Sisterchicks in Gondolas! (20 page)

“Yes, like going to Kiev someday.”

“You know what?” Sue said as we walked back to the kitchen. “I’m going to miss those guys.”

She and I didn’t have anything particularly urgent to do in the kitchen. It just had become instinctive for us to go there.

Sue sighed. “When the men first arrived, I couldn’t wait for them to leave so you and I could come up with our own schedule and not have to sleep on the roof. Now I wish they weren’t leaving.”

She and I probably would have broken down into a full-on melancholy fest, but we both spotted something that captured our attention. Netareena was out of her nest and hopping around on the kitchen floor.

“Look at you! You’re up and around. What do you think, Jenna? Should we take her to the window and let her go?” Sue asked.

“I don’t know. Is she ready to fly? Or is she only able to hop?”

Sue leaned down to scoop up the bird, and it took flight. Her wings only carried her about four inches off the ground before she came back down peeping loudly.

“You poor little thing!” Sue reached for the bird again. This time her motions were quicker, and the bird didn’t have as much strength to resist. Sue carefully tucked Netareena in her nest-box. “What do you suppose we can do for her?”

“Keep feeding her. See what happens. She’s almost all the way there.”

We made sure the nest was in a protected location on the kitchen floor and gave Netareena more water and bread crumbs. Then we set to work cleaning up the apartment before the heat of the afternoon poured through the front windows. Sue and I only had the rest of today and the next day to fit in our sightseeing.

I thought about that as we gathered the piles of sheets we stripped from the beds and bundled by each bedroom door. Sue had spent much more time with the tour book than I had, but I knew I better speak up if I wanted to see any particular sights.

We still hadn’t seen the main tourist area of the Piazza San Marco. I was interested in going inside the Basilica of San Marco. The island of Murano still appealed to me as well. But I didn’t feel I had to see any of it. This week already had been so full of every good thing; what more could I ask for?

The truth was, as much as I was enjoying Venice, I could have gone home right then and felt as if I’d seen enough to last me for a lifetime.

Sue and I worked together quickly, remaking the beds, opening the shuttered windows wide to let in the last of the morning breeze, and straightening up each of the rooms. The princess suite was our last room to clean. It
didn’t take long. We collected our luggage from where we had stored it in the broom closet and moved our things into the spacious room.

Sue sat down at the piano and played a hauntingly lovely song. “Do you want to hear something really crazy?” she asked between the long notes.

“Are you going to say you still want to sleep on the roof?”

“No. Why? Is that what you want to do?”

“I was thinking about it. But we’ve waited for our chance to stay here in the princess suite. Even though it’s only for two nights, I suppose we should enjoy the luxury while we can.”

“I agree.”

“What were you going to say? You asked if I wanted to hear something really crazy.”

“I forgot what I was going to say.” Sue kept playing.

I went out on the balcony and made myself comfortable, putting up my feet on one of the chairs. It was just about time for one of my little naps. A “nappini” would have been a good name for my Italian siestas. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back and listened to Sue play a beautiful piece that contained all the high notes. The music sounded fragile.

Ten minutes into my peaceful snooze, after the sun had sufficiently warmed my shoulders so that all my muscles were like linguine, Sue came out on the balcony and stood
next to me. I could feel her presence before I actually cracked open one eye and looked at her. She was gazing down on the canal, humming to herself.

I wished I had my camera. I was sure my brother would love to have a picture of Sue’s profile as I saw it at that moment. He wouldn’t have seen this pose for a long time. I would entitle it “Sue at Peace.”

But the more I studied her through my one eye, opened just a slit, the more I realized her outward appearance was at peace, but her countenance had an invisible butter knife raised over it. She was at peace, yet ready to go to war at the same time.

“Are you awake?” Sue asked in a low voice without turning to look at me.

“Maybe.”

“Do you want to go do something?”

“Maybe.”

“I have several suggestions of what we could do with the rest of the day.”

“And do any of those suggestions involve gelato?”

“Maybe.” Sue turned the tables on my sly answer.

I told her to lead the way, and she did—all the way to the Fondamenta Nuove along the lagoon waterfront. We waited for a vaporetto to take us to the island of Murano.

Only a few other people joined us when we boarded the vaporetto. Several tourists were already on the water-bus when it picked us up. We rode across the moody
water, with sea spray dotting our faces and clinging to the surface of our clothes.

Signs made it easy for us to figure out where to go to see the glassblowers. We entered what looked like an old barn and found several glassblowers at work behind a metal railing. Other visitors shuffled into the small viewing space along with us, and we stood there watching these craftsmen the way people line up at the zoo to watch the lions in their unnatural environment. It felt inhuman to me for these men to be on display, yet at the same time what they were doing was fascinating, and I was glad we could watch.

A young, dynamic man stood at the railing with a glassblown fishbowl in his arms that obviously was for tips. He gave a brief description of the ancient method of heating the sand mixture to such a high temperature that the sand melts. Long metal poles then are inserted in the melted goo and come out looking like a lollipop on a long stick. The poles are turned evenly as the glass cools.

Then the amazing part happens. The artisans blow through the end of the metal pipe, and the air expands the glass ball to whatever shape the men are trying to achieve.

It all happens rapidly, with quick turns of the pole or pipe. Metal tongs are used to shape handles on pitchers while the glass is still white-hot. Delicate stems on crystal goblets take less than a few seconds to shape.

Our guide presented the information in three languages:
English, German, and French. He asked if we had any questions and held out the tip jar with a wide grin. Sue found some tip money and covered the “free” admission for both of us. I wanted to stay and watch two artisans work together on what looked like it would become a large serving bowl. But we were asked to file out through the doors and into the gift shop where rows and rows of glass shelves displayed every sort of glass figurine as well as every useful glass item known to humanity.

I was drawn to the light fixtures hanging overhead. They were like the chandeliers at the palace apartment, intricate with various colors and shapes to form the amazing designs.

“Sue, look at these. Can you see the price tag? How much are these?”

She tried to turn her head just right to see the hanging tag. “I’m not sure. Should we ask someone?”

“Let’s see if this one is marked more clearly.” I moved to the back of the store. “It’s smaller but looks like the same style as the one above our dining room table. Can you read this tag?”

“It says four thousand,” Sue said.

“Four thousand euros?”

“That’s right,” a soft-spoken salesman said, coming up alongside Sue and me. “We pay for the shipping. We have wall sconces that go with this one.”

We both were surprised to receive such a smooth sales
pitch in perfect English and took a moment to respond. In our hesitation, he made a second pitch.

“Our nicer works are for viewing in the private gallery. Would you like to follow me?”

Sue and I looked at each other with expressions that seemed to say, “I’m in if you’re in,” and off we went, following this stranger up three steps and through a door that led into a beautiful, modern display room. We saw other visitors with salesmen, some speaking French, others English, but all of them seemed to be in the midst of haggling over a particular item.

“This way, please.” We followed across the carpeted floor and into a separate room that contained a dozen hanging glass chandeliers. Each of them was a work of art.

“Sweet peaches,” Sue said under her breath.

The light glimmered around the room through all the colors and glass reflections, creating an otherworldly ambience. If ever there was a place where fairies went to dance, this was it.

“I believe you were interested in this particular style?” he pointed to an extravagant piece that came with an equally extravagant price tag. It was the twin of the one hanging in the dining room.

“We should tell you that we aren’t in a position to purchase any of your beautiful fixtures.” I hoped we weren’t going to be thrown out on our ears.

He nodded graciously. “You are welcome to look around. Tell me if I can help.”

“Thank you.”

He left us in the fairy ballroom, and Sue and I stood in silent marvel over all the color and shining diamonds of light that fell on us.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Sue said.

“Me neither. And just think, the place we’re staying at has at least four of these hanging fixtures.”

“And don’t forget all the matching wall sconces.”

“The light fixtures alone at the palace apartment must be worth twenty-five or thirty thousand euros.”

“I feel like we should buy something,” Sue said.

“I think that’s what they’re hoping, but what can we afford?”

“I don’t know. Let’s look around.”

Sue and I prowled with great caution. We didn’t see any “You break it, you bought it” signs, but we had a feeling the policy was in effect nonetheless. After careful searching, Sue found a bowl she loved and hoped she could afford. Our salesman magically reappeared and suggested the price. It was equivalent to about eight hundred dollars.

“Sorry,” Sue said. “I’ll have a look in the shop downstairs. We do appreciate your assistance.”

“My pleasure,” he said, even though we were sure it hadn’t been his pleasure.

Feeling out of place and a little nervous around all that glass, Sue and I left without buying anything and decided to explore the island. The main street that led us into the center of Murano was lined with small gift shops. Each of them carried its own variety of glassware. Several trinket items caught our attention in one store window. We entered and found the prices more within our budget.

Sue bought a glass Christmas tree with tiny colored balls of glass affixed to the ends of the branches. I found a vase that captivated me with its narrow core and fluted rim. The vase was a regal shade of purple with flowers painted on the side. The clerk wrapped it in an Italian newspaper and placed it in a paper bag, then wrapped the bag into a tight bundle and taped the edges. She seemed pleased that we appreciated the items in her store.

Walking on, we came to a large bridge that took us across a canal and over to a row of houses. The housing and the feel on this island were much simpler and smaller than the neighborhoods we had walked through in Venezia. On Murano lived fisherman and tradesman, and their lifestyle was reflected in the surroundings. Laundry hung from lines strung between two houses. Skinny dogs scouted out every corner with their tails in the air. Children held their mama’s hand and looked over their shoulders at us with their big brown eyes asking what we were doing in their neighborhood.

The funny part was that Sue and I felt comfortable
there, off the beaten path, away from the tourist clusters. We stopped at a small café along the canal. Sue said she felt more at home at the café where no one spoke English than we had in the showroom where we had a personal attendant who spoke and understood English well.

Ordering was getting easier for both of us. We had a pretty good idea of what we would receive when we asked for ravioli and lasagna. The only surprise was the
malaga
gelato Sue ordered for dessert. We found out later it was a rum raisin flavor.

Sue gave it a 9.

“Really?”

“Why? What would you give it?”

“A 5. Maybe a 6.”

“It’s better than a 5 or a 6. This flavor is sweet and dense without being too complicated.”

“It sounds like you’re describing your cat,” I teased.

“Hey, leave Moochie out of this.”

“I’m going to tell Moochie you replaced him with a bird while you were away from home. I wonder what he’ll do then.”

“You’re so mean.”

“I know. I need another nappini.”

“Come on,” Sue said. “Let’s start walking. We just sat too long and ate too much. Pasta has that affect, you know.”

“And gelato doesn’t?”

Sue ignored me and led the way on a personalized tour of more of the Murano island. She said she had studied the map before we took off, but I was beginning to doubt it when she led us down some pretty quiet alleyways. I was aware of the open windows just above our heads and kept my voice low in case some siestas were going on inside those homes.

We came out of the maze and walked along another canal where a row of lovely shade trees umbrellaed several park benches. The softest scent of sea salt mixed with firm green leaves. In a place of endless cobblestones and canal water, where green grass was as foreign as automobiles, the scent that met us was the closest touch of earth I remembered smelling in a week.

“This is what I wanted to see.” Sue motioned to the right. “This is the
Santi Maria e Donato
church built in the seventh century and restored in the twelfth. I wanted to see the marble zigzag pattern used between the double-tiered arches.”

I drew in one more deep breath of the green earth and tried to keep up with Sue.

She stopped and took in the view of the church. The two-story structure we were facing was a beautiful shade of wheat toast and soft rose. On the top floor and bottom floor were double white columns spaced between six alcoves.