feeling a warm breeze rise from the expanse of salty sea.
Sue nodded and used her menu to fan herself. “I should have worn a short-sleeve shirt like you. Mine all need to be ironed. This is a different kind of heat than we have at home. It feels more penetrating and not as humid.”
I made agreeing sounds and scanned the menu. Everything was listed in Italian, but the names were familiar: lasagna, ravioli, and manicotti. This was going to be easy.
The waiter stepped up and asked something in Italian.
Sue jumped in and said, “Hello. I’d like the lasagna,
por favor
. Oh, wait, that’s Spanish again. How do y’all say ‘please’ in Italian? By any chance do you speak English?”
He pinched his thumb and first finger together. “A little.”
“Good. I would like the lasagna and sweet tea with lots of ice.”
I mentioned to Sue they wouldn’t have sweet tea here. They might have hot tea, but iced tea, sweet or otherwise, wasn’t a likely beverage to find in Italy.
She looked back at the waiter. “Just a bottle of water then. Lasagna and water with lots of ice.”
I ordered the lasagna and water as well. After our waiter stepped away, I tried to explain to Sue why it also wasn’t likely she would be served ice with her water. Unless things had changed considerably in European dining since my last visit, ice rarely was served. I told her about one time in Belgium, on a record-breaking summer afternoon, when a friend of mine begged for ice for her drink. The waiter brought a serving bowl with big chunks of icicles to her, as if he had just chipped the frost out of a freezer with a hatchet. After that we learned to adapt to warm soft drinks.
“Guess I have some adjusting to do.” She didn’t sound thrilled at the thought. “If you don’t mind my saying it, Jenna, you didn’t tell me how limiting things were going to be here in the deep end.”
I leaned in closer. “But you’re lovin’ it, aren’t you?”
“I’m adjusting,” she said ambiguously.
A luxurious cruiser boat motored past our restaurant,carrying what looked like a family, including a dog with his snout to the wind and a grandma who sat in the back, wearing a scarf over her hair. The dad at the helm was using one hand to steer and the other hand to express his feelings to his son, who was standing up and appeared to be arguing with his sister. The boy sat down and folded his arms in disgust. It could have been a Rockwell painting of any family on their way home from vacation, but this family just happened to be going home on a boat instead of in an old Ford station wagon.
Sue looked past all the Sunday afternoon boating traffic. “I wonder if that island over there is the island of Murano. I read about that one in the tour book. It’s where they make glass, with the craftsmen demonstrating how glass is blown the ancient way. I’d like to go there if it works out. Oh, wait, I still have the map.” Sue pulled it out and pointed to the island across the water from us. “Is that it?”
“Isola di San Michele,”
I read the words on the map. In parenthesis was the word
“Cimitero.”
“Cimitero,” I repeated and went scrounging for my Italian phrase book. Looking up at Sue, I announced, “That’s the cemetery.”
“The whole island?”
“I don’t know. Possibly. A lot of people have lived in Venice for a lot of years.”
“Creepy,” Sue said, giving a little shiver. We found Murano on the map and were happy to see that it was justthe next island over from the cimitero. We even figured out what vaporetto we could take to Murano and the best time of day to observe the glassblowing.
In the midst of our planning, our waiter arrived with lunch. The water came in a tall plastic bottle with two glasses and no ice. We put away the map and tour book and dove into the lasagna. The meat sauce was flavorful with sausage and herbs and a wonderful balance of light cheese and marinara sauce. I counted seven layers of thin lasagna
Sue nodded and used her menu to fan herself. “I should have worn a short-sleeve shirt like you. Mine all need to be ironed. This is a different kind of heat than we have at home. It feels more penetrating and not as humid.”
I made agreeing sounds and scanned the menu. Everything was listed in Italian, but the names were familiar: lasagna, ravioli, and manicotti. This was going to be easy.
The waiter stepped up and asked something in Italian.
Sue jumped in and said, “Hello. I’d like the lasagna,
por favor
. Oh, wait, that’s Spanish again. How do y’all say ‘please’ in Italian? By any chance do you speak English?”
He pinched his thumb and first finger together. “A little.”
“Good. I would like the lasagna and sweet tea with lots of ice.”
I mentioned to Sue they wouldn’t have sweet tea here. They might have hot tea, but iced tea, sweet or otherwise, wasn’t a likely beverage to find in Italy.
She looked back at the waiter. “Just a bottle of water then. Lasagna and water with lots of ice.”
I ordered the lasagna and water as well. After our waiter stepped away, I tried to explain to Sue why it also wasn’t likely she would be served ice with her water. Unless things had changed considerably in European dining since my last visit, ice rarely was served. I told her about one time in Belgium, on a record-breaking summer afternoon, when a friend of mine begged for ice for her drink. The waiter brought a serving bowl with big chunks of icicles to her, as if he had just chipped the frost out of a freezer with a hatchet. After that we learned to adapt to warm soft drinks.
“Guess I have some adjusting to do.” She didn’t sound thrilled at the thought. “If you don’t mind my saying it, Jenna, you didn’t tell me how limiting things were going to be here in the deep end.”
I leaned in closer. “But you’re lovin’ it, aren’t you?”
“I’m adjusting,” she said ambiguously.
A luxurious cruiser boat motored past our restaurant,carrying what looked like a family, including a dog with his snout to the wind and a grandma who sat in the back, wearing a scarf over her hair. The dad at the helm was using one hand to steer and the other hand to express his feelings to his son, who was standing up and appeared to be arguing with his sister. The boy sat down and folded his arms in disgust. It could have been a Rockwell painting of any family on their way home from vacation, but this family just happened to be going home on a boat instead of in an old Ford station wagon.
Sue looked past all the Sunday afternoon boating traffic. “I wonder if that island over there is the island of Murano. I read about that one in the tour book. It’s where they make glass, with the craftsmen demonstrating how glass is blown the ancient way. I’d like to go there if it works out. Oh, wait, I still have the map.” Sue pulled it out and pointed to the island across the water from us. “Is that it?”
“Isola di San Michele,”
I read the words on the map. In parenthesis was the word
“Cimitero.”
“Cimitero,” I repeated and went scrounging for my Italian phrase book. Looking up at Sue, I announced, “That’s the cemetery.”
“The whole island?”
“I don’t know. Possibly. A lot of people have lived in Venice for a lot of years.”
“Creepy,” Sue said, giving a little shiver. We found Murano on the map and were happy to see that it was justthe next island over from the cimitero. We even figured out what vaporetto we could take to Murano and the best time of day to observe the glassblowing.
In the midst of our planning, our waiter arrived with lunch. The water came in a tall plastic bottle with two glasses and no ice. We put away the map and tour book and dove into the lasagna. The meat sauce was flavorful with sausage and herbs and a wonderful balance of light cheese and marinara sauce. I counted seven layers of thin lasagna
Similar Books
