Staying indoors today was a wise move because the temperature hit 102 in Rome. But at least it was overcast, so the sun wasn’t quite so intense. Gary slept until almost noon, still adjusting to the time zone change. We are nine hours ahead of California, which means that his body rhythms are out of whack.
I still had food in the “Barbie doll refrigerator,” so I thought I’d better cook some lunch instead of going out. I chopped the last of the tomatoes, peeled and shaved some garlic, tore up some fresh basil (which was wilting quickly), and put the pot of water on to boil. Just as I was softening the garlic in some olive oil, I received a message from Donna-Renée. She and David had just arrived from Florence, but they couldn’t check into their hotel room yet. Could they come by our place? It was not very far from the hotel.
Sure! I texted my address, telling her it was on the block behind the Ministry of Public Education, a large structure that was hard to miss. I put some ravioli in to boil, added the tomatoes and basil to the garlic, and set out a plate with cheeses, olives, lupini, fennel, and bread. I was sure they would be hot and hungry after their train ride.
Gary woke and set the table, though he protested that he wasn’t hungry. No matter. The rest of us could eat while he sat at the table with something to drink. When the ravioli was done, I drained it and added it to the pan with the tomatoes. More cooking so it would absorb the juices and flavor from the tomatoes.
I set aside a bowl of the pasta water after having read that Italian women have beautiful skin because they apply pasta water to their faces and bodies. A joke? An old wives’ tale? A secret to lovely smooth skin? It didn’t hurt to try. My daughter and I would see if the magic really worked.
Another phone call. David and Dona-Renée had become separated at the station, and she didn’t know where he was. So, they may as well go ahead to their hotel instead of coming by. Thud. What was I going to do with all this ravioli?
Was Gary even a tiny bit hungry? No, he was going to check his email and relax on the couch. So, I took my place at the table, ate my ravioli, and cleaned up the kitchen. “Kitchen” is a misnomer. The entire space was about the size of a large restaurant table. Yet it included a cupboard for pots, another for dishes, two drawers for flatware and utensils, and a small stove, a sink, and an under-the-counter refrigerator along one side. There was no place for dry food storage. I will never again complain about the size of my kitchen at home.
I washed dishes and pans, stacked them on the tiny dish drainer, and separated the trash – organic, paper, plastic, glass, and everything else. The unused dishes and food were left on the table in case my daughter changed her mind. Gary had already gone back to bed and was asleep again.
OK, what to do now? We needed some aqua frizzante and some bread, so I walked the few blocks to the grocery store. The heat wasn’t too bad, actually, thanks to the overcast skies. Carefour, the small store, was well stocked, and I was tempted to buy a pasticiotta in the pastry case, but I passed it by. A woman behind the deli counter was chatting amiably with a man she obviously knew. Two other women wandered the aisled, filling their baskets with fruit, cereal, and other necessities. I pondered buying more stuff, but with only two days remaining in Rome, I thought better of it. I already had too much in the refrigerator, plus the lunch leftovers.
I paid the cashier for my two bottles of water and my package of toasted bread. No, I don’t need a bag, thanks. I picked up my change and walked back into the day’s heat. Suddenly, it began to rain as I crossed Via Trastevere. Not real rain. Just big fat plops that left a mosaic of wet spots on the street. I stood there on the sidewalk enjoying the sensation and hoping for more. But as quickly as it had started, the rain ended.
Back at the apartment, I put the bottled water in the refrigerator and found a spot for the bread. Gary was still asleep. So, I grabbed my Audible book, went to Piazza San Cosimoto, and got into the next couple of chapters. All around me, people went about their daily business. A woman struggled to catch her breath as she walked up an incline while talking on the phone. A tall thin man passed by, lost in his own thoughts. Two young girls giggled at some shared joke.
Getting bored with my book, I took some photos of a mosaic, trying to catch patterns rather than the full image. I wasn’t sure they were any good. Some photos of people unaware. And then back to the apartment. Gary was still asleep, so I sat in the coolness and checked my email. My daughter sent a message that we should meet at a neighborhood restaurant for dinner at 8:30. Our former Italian student Matteo, now back in the Rome area, wanted to see us.
I checked the location. Only a few blocks away – an easy walk. No taxi necessary.
Gary woke around 6pm, and I informed him about dinner. He noticed that lunch was still on the table and asked what he should do with it. We put the cheese and olives back into the refrigerator, but the ravioli was not going to fit. So, into the trash it went. I wanted to be upset, but I was the one who had assumed that everyone would be hungry. And you know what they say about making assumptions.
Gary complained about an upset stomach, but he didn’t seem unwell enough not to have dinner. So, at the appointed hour, we walked the few blocks to the restaurant. After a short wait, my daughter arrived with David and Matteo. Hugs all around. “You are still beautiful!” Matteo gushed.
Seated at an outdoor table, we caught up on news. What was Matteo up to now? Was he returning to California, as he’d planned? Was he still playing soccer? Had he really reconnected with his father? How was that going? What? He was thinking of moving to Dubai? Or maybe we could adopt him so he could have American citizenship!
Our Italian conversation was flying around the table. “We are talking past Gary and David,” I said. “We shouldn’t do that. They don’t speak or understand Italian.” Gary said it was fine, but I knew it wasn’t. Our discussion switched to watching people pass by on the street. Although Matteo professed to being more selective about women now, valuing them more for personality than for appearance, we noticed that his eyes still popped out whenever a particularly attractive young woman walked by. And there were plenty of those.
Gary complained of feeling hot and unwell. I checked his forehead – cold and clammy. “What does that mean?” he asked. I replied, “That you aren’t running a fever.” My daughter handed him her fan. He started to feel a little better, but not much. “Where does it hurt?” I asked him. He pointed to his abdomen. “That’s good,” I said. “It isn’t in your chest.”
“But I do have this pain running down my left arm,” he joked. I smacked him.
It was almost 11pm. Time to pay up and go back to our respective lodgings. We walked together down Via Trastevere. Donna-Renée and David’s hotel was only a few blocks past our street. “I used to come here all the time!” Matteo said excitedly when he realized that Gary and I were staying near Piazza San Cosimoto. “I went to the school, and we would ride our bikes all around here!”
More hugs. More promises to see each other again sometime. And then Gary and I were unlocking the front door and entering the cool apartment.