Page 19 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

Il dolce far niente.

The art of doing nothing.

Italian saying

“They are different than sugar cookies or shortbread,” Claire said once we were in our seats on the vaporetto. “It’s the lemon. I love it. Do you think it’s lemon juice or zest?”

“You can ask our chef when we take our cooking class.”

“I will. Her name is Amelia. I’m really looking forward to our class and staying at the villa.

” Claire leaned back. “But first, to review our options for the rest of the day. We have three museums on the list, the opera house, and of course, ninety-nine more churches if you want to see more church decor. And we can still go to Murano and see the glassblowers. What would you like to do?”

“Would it be terrible to say that all I want to do is go back to our apartment, eat the rest of this bag of cookies, and read a book?”

“See? This is why you and I are so perfect for each other.” Claire grinned. “Yes, please. Let’s do nothing. That’s very Italian. I heard someone say that. Who said it? ‘The art of doing nothing.’”

“Love that.”

“Doing nothing followed, of course, by a scrumptious dinner,” Claire added.

“Of course. And I might add a little napini to our afternoon.”

“Napini?” Claire repeated. “I thought Paulina called the afternoon rest time a riposo.”

I grinned. “Tomato, tow-mah-tow, riposo, napini. Same, same.”

Claire held out the open bag of cookies to me. “Take two. They’re small.”

I laughed. “That was your advice that got us into this overstocked situation. I’m going to wait.”

We arrived at our room and went to work carrying out our delicious plan.

We figured out how to make tea with the supplies in our kitchenette and took some water, our mugs of tea, and cookies to the chairs under the tree because the afternoon was too nice to stay inside.

I could nap as easily with a book in my lap as I could if I were stretched out on a bed.

A small table had been placed between the two chairs and provided enough space for our plate of cookies, water, and mugs of tea. I pulled out my journal and my phone, eager to transfer to the page all the insights I had collected that day.

Claire had smoothed down the first page in her journal. Instead of writing in it, she pulled the bouquet of colored pencils from her bag and began sketching.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

“I don’t know either. Nobody knows!” Claire chuckled. “That’s because I never tried.” She squinted and tilted her head, focusing on the walkway that led to the fountain. “I am trying something new.”

I turned my chair so I could catch the stream of afternoon light more fully and began writing.

I didn’t know if I could create an interesting summary of our experiences so far, but like Claire, I wanted to try something new.

The last few lines I wrote were about Claire’s insight at the restaurant and how I needed to stop being afraid.

Lowering my pen, I realized I didn’t want to write more about being afraid.

I didn’t want to fall into a rabbit hole of overanalyzing.

That would be doing something, and the point of us sitting here under the tree was to do nothing.

Closing my journal, I reached for another cookie and glanced over at Claire’s masterpiece.

She had dipped a blue colored pencil into her glass of water and was making slow strokes, filling in the outline of the basin of the fountain with the watery pale shade.

“Pretty,” I said.

“Thanks. This is fun. I love having downtime, don’t you?” Claire replied. “Let’s make sure we have another afternoon like this along the way.”

“Agreed.”

I gazed at two small birds balanced on the edge of the fountain, taking leisurely sips of the cool water, and whispered a heartfelt “Thank You” for the gift of the moment as I experienced the art of doing nothing in Venice.

Closing my eyes and resting my folded hands on my midriff, I listened to the muffled sounds around us and drifted in and out of a daydream. I couldn’t remember the last time I had soaked myself in stillness.

I was roused by Claire’s low voice. “Another pilgrim?”

I squinted to see that a young woman had entered our private Eden and was using her fob to open the door to apartment number three. She was close enough for us to see that her only luggage was a backpack dotted with patches from around the globe.

I stretched and wandered over to the raised garden beds. Something in me longed to press my fingers into the soil. I wanted to feel the dirt and see how the tomatoes were progressing. Out of habit, I picked off a few dead leaves and ruffled the frilly tops of the carrots.

Paulina exited her apartment. Riposo was over, and she had come outside prepared to do some gardening.

“Would you like to join me?” She held out a basket.

“Our chef needs eight of these.” She gently pushed back the spiky, full leaves that covered the zucchini, and together we checked for the ripest ones.

“These are beautiful,” I said.

“Paolo used to call them naso, which means ‘nose.’” She looked up. “How was your visit with him? Did you have any problems finding his cottage?”

“No. He was very appreciative.”

“Bene. Good. Was he well?”

“Yes, he seemed to be.”

“Paolo is one of my husband’s many uncles. He was our chef here at Trattoria da Tommaso for forty-five years. His wife wanted to return to Burano where she grew up so she could spend her last years near her sister. He stayed on after she passed.”

I plucked a ripe zucchini and placed it in the basket, wishing I had known that interesting bit of information about Paolo before we called on him.

“I try to get to Burano at least once a month to see him and take a small gift from this garden he started so long ago,” Paulina said. “Thank you for being my hands and feet today.”

“Of course. You’re welcome.” I felt humbled and wished I hadn’t been so timid about lingering at his home a little longer and visiting with him, even if our communication wasn’t clear.

“Paolo taught me everything about cooking and ospitalità.” Paulina put the final green “nose” into her basket and looked at me. She reminded me of one of the brown birds at the fountain by the way she tilted her head. “Do you know the meaning of the word ‘hospitality’?”

Before I answered, she told me. “It means showing love to strangers.”

It took a moment for her words to settle on me.

As I was growing up in a large house filled with expectations, hospitality always felt like a grand production.

We had to be on our best behavior, pull out the crystal, and try to impress the important, equally wealthy people who came through the front door.

Paulina’s description of hospitality was different.

She didn’t know Claire and me, and yet she had welcomed us into her apartment complex, her garden, and her church.

I was trying to form a reply that described the gratitude I felt at that moment.

I wanted to thank her for including us in her life and showing us so many gifts of kindness and love.

But I was slow in coming up with adequate words, and our attention was diverted by a middle-aged couple who entered the courtyard, pulling their wheeled suitcases behind them.

Paulina brushed the soil from her hands and went to greet them. I could hear their accents and Paulina saying something about their flight from Oslo, so I guessed they were from Norway.

A few moments later, another pilgrim stepped into the garden. He emerged from apartment number five and reminded me of a mountain climber. His long, curly hair was wet, as if he had just taken a long-awaited shower after many hours of travel.

Claire and I hung back as introductions were made, but Paulina quickly included us.

We smiled and shook hands, but the names didn’t stick in my brain.

I think I was still trying to process what Paulina had said about hospitality and trying to shake off the regret I had about not showing more of that “love to strangers” to Paolo.

“I would like all of you to be my guests at dinner tonight,” Paulina said. “Would nine o’clock work for you?”

The others agreed quickly. Claire and I exchanged glances before accepting the invitation. We gathered up our things and returned to our room, relinquishing the chairs under the tree to the Norwegian couple, who had entered a focused conversation with each other in their native language.

“We could bow out of dinner with everyone, if you would like,” I said, heading for the bathroom to wash up. “Did you want to eat somewhere else tonight?”

“No. I think it would be nice to eat here again. I heard Paulina telling you about Paolo and her family connections. I feel like she’s invited us to be part of that.”

“I know. I feel the same way. Showing love to strangers. Did you hear that part?”

Claire didn’t answer because someone knocked on the door and she went to answer it. The bathroom door was closed, so I couldn’t clearly hear what she was saying. When I exited, Claire was reaching for her jacket.

“The others are going to St. Mark’s,” she said. “For the sunset. They invited us to go with them. I think it would be fun. Do you want to come? Safety in numbers, if you’re worried about running into another Raphael.”

A few minutes later our group of six traipsed single file toward “Europe’s drawing room,” with Claire at the front of the line.

I listened as the others visited, getting to know each other.

The young woman who had arrived with the backpack was from Canada.

Her name was Lexie. She was curious to hear about our travel plans, saying she was gleaning ideas for where to go after Venice.

“We have train tickets to Florence in the morning,” Claire said. “We’re taking a cooking class at a villa in Tuscany.”

“That sounds fun,” Lexie said. “Are you both cooks?”

“I’m not,” I chimed in. “Claire is. She’s a great cook.”