Page 16 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)
The trepidation fairy that came with my cordial upbringing hoped Claire wouldn’t mention that we had gone for cappuccinos.
I didn’t want to hurt Paulina’s feelings that we didn’t invite her.
As quickly as I heard that airy voice in my head, I heard another whisper, “Stop worrying about what other people think of you.” I tried to brush both voices away.
Paulina handed a woven basket to Claire. It was brimming with fresh vegetables from the garden, two large jars of red sauce, a round loaf of rustic bread, and sprigs of fresh herbs tied with a string. Paulina gave me the written note and repeated instructions about where we were to go.
“Burano is a small island,” Paulina reassured us. “You will be able to find the house with no problem.” She smiled. “Go in the footsteps of Christ, pilgrims.”
I thought her send-off was a little odd.
She had written the word “pilgrims” on her welcome note to us as well.
We weren’t pilgrims or on a pilgrimage, so I couldn’t figure out why she said we were to “go in the footsteps of Christ.” I guessed the expression was Italian and lost something when translated into English.
“I feel like Little Red Riding Hood,” Claire said when we arrived at the stand for the water bus we needed—vaporetto 12. She posed with the basket over her arm and pulled up the hood on her jacket. I pulled out my phone and took her picture.
“That looks heavy. Do you want to take turns?”
“Maybe. I’m okay for now. I can’t imagine what it would be like to carry something like this every time I walked to an outdoor market for groceries.”
“You know what I understand now? Paulina and women like her are fit even though they live on pasta and gelato because they have to walk everywhere.”
“True. She’s a lovely woman, isn’t she?” Claire said. “I noticed her skin this morning. She hardly has any wrinkles. Just laugh lines by her eyes.”
“Must be the fresh air, organic vegetables, lots of exercise, and a thriving spiritual life. Sounds like some of the people you and I know from home.”
Loma Linda, the town that borders where Claire and I live, is the only Blue Zone city in the US.
In Blue Zones, people live longer than in other places on the planet.
The ophthalmologist I worked for had patients from Loma Linda who did not look as old as the date they wrote on their admission forms. When I asked several of them about their youthfulness, they always gave me answers like the four key ingredients I had just listed about Paulina.
“I’d like to think that the reason for her youthfulness,” Claire said, “is because of their family motto. Not growing old because you’re at the table is a concept I can get excited about. Pass the pasta, please!”
I found it interesting that Claire’s reference to the table was linked to her love for food and cooking, whereas my thoughts about being gathered at the table evoked images of communion and the Last Supper.
We validated our tickets and joined the others who were boarding the vaporetto.
Our water bus had lots of empty seats inside the cabin, so we settled in toward the middle and each took a window seat.
Leaving the canals and entering the lagoon felt as if we had set sail on the high seas.
The sky was dotted with big, puffy white clouds that took turns hiding the slanted rays of the sun and turning the water a somber gray.
The water wasn’t choppy, but our speed was faster than on the canals, and soon we were surrounded by water.
I was captivated by the other boats we passed and the way the sunlight shimmered across the water. It amazed me how flat the lagoon was and how you could see for miles, even on this slightly hazy morning.
Before long, we passed the island of Murano, made famous for their glassblowers who had created beautiful works of art for hundreds of years, including the chandelier in our room.
Claire and I had decided the fishing village established on Burano held more interest for us than the artisans of Murano, simply because Burano was more remote.
A light sprinkle began when we disembarked at the dock after our enjoyable forty-minute vaporetto ride. We headed uphill to a wide and almost vacant walkway that led us to the main canal. Small boats with outboard motors were docked in front of each house like a row of cars on a residential street.
The main attraction of Burano was the colorful houses that were visible from our approach via the lagoon and continued as we strolled into the heart of the island.
Each one was painted a different color. They lined up like bright, chunky crayons in a giant box.
According to tradition, the houses had remained colorful to help wayfaring sailors find their way home even in the densest fog.
Most houses were two stories, about the same height, with a front door in the middle, a window on either side of the door, and two windows upstairs.
Many had shutters on the windows. A few had flower boxes.
Without the colors, I think the uniformity would be depressing, especially on overcast, drizzly days like today.
Claire had her hood up, and I pulled out one of the scarves I had brought along in case we visited any churches and were asked to cover our heads. Even with the light rain, the uniform houses were a bright contrast to the muted and repeated colors we had seen everywhere in Venice.
“You know what this reminds me of?” Claire asked. “The houses look like the long containers that are lined up in a freezer case with all the colorful flavors of gelato.”
I laughed. “You’re right. Now let’s find the pistachio house on this street. On the left side. I think it could be that one.”
We stood in front of the door, and I gave a gentle knock.
“You’re sure this is it?” Claire asked.
“I think so. The note says his name is Paolo and he lives in the green house on the left.” I looked over my shoulder. “Yes. This should be it.” I knocked again, this time with more intention.
“Do you think we should leave the basket in front of the door?” Claire asked. “Are there backup instructions?”
I turned the paper over to check. “No.”
I knocked again, this time using my fist. If Claire felt like Little Red Riding Hood, I must have sounded like the Big Bad Wolf.
We waited, exchanging wary expressions.