As soon as Christian leaves for the gym, I plop down on our bed. Despite the fluffy comforter, my shoulder pain strikes again. “Argh!” The repetitive use injury from my cello playing is an old enemy who’s returned right on time as a guest after my vacation. I inhale a deep breath and rub the throbbing spot. It’s common in my field, so, like everyone, I have to push through. Yes, more pushing.
Meow.
I turn my head, luckily to the left so I can keep rubbing my right side, and smile. “Nala, baby.”
She prances softly across the bed toward me and lies down without a space between us. When I run my hand down her silky fur, she stretches out her front two paws onto my hip. Maybe she knows her momma is in pain.
“It’s alright. I’ll be fine. And don’t be scared by what you heard earlier. Your parents are going to be happy again.”
The reassurance to my little buddy needs to sink into my brain. I mean, what was that about David? Christian’s statement was the most absurd comment I’ve ever heard. The absurdity makes me giggle, despite wanting to cry at the same time.
Nala purrs in response.
At least she’s content.
There’s no way David likes me. He would never disrespect me, or Christian, and he knows how long Christian and I have been together. I guess it isn’t disrespect if he has feelings and doesn’t act on them, though. But no. No frickin’ way. He’s a great friend, a great guy.
Crap. My mind floats to the day ahead of me tomorrow. It’s parents’ night, so my long day just got longer. What I wouldn’t give to be playing for an audience on the stage of the Walt Disney Concert Hall instead of talking about the progress of a ninth grader.
I haven’t looked for auditions in a while, so maybe I should. The thought propels me off the bed, disturbing Nala for a second. “Sorry.”
She raises her head and almost immediately lowers it into her furry mane, closing her eyes.
Digging my laptop out of my work tote then hitting the couch, I type in LA Phil’s website. How many times can a person audition, though? I know how difficult being accepted as a cellist in the orchestra is, but I also wonder if there comes a time to listen to reality. Will I ever get in? When do I give up on that dream? After Christian was rejected hundreds of times for his multiple screenplays, he gave up…and stopped counting the number of declines. Sometimes I wonder if he holds his decision against me—you know, since I’m still trying to reach my goal.
Just as I start to enter the words for my dream job, my neck strikes again. “Alright, alright, I’ll get some ice.”
The relief when the ice pack hits my shoulder seconds later allows me to stare off into the distance without pain, right in eyeline with the plants across from the couch. I love having greenery in our home, especially since we don’t have a patio. They’re the only burst of color in this room, with their glossy, primary-colored pots containing my pothos, jade, and senecio plants. I can only imagine being surrounded by plants outside of my home someday, especially grapevines, like in Italy. That would be on another level.
I’d look out my window and see nothing but rows of green leaves on twisted branches. Maybe clusters of grapes would grace the vines under the clear blue skies. I could run through the rows barefoot, feeling the soil between my toes and hugging the little beauties instead of being stuck indoors like I am all day, every day. Having outside space is the only reason I want a house, unlike Christian, who could care less about the outdoors. Anyway, I’d grab a glass of cab while I continue to take in the view from the porch. I can even hear cello music playing in the background, which I’m sure the leaves would love. Just like my plants here, I bet they’d grow faster to a beat.
Pietro probably never lived my fantasy, but hey, who knows?
Wait.
I balance the ice pack on my shoulder and place my computer laying next to me on my lap. It’s time to look up a little Agosti history and daydream instead of seeing if the orchestra is hiring. I’m sure I’ll find a picture of Pietro online, dancing barefoot, and that’s much more fun than facing rejection. Fantasy over reality for the win!
Shock of all shocks, moments later, I don’t find anything like this—or anything at all—about Pietro or his land, but what I do find surprises this native Angeleno. Everyone knows wine country in California means the Napa and Sonoma valleys up north, but vineyards started here in Southern California. Whhhhat?! And down the rabbit hole I go.
This website states that, in the early 1800s, California’s vineyards began in my hometown because of the flat land and easy-to-irrigate vines near the Los Angeles River. And this was after Spanish missionaries planted vineyards to have wine for communion since the late 1700s. No wonder Pietro heard about it back in Italy—this was the place to be for a century. How sad that everything is gone—well, almost.
I click on a picture of a house that remains on Olvera St., called the Pelanconi House, from 1850…and it still exists. Wow, the oldest fired brick building in the city was owned by an Italian immigrant named Giuseppe Cavacci. My eyes enlarge as I read the next sentence. He had a friend named Giuseppe Gazzo, who helped run their own winery across the street, until Antonio Pelanconi took over and continued the winemaking as long as possible.
Stop the presses. This is amazing. Those two Giuseppes made a mark on history in my beautiful city. And right here, all along, there’s this gold mine of Italian history I never knew about until now.
I spot Nala strutting out of the bedroom from the corner of my eye. “Hey, guess what.”
She doesn’t look at me.
“There were one hundred wineries in LA by 1851. One hundred, Nala!”
This time, she barely lifts her chin. That little princess of mine.
“I know you’re excited too.” I laugh, but the jerk of my head shoots a pain to my shoulder, forcing me to suck in air through my teeth.
Back to reading. I prop my feet up on the coffee table and get comfortable as I think about how I’ll need to drive down there this weekend, no matter what. Prohibition killed most of the wineries, but there’s a little history left. I can’t wait to tell David about everything I’m learning.
My hands stop typing as this thought fully connects in my brain.
He’s my friend. And I should want to tell my friend about what I found. There’s nothing wrong with that.
Staring at the screen in hopes of a distracting link to click on, the words blur. Christian’s comment lingers within me like a muted bassline.