Page 3 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Two

T he horns and cursing of Italian traffic are, to my ears, the sweet sounds of freedom.

It’s Friday night, I’m riding the tram downtown, and I’ve never been happier to get out of the apartment.

In the last week, Isa has dumped her pasta on the floor, given me the silent treatment for twenty-four hours, and written on the living room wall with permanent marker.

I have no idea who Carmen is. This could all be an elaborate trap to harvest my organs. But I’ve spent the last five days either being bullied by Isa or wandering the city alone. I’m desperate to make some friends. Plus, how many kidneys do I really need?

I leap off the tram at Piazza Duomo in the heart of downtown Milan.

It’s a massive square, bigger than several city blocks.

Dominating the space is a colossal cathedral that looks like something from a fairytale, but not where the princess lives.

The spires are spiky and there’s a cluster of gargoyles lurking along the roofline.

It’s ominously beautiful. My hands itch for my camera.

The perimeter of the piazza is lined with ornate buildings that look centuries old and way too cool to house mundane things like pharmacies and banks. But there they are, sandwiched in between designer clothing stores and restaurants with outdoor seating.

For the last week, I’ve felt like a giant transported to a land of tiny cars, narrow streets, and petite people. But standing in this huge piazza in the shadow of Cathedral Duomo, I feel like a pixie.

The piazza is packed with people, and it’s clear that this is where everyone meets up. I can feel the energy tingling along my skin as I watch the crowd of glamorous Italians, ready to begin their glamorous Friday night activities.

I’m not sure how I’ll find Carmen or how this night will go, but I know I can’t go back to that apartment right now. So I pretend my hands aren’t sweating, and I saunter as confidently as I can toward the steps of the cathedral where dozens of people sit waiting and chatting.

“ Ciao bionda ,” an Italian guy calls. Hello blonde.

I’ve been in this country for less than a week and this is the fourth time this has happened. Sometimes it’s Hello Blonde. Sometimes it’s Hello Beautiful. Sometimes it’s even Hello Beautiful Blonde. I may get tired of it one day, but that day has not arrived yet.

I give the young man a wave, then turn and walk in the other direction. I’m flattered, but also slightly terrified.

I’m nearing the edge of the piazza when someone yells, “Julieta!”

I turn and spot a small young woman waving at me from the top step of the cathedral.

“Carmen?” I ask, walking over.

“Yes!” she says, tucking a strand of wavy dark hair behind her ear. “Sorry it took me so long to find you!” I’m about to ask how she knew it was me, then I take a look around and realize I’m definitely the best candidate for American nanny.

“I’m so glad you made it!” she says and stands on tiptoe to kiss me on each cheek. I’m obsessed with the cheek kissing here and plan on doing everything in my power to start this trend in America when I go back.

“Thanks so much for inviting me,” I say.

“Of course! We’re meeting Diego, Paolo, and Valentina here too, but they’re always late. Then we’ll all ride over to the church together.”

I’m so focused on the exotic names, I almost miss the second part of her statement.

“Ride where?” I ask.

“To the church,” Carmen repeats.

“The church?” I say back stupidly.

“Yeah, the concert is at la chiesa di Sant’Ambrogio. It’s a beautiful old church not far from here.”

I look at Carmen’s outfit. Silky black pants with stiletto boots. A flowing blouse in deep purple with a gold zipper down the front. Large gold bracelets on both wrists and a black and gold clutch.

“What kind of concert is it?” I ask, a bad feeling growing in my stomach.

“It’s an opera, but not a whole opera,” Carmen says, brushing a wave of hair out of her face. “Visiting performers come and perform their best songs.”

“I thought it was a rock concert.” I gesture lamely to my outfit. I’m wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket with a Coldplay T-shirt. My hair is in a bunch of funky braids.

“Oh!” Carmen says, taking in my outfit. Her eyes go big. I’m hoping she’ll tell me that I look fine.

“It will be pretty dark in there,” she says instead.

My face heats up. Could I make a worse first impression?

As we wait, she gives me the scoop on Diego, Valentina, and Paolo.

“Diego is from Chile. He’s been here about three years. He’s like a puppy, high energy and yapping a lot, but he’s a good guy.”

“Valentina is from Argentina, and she’s gorgeous, but also so sweet. You’ll see.

“Then there’s Paolo. His family still lives in Sicily, but he came up to Milan for work. I’m not sure exactly what he does…something in a bank.”

Definitely the grandson of a mafia don sent up north to infiltrate the banks.

Carmen herself is from Peru and makes it clear she has no plans to go back.

“Jake is meeting us at the church,” Carmen continues. “He’s also here for a year. He works at a hospital outside the city, some sort of doctor. But he’s American like you.”

I keep my facial expression neutral, but inside I groan. The last thing I need is a dorky American sticking to me like Velcro.

The gang arrives and Carmen makes introductions. I try to look like a normal, cool, American girl that they would totally love to be friends with. I get a lot of cheek kisses and benvenutas .

“I am Paolo Zarantonella,” Paolo says taking my hand and kissing it. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Somehow, Carmen forgot to mention that Paolo is outlandishly handsome. Full lips, thick wavy hair, dark eyes lined with thick lashes. He’s wearing fitted black slacks with a white dress shirt and cufflinks. His shoes are dark and shiny.

“Ciao,” I stutter.

Paolo immediately wants to know how long I’ve been in town and why Carmen’s been hiding me from everyone.

“I haven’t been hiding her,” Carmen says. “I met her tonight.”

“That’s no excuse,” Paolo says, keeping his eyes on me and smiling in a way that makes my toes wiggle.

Diego bounces over and stands next to him. “ Ciao, Julieta! Where are you from?” he asks. He looks younger than Paolo, and his full cheeks remind me of my three-year-old nephew.

“California,” I say.

Diego’s eyes light up with excitement. “Do you live by any movie stars?” he asks.

“No,” I say with an apologetic smile.

“I’m going to be an actor in Hollywood one day,” he says and grins. “Maybe then we can be neighbors.”

“That sounds like a great plan,” I tell him.

Valentina gives me a shy smile and walks over. She’s wearing a simple white dress that would look plain on anyone else but looks stupendous on her. Her long dark hair is held back with a rhinestone clip.

“Welcome to Italy,” she says. “And welcome to our group. Some of us are crazy,” she looks over at Paolo and Diego, “but we have a good time.”

We take a short bus ride and get off in front of the most gorgeous church I’ve ever seen. Il Duomo is impressive for its sheer size, but this little church, with stained glass windows and lovely arches, is a work of art.

Paolo notices me admiring it and comes over. “This is la Chiesa di Sant’Ambrogio. It’s the oldest church in Milan.”

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

“I’m glad you like it. Italians make the most beautiful things.”

“Well, thank you, Paolo, for making this beautiful church. I love it.”

“Not a problem, bionda . Just let me know if there’s anything else you’d like, I’ll have my people make it for you in a moment.” His smile is so charming I’m momentarily stunned.

Carmen waves her arms for us to come into the church before the program starts and we enter through heavy metal doors. My gaze is drawn to the vaulted ceilings covered in cherubs and trimmed in gold. Wow.

Carmen leads us to our seats as a large woman in a tight dress the color of sapphires comes to the front. We must have missed her introduction. She launches right into “Nessun Dorma,” and I’m secretly pleased it’s a piece I’ve heard before.

Take that, ignorant American stereotypes!

Her voice fills up the whole chapel and makes the candles flicker. The crowd yells and claps dramatically.

“ Brava! Brava! Ancora! Ancora! ”

As more people yell “ Ancora !” she actually comes back to the front and gives us an encore, singing the whole song again. Hmm...if each person sings his or her song twice, this is going to be a long night.

It’s a long night. I don’t know any other songs that are performed. Curse you, accurate American stereotypes ! After two hours, I’m doubting how well I’m going to fit in with these new opera-going friends. I know I was willing to give up a kidney, but this feels more excruciating.

As though reading my mind, Paolo gives me a nudge and whispers, “We’re getting out of here.”

We quietly exit the church, and Paolo lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief, like we’ve escaped a prison camp instead of an evening of music.

“Well, I think we got what we paid for,” he says as we head down the steps.

“It was free,” Carmen says.

“Exactly.”

“I liked it,” Valentina says. “The last tenor was very talented.”

“But so long!” Paolo says. “A little goes a long way when it comes to opera.”

“The same could be said about Paolo,” Carmen chimes in from behind and I laugh.

“Wait. Where’s Jake?” Valentina says.

“He was sitting right next to me,” Carmen says.

I was so distracted plotting my escape I’d forgotten about the American meeting us at the church. He must have been sitting on the other side of Carmen.

“Oh no! He didn’t make it out!” Diego says. He turns back to the church like he’s rescuing a friend from a burning building. Just as he starts to climb the stairs, the doors open. A young man with shaggy brown hair and medium build slips out. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s humming.

“There you are! I was just coming back to rescue you,” Diego tells him.