Page 5 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)
The traveller sees what he sees; the tripper sees what he has come to see.
G.K. Chesterton
Holding my finger up to let the woman know I would be right back, I scooted to our room and was surprised to see that Claire was up and dressed and ready to go.
We grabbed our cross-body bags that contained everything we’d need for the day and exchanged glances that reflected how excited we were to seize the day.
Following the woman along a side path that bordered the restaurant, we discovered an exit that took us through a gate.
I noticed that a fob was required to return through the clandestine passageway.
Exiting and knowing we held the key that would let us back in made me feel like we were Venetian insiders. I loved our little hideaway.
The world beyond the garden and over the short bridge was a different scene than what we had experienced on our arrival in the fog.
Sunlight transformed the open space of the campo.
Last night, the same area had felt medieval.
This morning, people walked about, starting the new day.
Nearly every balcony on the buildings had flower boxes from which long strands of green foliage cascaded.
In the doorways were clay pots with bright red and pink geraniums.
A shop owner rolled up a metal garage door, exposing gleaming shop windows where shanks of preserved meat hung.
Against the wall next to his shop, a woman set up a table and was arranging signs in front of baskets of various fruits.
The two of them carried on a lively conversation as if they were longtime friends.
To the right of the butcher shop was a café with small round tables set up in front.
We moved as one toward the open door of the café.
The gorgeous scent of coffee encircled us.
Until this moment, the only two words the older woman had said to us were “Buongiorno” and “cappuccino.” I realized how odd it was that I trusted her, followed her here, and hadn’t asked any questions.
She seemed to know us, or at least know that we were welcome guests in her corner of the world.
This was a strange and lovely sort of hospitality.
We took seats around an outdoor table. Claire leaned forward and in an uneasy-sounding voice said, “I’m Claire. Did you meet Grace?”
The woman gave a calm nod of hello.
“Is it okay if we speak English?” I asked. “We have translator apps on our phones if that would be better.”
“No. English is preferred.” The woman smoothed back the sides of her white hair. “I’m Paulina.”
“Oh!” Claire and I remarked in unison. My twinges of apprehension dissipated. Claire leaned back and her shoulders relaxed.
“Thank you for the roses and the card,” I said.
“Prego. You’re welcome.”
I didn’t detect an accent in any of her words.
“I trust you had everything you needed last night?” Paulina asked.
“Yes. The room is beautiful, and we slept very well,” Claire said. “Or, at least I slept well.”
A nicely dressed man approached us and greeted Paulina warmly. They chatted a moment, and then she turned to us and asked, “May I order for us?”
We both nodded.
A plodding pigeon sauntered over to peruse our area for crumbs.
The man at the table next to us shooed it away.
Sunlight broke through a space between the buildings and spread a glow over our table.
I wanted to take a picture so I could remember this fresh morning and the charm of the plaza.
But I didn’t want to dig for my phone. I preferred taking the time to just drink it in with my eyes and capture our surroundings the way someone who lived here would.
“I’m glad you’ve come to Venice,” Paulina said. “One of you has a mother who came here some time ago. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I said. “My mother-in-law, Sue, came with her sister-in-law, Jenna.”
“I didn’t meet them,” Paulina said. “But I know they stayed in a place one of my relatives used to rent to special guests.”
“She loved her visit. She said it changed her life. We appreciate you letting us stay at your place. We feel like special guests.”
“It is our privilege to have you. My husband’s family has a quiet ministry of caring for pilgrims. It started long before I first came to Venice.”
“When did you come here?” Claire asked.
“I was eighteen. Some girlfriends and I were backpacking around Europe for the summer. We were on a vaporetto on our way to the youth hostel, and that’s where I met Nico.
” She paused and smiled softly. “We were a love-at-first-sight couple. He invited my friends and me to have dinner with his family that night. Within minutes, I knew I had found my new family and my new home. That was forty-seven years ago. I have only been back to Missouri four times.”
“You’re from Missouri?” Claire sounded as surprised as I was. Paulina appeared distinctively Venetian from her nicely tailored clothes, elegant expression, and skin that looked remarkably smooth for her age.
Our waiter returned with our cappuccinos served in small white cups on saucers. A cube of sugar was balanced on the edge of the saucer along with a small spoon. He also served a pastry to each of us on a plate.
“Perfect way to start the day,” Claire said. “I love croissants.”
“Cornetti,” Paulina corrected her. “We improved on the French by adding eggs. Ours are better. You’ll see.”
She was right. The flavor was sweeter than a typical croissant. I followed Paulina’s example and took a small bite of cornetto followed by a sip of cappuccino. Her bites and sips were as refined and dainty as she was. I tried to imitate her pace.
Claire may have been incorrect about the croissant, but she was right about how this was an enjoyable way to start the day.
We chatted comfortably about where we were from and our families.
I was sad when Paulina told us that Nico had passed away three years ago.
It was evident that their love for each other had been unwavering, in spite of the differences in culture.
Changing the subject, Paulina asked, “What have you come to Venice to see?”
Claire pulled out her phone and read our list of the main points of interest. We had prepaid passes for the vaporetto, downloaded maps of Venice, and a list of the times when museums and churches were open.
A gondola ride was on our list along with seven options for highly recommended places to eat.
I noticed that Claire didn’t recite the names of the gelaterias on her list.
Paulina made no comments on our itinerary. Instead, she motioned for the waiter to bring the check. “I am going to the Frari this morning,” she said. “Would you like to come with me?”
Claire and I exchanged questioning glances. Neither of us knew what a Frari was, nor did we know why Paulina was inviting us to go there with her.
“We have time,” I told Claire. We’d gotten an earlier start than we expected, and none of the places we planned to visit were open yet. It would be nice to have a fellow American who had lived in Venice for forty-seven years take us to a place she was familiar with, even if it was a big unknown.
“Okay,” Claire answered for both of us. “Sure.”
“I was hoping you would want to come.”
Paulina insisted on paying for our breakfast and led the way at an impressively brisk pace.
Claire and I had to pick up our usual stride to keep up with her as we turned down curved walkways and trotted over several footbridges.
We wandered through a forest of three-story buildings, and I soon lost all sense of direction.
Anxiety started to creep into my thoughts.
I hoped we would be able to navigate our way out of wherever she was taking us.
We crossed another bridge over a narrow canal, and in front of us stood a huge building with an imposing entrance. Above the door and on both sides were life-size statues.
“What is this?” Claire asked.
“This is the Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari,” Paulina said.
“Frari?” Claire repeated. “This is where you wanted to take us? To a church?”
“My family worships here,” Paulina said. “It’s the largest basilica in Venice.” She checked her watch. “They will be nearing the end of the morning meditation. We want to be seated before the Office of Readings.”
Claire gave my sweater a discreet tug. I was pretty sure that if she had known we were going to a church and were now being ushered into a service, she probably would have declined the offer to accompany Paulina.
“What would you like to do?” I whispered. “I’d like to go with her, but if you don’t want to, we can bow out.”
Paulina had moved on ahead of us, making her way along the side of the church rather than going through the front door.
Claire paused. She seemed to be sorting through the options of what we could do this early in the day. With a slight twitch of her mouth she said, “It’s okay. Let’s go with her. We’re trying new things, right?”
Paulina led us through a side entrance. I remembered that when we were in Rome, my mother and I had to cover our heads, shoulders, and knees before we could enter the churches.
Paulina didn’t put on a scarf, and all three of us had our shoulders and knees covered, so I guessed we were dressed modestly enough to enter.
The scent of lingering incense, beeswax candles, and old, musty wood was the first impression that hit me. Next was the way sounds seemed to rise and somehow evaporate before bouncing off the immensely high ceilings. The interior was enormous and ornate in every direction.
Paulina led us to an alcove where a dozen or so older people sat scattered in the first few rows of the narrow wooden pews. If these were the original pews, worshipers must have been much smaller when it was built.