Chapter 8 - Zalea | Florence
EIGHT
ZALEA | FLORENCE
“Welcome to the Uffizi Gallery,” Giovanna says as she leads our small group of eight students down a narrow hall. “And to the first day of our program.”
I’d met up with the rest of the group early this morning at the Piazza del Popolo in Rome, where we boarded the bus that Giovanna had arranged to take us to Florence. It was a three hour bus ride that I mostly slept through.
“I will assign each of you a painting to study every day this week.”
I look around but no one else seems as confused as I am so I raise my hand and wait for Giovanna to notice me. “What do you mean by study?”
“Most people try to figure out the meaning behind art. Instead, I want you to observe the colour temperatures the artist chose to use, the negative space, where your eyes naturally rest, things of that nature.”
“I see,” I say, staring up at the wall of paintings wondering which one will be assigned to me.
Giovanna spends the next ten minutes assigning paintings to each student, and answering any other questions before she comes to stand next to me as the group scatters to their paintings.
“I left my favourite for you,” she says, coming to stand next to me and looking up at the painting that’s caught my attention. “But it looks like you found it all on your own.”
The plaque under the painting reads Primavera by Sandro Botticelli. It’s a stunning piece of art, soft looking, but the longer I stare at it the more I see, and I think I’m beginning to understand what Giovanna meant when she said to observe.
“I have three questions I’d like you to consider this week as you come back to this painting, and I’ll ask you to answer them for me on the last day,” she says, gently calling my attention back to her.
I flip open the notebook I bought yesterday to take notes in, and bring my pen to the page. She stares down at the book with an amused smile, and I assume it’s because I’m probably the only student of hers treating this program like I would school.
“First question,” she starts, refocusing on the painting, “Where is the tension hiding in this painting?”
I quickly scribble down the question before moving to a new line for her next one.
“Which figure do you avoid looking at, and why?”
She taps her chin deep in thought as I finish writing down the second question, and some time passes before she comes up with the third.
“If this painting were to move forward by un secondo, what would break first?”
I frown down at the page as I finish writing that one, wondering what she means by break first, but I hold back from asking more questions—I’m sure I’ll figure it out.
Giovanna leaves, telling us to enjoy our first week in Florence and that we’ll meet back at this gallery at noon on Friday.
I notice the other students group together when she leaves, and I regret falling asleep on the bus instead of making connections like the rest of them did. But then a guy about my age turns his head and stares at me.
He’s tall, slim but still strong looking, with intentionally messy, straight brown hair. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing his veiny arms and large hands, and he has the warmest brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
When I hold his gaze, he smiles—a dimple forming on one side of his mouth—and waves me over to the group. I bite the inside of my cheek, begging myself to not do something embarrassing in front everyone, and walk over to them.
“Hi, I’m Paolo,” he says, holding his hand out to me.
I internally scream as I shake his hand, feeling like I’m having my Lizzie McGuire moment.
“I’m Lea,” I say, plastering on a smile as the rest of the group jumps in and introduces themselves.
“We were thinking we’d all go to a restaurant and get to know each other before we head our separate ways for the day,” Paolo says. “Would you like to join us?”
I nod shyly, and he grins, showing off his perfectly straight white teeth.
It turns out that unlike Lizzie’s Paolo, mine can actually sing.
After eating at the restaurant, we found ourselves at a bar where most of the group had gotten tipsy, and in Paolo’s case, drunk.
He’s currently up on the small stage singing a fast paced Italian song, and despite his clearly intoxicated state, he’s really good.
The whole bar is clapping along to his singing, some people are even whistling or singing along, and I can’t help but laugh as I watch him. So carefree and full of life. That’s what I want for myself.
The rest of our group leaves when it starts to get dark outside, and somehow I find myself alone with Paolo at the end of the night. He orders us both a glass of water as he sits next to me.
“Finally finished your fifth encore?” I joke.
He laughs as he runs a hand through his hair, the biggest grin on his lips. “I get carried away when I sing. I guess the others got sick of it,” he muses, watching me carefully. “But not you.”
Heat rushes to my face. “No,” I say. “Not me.”
A spark of interest shimmers in his eyes as he holds my gaze, and I can’t ignore the pull of attraction that I feel when I’m around him. Maybe Paolo is exactly what I need to finally get over Gabriel and our complicated past. An easy, no strings attached, hookup abroad.
What could go wrong?
He offers to walk me to my hotel after we chug our waters, and I accept because the reality is that the world never truly feels safe for a woman once it’s dark out. Especially in a new country.
“What made you want to join this academy?” He asks as we walk along the cobbled streets, following the directions on my phone.
“Well,” I force out a chuckle. “I guess you could say I feel a bit lost in life lately.”
“How so?”
I shrug, looking away from him and focusing on the street performers that are gathering small crowds around them.
“I don’t really know what I want anymore, or who I want to be. So I’m hoping a year away from my regular life, doing something out of my comfort zone, can help me learn more about myself.”
He nods in understanding, following my gaze to a nearby street performer. He takes my hand, static ricocheting throughout my whole arm, and tugs me along after him until we’re standing in front of the performer.
Paolo tosses five Euros into the hat by the musician's feet before turning to me, one hand on my waist and the other still holding my hand tightly.
“Let’s dance,” he says, smiling wide as the song begins.
I instinctively shake my head and attempt to pull away, but Paolo’s grip on me is strong.
“I don’t know how to dance,” I whisper, as panic courses through me when a crowd begins to form around us.
The musician switches from a lively song to one with a slower, romantic pace instead.
“Then I will teach you,” Paolo says, pulling me closer. “You said you want to do things outside of your comfort zone, right? Let me show you.”
I give him a tight smile and nod, letting him guide me along while a group of tourists and locals stand nearby watching us. But Paolo finds a way to melt my nerves—like spinning me an extra two times, or a random dip here and there that gets the crowd excited.
Dancing with him is... fun.
I haven’t experienced fun in a very long time. I used to think surfing was fun, but at some point it changed for me. I guess when you turn your hobby into actual work, it loses all of its excitement.
When the song ends, we wave goodbye to everyone as we leave and continue our walk to my hotel. Paolo stands closer now, our arms and hands rubbing along each other every few steps.
“Why did you join the academy?” I ask.
“I studied art all my life,” he says, smiling down at me. “It is my first love.”
“That’s beautiful,” I say quietly.
He nods. “But lately I haven’t created anything I love,” he looks at me curiously now, his eyes scanning my face. “I have been missing inspiration.”
“So you’re hoping to find it again here?”
“Si,” he replies, looking away now. “I would travel the whole world to try and find it again if I had to.”
I smile, knowingly, because Paolo sounds just as lost as I am.
When we finally reach my hotel, I stop in front of the lobby doors and face him.
“This is my hotel,” I say as he scales the building with his eyes. “Thank you for walking me here.”
When he looks back down at me, I don’t know if he plans to kiss me or hug me, but he surprises me by doing neither.
“I’d like to see you again,” he slides his hands into his pants pockets, “tomorrow.”
“She’s busy.”
I stiffen as Paolo looks over my head, and I don’t even have to turn around to know who it is, my blood already boiling. I ignore Gabriel and clear my throat, catching Paolo’s attention again.
“Sure,” I say in the sweetest voice I can manage in my angry state. “Let’s meet at the museum around noon?”
Paolo nods, giving me a small smile before narrowing his eyes behind me.
“It’s alright,” I say when I realize he doesn’t plan to leave me alone with Gabriel. “I know him.”
His suspicious glare turns curious as his eyes bounce between Gabriel and me. Before I can figure out what he’s about to do, he takes my hand in his and kisses the back of it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Lea.”
I’m speechless, my already red face deepening several shades, but not from anger this time. I smile and wave as he begins walking away, and once he’s finally out of eyesight, I turn around.
Gabriel is leaning against the wall of my hotel entrance, wearing his deliciously expensive, all black, custom fit suit.
And when his eyes drop to the hand Paolo kissed, I can tell he’s furiously jealous.