Page 13 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

La vita è bella.

Life is beautiful.

Italian saying

Our belly-laugh endorphins proved to be an afternoon reboot for both of us. Instead of flopping on our beds and giving in to our jet lag, as I had envisioned while we were tromping back to our room, we agreed to go back out into the wild.

It was after three o’clock when Claire and I headed out again to see more of Venice. We only made it as far as the courtyard, where we stopped to talk with Paulina, who was pulling up carrots and layering them in a flat basket. She wore an apron, gloves, and an adorable straw hat.

“Ah!” Paulina said. “I noticed you had returned. I thought you might be taking a riposo.”

“Is that what you call an afternoon nap?” Claire asked.

“Yes.”

“That was our original plan,” Claire said. “But we ended up discussing ... art.”

“Not art, exactly,” I added, repressing a grin.

Paulina extended the basket to us. “Would you like some?”

“No thanks,” I said. “We appreciated the cherry tomatoes and the apricots, though. They were delicious.”

“We’re off to go see...” Claire looked at me. “What did the note say? ‘Unrivaled wonders on display in the wild.’”

Paulina gave us a Mona Lisa smile. “Keep your eyes open for ‘the unveiling of wishes on hold in your heart.’”

“Is that an Italian saying?” Claire asked.

“Yes and no. It was said by a Venetian I know. Nico’s grandfather. He used to say it to certain pilgrims who stayed with us. I thought of it today and wanted to share it with you.”

“Sounds like you’ve been taking in visitors for many years,” Claire said.

Paulina nodded.

“May I ask how long?”

“At least three hundred.”

“Three hundred guests?” I asked, thinking she had misunderstood Claire’s question.

“No, three hundred years. Probably longer. I told you the traditions run deep in our family.” Paulina shifted her basket to her other arm.

“A long time ago, my husband’s relatives took on a family motto to remind each next generation to show ospitalità.

Hospitality. You may have seen the motto on the menus. ”

“We didn’t see a menu last night,” I said.

Claire added, “Our server asked if we were your friends, and then he said he was bringing us the best. And it was the best. Dinner last night was delicious.”

“What is your family motto?” I asked.

“A tavola non si invecchia,” Paulina said. “It means, ‘You don’t get old at the table.’”

“I love that,” Claire said.

I wanted to add a comment like, “You must spend a lot of time at the table because you’re so youthful,” but I caught myself and was glad I did. I didn’t think it would have come out sounding the way I meant it, judging by the way my brain and my words were intersecting lately.

“Do you have plans for dinner tonight?” Paulina asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Claire said.

“You are always welcome here.”

We thanked Paulina, and she waved us off on our next adventure.

After exiting by the side gate, we retraced our steps to St. Mark’s Square.

We strolled through another whirl of fellow tourists, chatting as we went.

As we got closer to St. Mark’s Square, I realized we’d been talking openly around other people and I hadn’t felt the need to hush.

Perhaps the incident with Raphael had somehow helped me overcome my self-consciousness.

Laughing about it with Claire had certainly lightened the moment.

When we arrived at the tour entrance to St. Mark’s Basilica, I felt eager to go inside.

After the roller coaster of emotions I’d gone through already that day, I was hoping to feel a return of the calming peace I’d felt at the Frari.

I also hoped the basilica had a different “vibe,” as Claire called it, than what we felt at the palace.

Inside the great basilica the light was dimmed, giving the church a sense of hallowed quiet.

My first impression was that the large interior was as crowded and overwhelming as the Doge’s Palace had been, except the basilica was more beautiful and more ornate.

Jewels were used to accentuate crosses. The rounded archways, walls, and ceilings were covered in works of art created with tiny tiles.

Gold was added to the walls and ceilings, giving an otherworldly shimmer to this place where people had worshiped for more than a thousand years.

Closing my eyes, I listened to the rolling sound of lowered voices speaking in various languages around me. With a slow breath, I drew in the scent of the burning candles and felt something like a pulsing solemnity flowing through this space.

I opened my eyes and noticed the floor for the first time.

It was nothing like the red and white checkers of the Frari and the bell tower.

The well-worn flooring was composed of a dizzying design of tiles no larger than my thumbnail.

The colors were white, black, rust, and gray, and the multiple and varying patterns were inside blocks spread out the way a quilter would design a crazy quilt.

I caught up with Claire, who was standing under a magnificent dome, looking up and tilting her head. “Here’s a Bible story I recognize,” she said. “Adam and Eve. The naked couple and the apple gave it away.”

The story of creation depicted at the center of the dome was overflowing with gorgeous details of the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, followed by the creation of all kinds of animals.

Adam and Eve were featured in the widest ring.

Their saga was in storyboard style, each frame depicting what happened next and every inch used.

The dome was so high above us, I wished we could get closer to examine all the details.

“You know,” Claire said as we kept strolling, “I never understood why God didn’t end everything after the Adam and Eve debacle. How do you forgive people who turn on you and betray you like that?”

I stopped in front of a nearby scene of the crucifixion, contemplating an answer for Claire.

“Again,” she said, nodding at the crucifix, “why did He forgive the people who betrayed Him? Why doesn’t God hold people accountable for the horrible things they do?”

“He does. He will. Justice is coming at the end of all things.” I moved on and gazed up at a stunning painting on a gold-inlay alcove.

Christ the risen Lord was seated on an elaborate Byzantine throne.

He balanced a large book on his thigh. I pointed up and said to Claire, “One day everyone will have to answer to the King of Kings and Lord of all. Nothing is hidden. It’s all recorded. ”

“Love the big journal,” Claire said in a way that sounded like she wanted to change the subject. “Gorgeous cover. That whole image is stunning, isn’t it?”

I smiled at Claire calling the Book of Life a “journal.” I guess it was, in a way. God keeps notes. He knows. At the last judgment all would be revealed. I lingered a little longer, staring at the remarkable image.

Claire had stepped away and paused to nonchalantly listen in as a guide a few feet away was answering questions for her small group. I joined her and hoped we wouldn’t be asked to move along.

“Yes, the winged lion represents the strength and dominance of Venice. It is also recognized as representing Saint Mark, who is entombed in the crypt below us here in the basilica.”

“Is he really?” a woman asked. “I mean, why isn’t he buried in the Holy Land?”

“Venetians love a good story, and many exist about how the remains of the author of the Gospel of Mark were stolen from Alexandria, Egypt. Remember, this was a time in history when relics were highly prized. The two Venetian merchants who returned with the bones of Saint Mark knew they would obtain a high standing with the Doge. They smuggled the remains into Venice by hiding them under layers of pork in barrels because the Muslim guards wouldn’t touch the pork. ”

“Is that true?” a man asked.

“First, I will tell you that it happened more than a thousand years ago. Next, I will remind you that I am from a Venetian family with a long lineage, so yes. Of course it is true.”

“Can you take us into the crypt?” the man asked.

“Sadly, no. The crypt has flooded in the past and remains under repair. I have been down there and have seen where Mark is entombed. It’s well maintained, and a lovely cross made of beautiful sea-colored Murano glass marks the tomb. I feel it is a sacred place.”

The guide directed her group to follow her onward to one of the cupolas, and Claire and I continued our stroll in the opposite direction under the archways that gleamed with their gold covering in the light.

Like the tour guide, I felt the sacredness of the space, and I felt privileged to see it.

I asked Claire what she thought about all of it.

“I don’t know. It’s stunning, and I appreciate all the years of work put in by the artisans, but I can see why Paulina’s guy wanted all this to be simple and boiled down to just the stories and not all the opulence.”

“By Paulina’s guy, do you mean St. Francis?”

“Yes. Francis. I don’t think I can bring myself to refer to anyone as a saint.”

“Did you see that one of the books I got this morning is about his life?” I asked.

“That could be interesting. Let me know if you find anything in it about him feeding birds, because that could be a friendship breaker for us.”

“Us, us? You and me?”

“No. Francis and me. I figure it’s my turn to break up with a guy in Italy.”

I gave a courtesy grin at her quip. I wondered if Rome was where she “broke up” her relationship with Jesus.

I wanted to make a plea for her to give Him another chance and get back together with Christ here in Italy.

Why wouldn’t she want to? His story was everywhere.

His open invitation was accessible to all.

But, unlike Claire, I rarely could come up with the right thing to say at the right moment.