Sue shifted around in her bed, rearranging the covers.
“Are you comfy?” I asked.
“Getting there.”
“Warm enough?”
“Yes.” She lay still for a few moments before asking, “Jenna, are you at all nervous?”
“No.”
“I don’t think I am right now, either. I should be, but I’m not. It’s a strange feeling.”
“It’s a good feeling.” I smiled contentedly and soon fell asleep under a canopy of angel winks.
My journey through dreamland was peacefully uninterrupted until the first gleam of light broke over me. With the light came a lot of clatter.
Stretching and crawling out of my blanket haven, I leaned over the left side of our lookout tower, feeling like a spy who peered down on the citizens below. A hand-pushed cart stacked high with boxes that looked like they were on their way to the grocery store came rumbling over the piazza. Without delivery trucks, every item in Venice had to be hand carried, pushed around on carts, or paddled down the canals by boat.
To the right of our turret, a fishing boat with a small outboard motor puttered down the canal. Two well-dressed children sat on the front bench of the boat, swatting at each other.
Sue moaned. “What time is it?”
“Six-thirty.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes. Six-thirty in the morning in Venezia, Sue! Buon giorno!”
She rolled over. “Please tell me we don’t have to get up yet.”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’ll get up. See? I’m getting up now.” She didn’t move.
I stretched and made my bed as best I could.
“How can you be so awake?” she muttered.
“You can keep sleeping, Sue. I can go to the bakery by myself.”
“No, I want to go. Really.” Still, she didn’t move.
“The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, right?”
“My flesh is still asleep. Would it be okay if I sleepwalked to the bakery?”
“Sure. I’ll watch that you don’t stumble into any canals.”
Opening one eye, Sue looked up at me. “We really are in Venice, aren’t we?”
I nodded.
She yawned. “Wow. I thought I’d had an elaborate dream. Don’t go anywhere yet. I’m coming. Really. I’m getting up now.” With determination, Sue rolled onto her back, lifted her tangled covers, and then fluffed them up in a billowy tent. She pulled the sheet and blanket up to her chin.
“What are you doing?”
“Making my bed.” She completed the process by extracting the lower half of her body one leg at a time. “There.” Smoothing the rippled covers, she stepped back to view her accomplishment with satisfaction.
“I’m guessing you’re looking for another merit badge for that little achievement, aren’t you?”
“That was kind of fun.” She appeared to be more awake now. “I haven’t tried that since Camp Fire Girl days, either. What about you? How did you sleep?”
“Great! Are you ready to find a bakery?”
“After you.” Sue motioned to the stairs that led down to the apartment. We dressed quickly and quietly, hearing snores that reverberated from behind the closed bedroom doors. In our sleeping loft the brightness of the new day and the outside noises had awakened us. Inside the cooled palace, the closed shutters kept the interior dark and sheltered from the outside clattering. The men should sleep deeply for several more hours. Unless they were experiencing jet lag as well.
I wished I could take a warm shower and wash my hair, but we needed to get to the market, and I was afraid the noise of the running water would wake the others. Pulling on my wrinkled chinos and a clean shirt, I noticed how swollen my ankles were. I wasn’t used to walking as much as I had yesterday. But I knew it was good for me, and I felt good.
Sue took a little longer to organize herself, but I could tell she was trying to hurry. Her hair was a monumental challenge. She managed to corral it into a ponytail, and we exited as quietly as we could.
We did fine making our way out of the building, but once we were outside, we couldn’t agree on the directions to the grocery store. My vote was to cross the bridge and turn right. Sue insisted we were supposed to cross the bridge and then go straight.
“Jenna, should I remind you about the hospital incident? Or will you just trust my sense of direction?”
Several weeks earlier Sue’s mom had needed a ride to the hospital for some tests. I volunteered to take her and delivered her on time but to the wrong hospital.
“My car automatically goes to Southland General,” I protested in the middle of the footbridge that led away from our palace. “After all the trips I made to Southland for Jack, all I have to do is put the key in the ignition, say the word ‘hospital,’ and my car goes to Southland on its own. It doesn’t know how to get to St. Joseph’s.”
“All I’m saying is that you’re better off trusting me with the directions.”
“Hey,” I said in playful defense. “You asked me to drive your mother to the hospital. I drove her to ‘a hospital,’ okay?”
“You’re digging yourself a deeper hole, Jenna. Let’s just say that we have different gifts, you and I. If it’s directions we’re wondering about during this trip, why don’t we go with my instincts? Besides, I’m the one with the map now, remember?”
“I suppose you’re going to try to earn a direction merit badge this morning,” I teased.
We probably could have kept on with our sassy comments, but we had been walking this whole time and had to end our discussion because we were standing in front of the grocery store. Sue’s instincts on the directions were right.
However, the store wasn’t open. A panetteria was conveniently located across the way. Stepping inside, the delicious scent of freshly baked bread wafted our way and tickled our palates pink. Sue could chase down her favorite gelato all around town, but I’d be happy to sample every baked goodie at every one of Venezia’s panetterias.
Two other people stood in line in front of us to order their daily bread. When it was our turn, I stepped up to the counter. Since I was the designated linguist of this expedition team, I started the conversation by smiling at the woman in the apron and saying, “Buon giorno.”
“Buon giorno.” She had golden hazel-colored eyes. I’d never seen eyes that color before.
I pointed at the round rolls that looked as if they were brushed with egg white on top to make them shiny. They were the most beautiful ones for sale. “Nine of these rolls, per favore.” To make my order clear, I held up one hand with five outstretched fingers and on the other hand I utilized my thumb and first three fingers and said, “Nine.”
“Nove?” She repeated.
“Si. Nove.”
I pulled out some of the money Sam had sent me ahead of time to purchase food. The change came back in coins along with the rolls wrapped up in a bundle of what looked like butcher paper.
“Grazie,” I said, hearing the “r” roll slightly on my tongue for the first time.
“Prego,” she replied, her expression warming.
Feeling confident and because no one was waiting behind us, I decided to further our conversation. In slow English I asked, “Do you sell coffee? Espresso?”
“Caffe?” Her answer after my nod was a long string of Italian.
“What did she say?” Sue asked.
“I have no idea. I think I know just enough Italian to be dangerous. She obviously thinks I understand her.”
The woman seemed to be asking me a question. I gave her an apologetic shrug.
Sue stepped up and added a little dramatic interpretation. “We need to buy some caf-fay to take home.” She acted out pouring coffee into a cup of coffee and drinking the hot beverage. Then she pointed out the door. “To go. Caf-fay to go. Chow.”
She actually was quite entertaining, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
The go
lden eyes of the amused woman crinkled in the corners. She held up her hand, as if indicating we should wait there while she went into the back. I hoped she had an English-speaking baker hiding out there.
Instead, she returned with a metal mixing bowl in her hands. I feared our communication triangle had failed. But then she showed us that the bowl was filled with fragrant ground coffee. With a smile she held out the bowl for us to take. I had the distinct feeling she had emptied her own coffee canister to provide for our need.
“Grazie, grazie,” I said, holding out a ten-euro bill. I had no idea if that was enough.
“No, no,” the woman said. She tapped the side of the metal mixing bowl and spoke the same phrase to us several times, looking at me implicitly.
I guessed she needed the bowl back so I said, “Si, si.”
She nodded, appearing satisfied that we were of one mind on the matter. With a wave she said, “Ciao,” and we were out the door.
“That was gracious of her,” Sue said.
“I know. You don’t find hospitality like that very often at home.”
“It feels so different here,” Sue said.
“Yes, it does.” I was smiling the same way I’d smiled when we had arrived in Venice yesterday morning. I noticed that Sue wasn’t biting her nails. That was a good sign.
Eight
Picking up the pace, Sue confidently led the way through the alleys and over the bridges. She successfully brought us back to our palace where the men were now all awake and gathered in the sitting room for morning devotions.
The late-night arriver to the group, Malachi, was standing by the wall tapestry, reading from the Psalms. His deep voice boomed through the air. “From the end of the earth I will cry to You.… For You have been a shelter for me, a strong tower from the enemy.… I will trust in the shelter of Your wings.”
Sue and I slipped around the back way to the kitchen. We set to work, trying to figure out the percolator coffeepot. Eventually we placed it on the stove over a medium flame, and soon the rich Italian-roast fragrance filled the air.
Malachi’s echoing words continued in rich, amber tones. The cadence of his speech made it sound as if he were chanting the verses with a tribal sense of untamed authority. “The LORD looks down from heaven upon the children of men, to see if there are any who understand, who seek God. They have all turned aside.… As for me, I will call upon God, and the LORD shall save me. Evening and morning and at noon I will pray, and cry aloud, and He shall hear my voice.… O God, You are my God; early will I seek You; my soul thirsts for You; my flesh longs for You.… I will praise You, O Lord, among the peoples; I will sing to You among the nations. For Your mercy reaches unto the heavens, and Your truth unto the clouds. Be exalted, O God, above the heavens; let Your glory be above all the earth.”
Sue and I both stopped our breakfast preparations and stood in reverence, not daring to make a sound while Malachi read. Never had I heard anyone read God’s Word as if he believed every syllable. Without seeing Malachi’s face, I still could sense that this man depended on the truth of every word as much as he depended on air, food, and water to sustain him.
Malachi ended with a crescendo of praise as he read, “Because Your lovingkindness is better than life, my lips shall praise You. Thus I will bless You while I live; I will lift up my hands in Your name. My soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness, and my mouth shall praise You with joyful lips.… For You are my hope, O Lord GOD; You are my trust from my youth.… Whom have I in heaven but You? And there is none upon earth that I desire besides You. My flesh and my heart fail; but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Forever and ever, amen and amen!”
“Amen,” I responded in a soft voice.
The peace that surrounded us and filled up my senses at that moment was a peace so thick I felt that I could slice into it, chew it, and swallow it slowly.
Sue smiled at me. Her eyebrows were raised as she formed the word, “Wow.”
I smiled back and nodded. “Yeah, wow,” I whispered. “I didn’t want him to stop.”
“I know. But we need to get the rest of the food ready. Is there any jam or butter for the rolls?”
I opened the refrigerator. To my surprise, a dozen brown eggs in a bowl had appeared since last night.
Motioning for Sue to come see, I whispered, “Did you know about these?”
“No. Where did they come from?”
“I don’t know. Do you think they were there before but we just didn’t see them?”
“No, I would have remembered eggs. I’m very sure they weren’t there.”
I picked up one of them and shook it.
“What are you doing?” Sue whispered.
“It’s hard-boiled. Let’s serve these. Did you see those fancy eggcups in the china cabinet? The painted glass ones? We could use those and serve the eggs with the rolls.”
“Okay. Have you seen the salt and pepper?”
“Over there, on the shelf above the stove.”
The fragrance of the percolating coffee filled the air, and the most wonderful sound filled the palace. The men were singing.
Sue paused to listen and then softly sang the old hymn along with them. I drew my shoulders back, hummed along, and placed the rolls for the continental feast on the dining room table. As I was filling the cups with coffee, the men entered and took their places.
Sue and I retreated to the kitchen and broke bread together. We ate in silence, each examining what the bread stood for in the full light that shone in our hearts.
The coffee was the best I ever had drunk. Sue said the same thing. She said the reason it tasted so good was because a stranger had given it as a gift.
“Hmmm,” I said.
“Hmmm, what?”
“Showing love to a stranger. That’s the definition of hospitality.”
“It’s humbling,” Sue added a few minutes later.
“Humbling and beautiful,” I said.
Sam entered the kitchen with an empty coffee cup in his hand. “Any chance we might have some more coffee? It’s very good.”
Sue and I smiled at each other and went to work, making more coffee and serving the men. On our side of this equation, it was a humbling and beautiful thing to show love to the strangers gathered around the table in the next room.
I carried the coffeepot into the dining room and filled the empty cups.
“Lovely breakfast,” one of the men said as I poured the coffee for him. “Particularly the eggs.”
“The eggs were a gift,” I said. I noticed that Malachi lowered his eyes, as if trying to keep a secret.
When he came into the kitchen a short time later with several plates in each hand, I introduced myself and said, “Thank you for the eggs.”
He looked surprised at my comment. I wondered if I had misjudged the situation. He lowered his eyes. “My wife was not favorable to my bringing the whole chicken.”
I laughed. Malachi looked surprised again, as if what he had said wasn’t meant to be humorous. I quickly sobered my expression and my spirit, realizing that Malachi probably had little to give. The eggs may have represented a great gift; he might have given the group the equivalent of a day’s worth of food for his family in Kenya.
In an effort to cover at least some of my missteps, I said, “Please tell your wife we appreciate the sacrifice of the eggs.”
Malachi looked at me as if I still hadn’t grasped the situation. “The eggs were not a sacrifice. They were an offering. The chicken—now the chicken would have been a sacrifice.”
His deep voice and unique use of English were fascinating.
“Well, then thank you for the offering,” I whispered.
Malachi bowed to me honorably and left the kitchen.
In a sweet-to-the-spirit sort of way I felt as if I’d been in the presence of greatness.
Within an hour the men were in the midst of their strategy meeting, and Sue and I were back out the door on our way to the market. The
morning was warming up, and the streets were filling with pedestrians.
Along the canal floated a sight that made Sue and me stop on the bridge and watch. A young man was paddling along in a raft. The two-person, blue-and-yellow raft held the man and two boxes of what looked like office supplies. He paddled up to a building across the canal from our palace and rapped his paddle on a small, low window about three feet above the water level.
The window opened, and another man reached out and received one of the two boxes. The deliveryman in the raft held up a clipboard for the man to sign a paper. The two exchanged friendly sounding words, and the deliveryman went on his way down the canal.
Neither of us commented on what we had just witnessed. The scene made complete sense. It was like the first time I saw a young man in a movie deliver a parcel in downtown San Francisco by riding his bicycle into an office building.
With a growing sense of comfort in our surroundings, Sue and I walked back to the panetteria first and returned the silver bowl with smiles and many mixed “grazies.” Sue was the one who suggested we buy several loaves of the fresh-from-the-oven ciabatta bread to accompany the main meal. It smelled so good I wanted to tear into it before we left the bakery. Again the bread was wrapped in brown butcher paper, and we carried it across the way to the grocery store.
As soon as we entered the mercato, I felt strangely at home. The grocery store I worked in was two or maybe three times the size of this store, but the layout was similar. Checkout stands by the front door, produce on the right side. Using handheld baskets instead of wheeled carts, shoppers easily navigated the narrow aisles. Sue and I effortlessly figured out the basics like eggs, butter, milk, cheese, chicken, and of course, coffee.
But Sue had a short list with several items that I argued we didn’t need. She insisted she had plans for them and picked up fresh garlic cloves, a bunch of fresh basil, a small block of Parmesan cheese, whipping cream in a small bottle, and more olive oil.
While standing in the checkout line, we realized we were facing a small challenge. We hadn’t brought our own shopping bags like the locals had. Apparently when one shops in Venice, one brings her own bags. Now I understood why the store didn’t provide large, wheeled carts for shoppers to fill. Everything that was purchased had to be carried home.