be next to her when the kiss came her direction.

Steph pretended to ignore the attention and led us across the Campo Apostoli in the opposite direction from the lone violinist. Her skirt swished with each step she took down an alleyway in her clicking, low-heeled sandals. Sue and I trotted behind, coaxing our wheeled luggage over the uneven pavement and trying to prove that for a couple of “mature” women, we still rocked. Well, rocked according to Steph’s definition and not rocked as in about to trip and fall on our faces.

I glanced at Sue as she tried to keep up. Both of us seemed determined to prove we had whatever it took to be Sisterchicks.