Taking Tuscany (5 page)

“Excuse me, Sister, but how on earth did you learn to climb like that?”

“Oh, I haven't spent my whole life inside a convent, you know. I've done a lot of climbing in my day. I'm not in bad shape for my age. Now, how about if you just line Caesar up along this wall and I'll hop on behind you.”

I nudge Caesar as close to the wall as I can. Sure enough, Sister Aggie lifts her habit above her knees and slips right on behind me.

“Oh, Angelina, you have no idea how much this means to me.”

Somehow I think I do.

Sister Aggie wraps her arms around my waist. “Let's run.”

I give Caesar a quick nudge with my heels and he takes off. Normally I have to nudge him like crazy just to get him to trot for me, but tonight he seems to know we have special cargo on board, and he takes to the wind like a young stallion. We canter through the fields with a breeze on our faces, and Sister's long black habit billowing out behind us.

When we reach the top of the ridge, I turn to Sister Aggie. “Do you want to drive now?”

“I'd love to,” she says.

We decide it might be easier to try to switch places while still on the horse, rather than climb off and on again—in case we can't get back up. Swinging both legs to one side, I attempt to scoot around Sister Aggie. She does the same. We get so tangled up, we nearly fall off, laughing. After much finagling, we manage to switch places. Sister Aggie takes the reins. She gives Caesar a swift kick “
Corriamo
!” Let's run!

And away we fly.

This will be one ride to remember. I was hoping something special would happen to help mark this day in history—my last day of being thirteen. But I never in my wildest dreams pictured doing anything like this. I feel like I'm back in medieval times playing Capture the Castle. Sister Aggie, Caesar, Napoleon, and I—together, in these dark rolling hills, we're taking Tuscany.

3

Buon Compleanno

(Happy Birthday)

Saturday morning, with no regard for my
Do Not Disturb the Princess
doorknob hanger, Mama bursts into my room tooting an obnoxious party horn. “Rise-n-shine, princess! Time for the birthday surprise!”

“What is it?” I mumble, from beneath my pillow.

“C'mon, your father and the boys have been working all summer for this moment.” She pulls open my drapes so the sun is shining right in my face the second I come out from under my pillow.

“Come look. You'll love it.”

Imagine my enthusiasm.
I drag my body from bed and sleepwalk to the window. Once the sunshine jolts my eyeballs awake, I see Daddy and my brothers down by the pool. And there's water in it. Water … in the pool. They fixed the pool … “Mama, they fixed the pool!”

“Yes, they did—just in time for your birthday. C'mon, let's go take a look.”

I fly down the winding staircase and out the door, letting everyone in Tuscany know how excited I am to have a pool for the rest of the blasted hot summer. “
La mia propria piscina
!” My own swimming pool!

“Happy birthday!” Daddy and the boys yell, as I skid to a stop on the pool patio.

Shiny blue and gold tiles—all whole—no chips or cracks. And water—it actually holds water. I knew they'd been working on it, but I thought it would take years—like everything else around here.

Mama makes it down the hill shortly after me. “Well, kiddo, we thought you might like to have a pool party for your big day.”

My smile quickly fades. “A … pool … party?”

“Sure, invite some of your friends to come over to swim.”

Friends?
Let's see … a pool party with a horse, a dog, and a nun.
“
Mama, I don't … have … friends.”

“Nonsense, A. J. What about all of your friends from school?”

“
All
my school friends? Like who?”

“Like … that little French doll, Bianca?”

“Mama, Bianca was the
only
friend I had, and she's spending her summer in the south of France.” Has she not noticed I've been alone since school got out?

“Well, I'm sure there are other kids around here your age …”

“Okay, you find them and I'll invite them.”

Daddy throws his arm around my shoulder. “How about we all go out to San Gimignano for the day? We can have lunch, do some shopping, then come back and go for a swim.”

“Sure.” Why not? That will help take the focus off of the fact that I have no friends.

“It's a plan!” Mama yells, like this is just the best idea to come down the pike in a good long time. “Everyone change into something decent and be ready to go in an hour. I'll get Nonna ready.”

“
Nonna
?” Daddy and I say in unison.

“Yes, Nonna
.
This is a
family
celebration, is it not?”

An hour later all seven of us squeeze into a Fiat that was made to seat four. Apparently no one has heard of station wagons in this country. It's probably just as well that Adriana isn't here to join us or they'd have to strap one of us on the luggage rack. Actually I'm pretty sure it already crossed Daddy's mind when he tried to help Nonna into the front seat. She told him to get his cotton-pickin' hands off of her. Poor Daddy. He really tries, but Nonna won't give him an inch. He has to drive all the way to San Gimignano enduring Nonna's commentary on what a
scemo del villaggio
he is. Village idiot.

San Gimignano is a walled medieval city upon a hill. It's perched on one of the highest lookout points, partway between Siena and Florence. Daddy insists on parking at the bottom of the hill so we can all work up an appetite getting up there. I think he needs to air out a little after listening to Nonna all the way here. He's probably hoping it will wear her out so she'll have less to say for the rest of the afternoon.

It's a steep trek to the top, but once you get there, you feel like you're on the top of the world. There's an open marketplace where people sell their goods, artists paint pictures, and restaurants have a panoramic view as far as the eye can see. It's as good a place as any to turn fourteen.

“Okay, birthday girl, choose your bistro!” Another birthday tradition in this family—we either get to choose the meal we want Mama to cook for us, or the restaurant we want to eat at. We've all wised up over the years. Beyond macaroni and cheese, everyone's better off with plan B. Of course, I choose the restaurant at the summit. That works for everyone but Nonna, who complains the entire way up. It's all worth it once we reach the top, though. We're seated at an outdoor table with a knockout view. And a darn cute waiter to go with it.

Everything is white tablecloths and napkins here, the kind you don't want to spill anything on. The waiter comes by and asks for our drink order. I'm doing my best to explain in Italian what a Shirley Temple is. He keeps nodding, but I'm not sure he really gets what I'm saying. I tell him “7UP
con lo sciroppo rosso,”
7UP with
red syrup. Won't be the first time something I've ordered comes back wrong. It's become entertainment for the entire family to see what these Italians come up with when we try to order something American style.

Without warning Mama reaches into her humongous metallic red handbag and pulls out a big gold box. “Open it!” she says.

There is always cause for hesitation when Mama's excited about something she's picked out for me. I don't recall the last time I actually liked something she bought for me—I think it may have been a pink jumper when I was three years old.

I slowly untie the big gold bow, while trying to peek under the lid—just to know what to brace myself for.
Oh, good golly.
I've trained myself to smile no matter what … but …
this?
I lift out the most horrific one-piece, shimmery silver unit that looks like it's made from fish scales. “What is it?”

“It's a jumpsuit.” Mama looks thrilled over her selection.

“A jumpsuit?”
As in something so incredibly ugly you want to jump off a cliff in it?

“Adriana helped me pick it out on our shopping trip in Rome. Adriana says …”

I know, I know … it's the latest thing in fashion this year.

“… it's the latest thing in fashion this year.”

Maybe for reptiles.
“It's very … shiny. Thank you.”
I'll be sure and wear it the first day of school so everyone can establish right from the get-go that I'm a total dork. Thank goodness for uniforms.

“Go try it on while we're waiting for our drinks,” Mama insists.

Are you joking?
“Here?”

“Sure. Just slip it on in the ladies' loo—I'm dying to see it on you.”

It's futile to fight Mama once she makes up her mind that she wants to see something on you. The last time she pulled this was in Florence, where she insisted I try on some black leather pants intended for Adriana's birthday present. She had to see them on me and try to envision them on Adriana. I tried to point out that, although we were the same size around, Adriana was a good foot taller than me. I ended up standing on a chair in the middle of the store, looking nearly as ridiculous as I look right now in this jumpsuit.

Trudging my way back from the loo to our table, I feel like something that should be shot and stuffed.
Hi, I'm A. J. the giant armadillo.

“You look fantastic, kiddo!” Mama gushes. She has outdone herself once again.

Giving my brothers the don't-even-think-about-laughing
glare, I slink into my seat just as our drinks arrive. The waiter plops something down in front of me that looks nothing like a Shirley Temple. I think he got the 7UP right, but my red syrup somehow translated into tomato juice. With cherries on top.

“Nice-looking drink, A. J.,” Dino quips.

“I dare you to drink it,” I mumble.

“I dare Benji,” Dino answers.

Benji falls for everything.

“You dare me? I'll take the dare.”

The poor kid never learns. I slide my drink in front of him. Benji takes the plunge and starts to gulp the gagging concoction down. I'm getting a stomachache just watching him.

Nearing the bottom of the glass, Benji lifts his head with cheeks full of pop.

“Oh boy, he's gonna blow,” J. R. warns.

Benji can't quite get the last swallow down and spews fizzy tomato juice all over himself and me. Now I look like armadillo roadkill.

The boys break into hysterics. ”Smooth move, bro,” Dino howls.

Mama looks aghast. “Oh, for the love of Pete! That tomato juice could just ruin that fabric. A. J., you should really try to run and wash it out before the stain sets.”

“I'm okay.”
It will be a great excuse to never have to wear it again
. Wiping myself off, I wonder what else can go wrong.

Nonna's been tinkering with an old wrinkled bow on a small box, completely oblivious to the spewing soda. She finally looks up and hands me the little square box wrapped in used tissue paper. “This is something I've been saving for years, Angelina Juliana. I wanted to wait until you were old enough to appreciate it.”

Daddy looks over at me with raised eyebrows like he can hardly wait to see what it is.

I cautiously untie the wrinkled bow, peel off the crinkled paper, and open the tattered box. I'm staring at two tarnished cuff links sitting on a square sheet of cotton. “Cuff links. How nice.” I have no blouses that use cuff links. I glance over at Daddy. He's grinning from ear to ear.

“Thanks, Nonna.”

I start to put the lid back on the box.

“Wait, honey, you didn't look under the cotton.”

“Oh.” I set the cuff links aside on the table, then carefully lift up the square cotton pad. Lo and behold, it's a gigantic pewter cross as big as my fist with bright red fake rubies embedded in it, strung on a heavy metal necklace.

“It's just like the one the Pope wears. Go ahead, honey, put it on,” Nonna insists. “Besides, I need that box back.”

Lifting the heavy icon, I place it around my neck for all to admire.
Holy mackerel. I'll have to remember to take this thing off before I go swimming or I'm sunk.
While trying to straighten my neck back up, I hear Daddy's muffled laughter seeping out from behind his water glass, strategically placed in front of his mouth.

Mama gives Daddy
the look.
He clears his throat and does his best to shape up. It doesn't help much. Every time he looks at me he starts to snicker. To hide my utter embarrassment over this entire birthday ensemble, I excuse myself and meander over by the railing, where I try to appear fascinated with the view. I feel so ridiculous, I'm not sure whether to laugh, jump, or join the circus.

Daddy yells over to me, “Don't lean over that railing while you're wearing that, A. J. It's a long way down.”

Now the boys all bust up laughing, which gets Daddy going again.

Mama elbows Daddy, but she starts to lose it too.

By the time our order is up, our waiter returns to find all six of us laughing hysterically, a severely stained table cloth and jumpsuit, and a grandmother who is so fixated on putting her little box back together, she is clueless of anything else going on. Oh, happy birthday to me!
Salute
!

Once the birthday feast is over, we hit the
Piazza della Cisterna,
the town square surrounding a big fountain. First stop:
gelato
—Italian ice cream. No matter how full you are, there's always room for
gelato
! It's not as creamy as ice cream, more like icy fruit or sherbet. And it is
delizioso
! Especially lemon gelato. While we're deciding where to go next, a pretty Italian girl walks past us, then turns around. “
Ciao
, J. R.”

J. R. looks back, turns red, and says, “
Ciao
, Celeste.”

Their smiles linger a little too long for “just friends.” Everyone looks at J. R. with raised eyebrows.

“What?” he says, embarrassed as all get-out.

None of us have to say anything more—he knows we're on to him. You can't get away with anything in this family when it comes to love.

Nobody has anything in particular they want to look at, except Nonna. She's on the warpath for another saint statue. She's bound and determined to find a bigger version of one of the statues she already owns. After looking at every patron saint in the entire town, she finally finds it—a three-foot-tall statue of Saint Adelaide—and insists she must buy it. The only problem is the thing weighs a ton, and the car is parked at the bottom of the hill. Her solution is to have Daddy carry it for her.

Daddy reluctantly heaves the solid plaster statue onto his shoulder and begins his descent down the hill. Halfway down he turns to Nonna and asks, “So which saint is this, anyway?”

“Saint Adelaide.”

“Saint Adelaide? Isn't that the saint for in-law problems—the one I always trip over?”

“That's the one.”

“So why do you need a bigger one?” Daddy's clearly struggling under the weight of the thing.

“Because the other one didn't work.”

We finally reach the car, and Daddy sets Saint Adelaide down while he pops open the trunk.

“Apparently this one doesn't work either,” Nonna says, in a disappointed tone.

“What do you mean, it ‘doesn't work?'” Daddy asks.

“You're still here. Take it back. I want a refund.”

“Over my dead body,” Daddy says, and heaves Saint Adelaide into the trunk, then slams it shut.

This has definitely been one of my more interesting birthdays.