Chapter 17
“Whoa,” Alex says, surveying the market stalls with surprise. “I thought we were going to, like, a Whole Foods or something.”
“Really?” I almost roll my eyes, then catch myself. How would she know? She’s never been to Italy. Ted and Lisa tend toward St. Barts and Aspen for vacations. I glance sideways at her. She is wearing her usual bored expression, but underneath I can see a flicker of curiosity and also uncertainty.
“This is a local outdoor market where people from the area bring all sorts of things to sell,” I explain.
“It’s all grown or made around here. Let’s go this way.
” I gesture for her to follow me. “There used to be a stall that sold the best homemade biscotti. Let’s see if it’s still here.
” We weave our way along the cobblestone street, passing stalls brimming with rainbows of fresh blooms in metal buckets, a man selling carpets, several clothing stands, and a vendor selling Lake Garda–grown fruit. We pause there.
“I thought you said this was all local,” Alex says, eyeing a pile of perfect lemons, each one carefully swaddled in white paper. There are kiwis too, and oranges and limes.
“Lake Garda has a very unique, mild climate,” I explain. “It’s the most northern area in the world where citrus fruits can grow, particularly lemons like those.” I point to the lemons. “It’s the same for the olive groves at the farm.”
“What are those?” Alex points to a fruit that looks like a huge, rough lemon with a thick knobby rind. Each fruit is about three times the size of a normal lemon. There are only two sitting on the shelf and the price is shockingly high. “They look like giant mutant lemons.”
“They’re citron, the ancient relative to every other kind of citrus fruit we have.
They’ve been grown here for generations but they’re really rare and expensive.
” I lean closer to inspect the citron but don’t touch it.
Touching the fruit is frowned upon until you’ve paid for it.
“My dad told me that citrus fruit was first introduced to this region by St. Francis of Assisi. His friars grew the first lemons in a monastery on the western shore of the lake,” I tell her, remembering the history lesson.
Dad loved history and loved to teach it to his students and his girls.
“Weird. I’ve never seen anything like these,” Alex admits. She pulls out her phone and snaps a few photos of the citrons. “I’ve never been anywhere where they actually grow citrus fruit before.”
“Really? I figured Lisa and Ted must have taken you everywhere with them.” I survey the selection of fruit. “Didn’t they go to the British Virgin Islands last year?”
Alex hesitates. “Yeah, and Bermuda the year before that, and Switzerland at Christmas for skiing, and the Bahamas the winter before that…but they never take me with them. I always stay home with the nanny, although now they think I’m old enough to stay home alone,” Alex says with a shrug.
She focuses her phone camera on a large citron carefully nestled in white tissue paper and takes a close-up.
I stare at her in shock. “You’re kidding. You don’t go on any of those trips with them?”
She examines the photo on her phone screen and takes another shot from a different angle.
“No, I stay in the city if they’re gone during school, and I’m at camp all summer.
I went to Niagara Falls once on a field trip, so I guess technically I’ve been to Canada, but that’s about it.
” She frowns. There’s something a little forlorn in her expression.
I feel an unexpected stab of pity for her.
I always imagined she was the child who got everything, but it looks like maybe I was wrong.
At least I had Dad and Aurora. We were a tight-knit threesome.
There wasn’t much money, but I always knew I was loved, that they had my back.
I wonder if Alex can say the same. I suspect that her life has been lonelier than I thought.
We buy some candied citron peel and two expensive lemons and continue on our way.
I narrate as we go along, and as we wander through the market, my enthusiasm grows.
I want her to see and experience everything here, just like my dad helped me to do as a child.
I want her to taste and touch and smell the Italy I remember from my youth.
I want her to fall in love with this wonderful place.
And to my surprise, she goes along with it.
She’s still a teenager, rolling her eyes and acting unimpressed.
But she tries persicata, a local treat made of ripe peaches boiled with sugar (her verdict: pretty good) and candied citron peel, which she rates as just okay.
She documents everything on her cell phone as we stroll.
Unexpectedly, I realize how good it feels to be back here again.
Everywhere I look there are reminders of my dad, and though it’s bittersweet, I find that somehow it’s easier to be here with Alex, showing her everything with fresh eyes.
My stomach gurgles as we pass a bakery stall, its table piled high with crusty loaves of artisanal bread, rounds of focaccia, brioche, and the almond crumb cake famous in the nearby Lombardy region.
When I catch Alex looking longingly over her shoulder, we make a U-turn and go back.
I purchase some focaccia for our lunch, and Alex chooses two varieties of biscotti for breakfast tomorrow.
I translate the options for her so she knows the choices.
She repeats the biscotti flavors quietly to herself after I’ve said them, haltingly stumbling over the pronunciation of the Italian words.
I order from the vendor in Italian, enjoying the feel of the words rolling off my tongue.
I’m out of practice, but I’m loving speaking the language again.
I was never completely fluent, although when I was younger I came close.
Now the Italian words are coming back to me, and the sensation of them bubbling up in my throat brings an unexpected burst of joy and relief.
“Grazie mille.” After I’ve paid and thanked the baker, I turn to find Alex watching me thoughtfully.
“What’s it like to speak a different language?” she asks as we walk away.
The personal question and her nonhostile tone take me by surprise. I have to think for a minute. I’ve never really considered the mechanics of speaking Italian. It’s always just been a part of my life.
“Italian is a beautiful language,” I tell her. “My dad always said Italian is a language with a soul. And when I speak it, I feel different…more relaxed maybe? If that makes sense? It makes me feel like I belong here, like I’m a part of this place, like the rocks and olive trees.”
A fleeting smile brushes Alex’s lips. “Must be nice to feel that way,” she says. There’s something plaintive in her tone.
“You could learn Italian if you wanted to,” I tell her, handing her a square of focaccia and taking a big bite of my own. “It’s a pretty easy language for an English speaker to learn. There are a lot of free programs online now.”
“I’m learning German in school but I don’t like it much.” She shrugs and says nothing more.
Munching our focaccia, we wander through the rest of the stalls, sampling the region’s prized olives preserved in brine, and even tasting a tiny shaving of truffle that makes Alex gag a little.
I enjoy a drizzle of acacia honey on a paper-thin slice of local cheese while Alex gulps some mineral water from a glass bottle and tries to get the taste of the truffle out of her mouth.
The sun is warm, the water of the lake a glittering cobalt at the end of the street.
The scents of salted meat, ripe fruits, pungent cheeses, and briny olives mingle into a delicious mélange.
To my surprise, I realize I’m enjoying myself and I think Alex is too.
If Nonna sent us here for some sisterly bonding, it’s going unexpectedly well.
I don’t mind Alex’s company when she’s like this.
Sure, she’s prickly and critical, with a dry, ironic sense of humor, but she’s smart and I can tell that she’s interested in everything we’re seeing, even if she’s trying to play it cool.
It’s actually sort of fun to show her new things.
I like seeing her eyes light up with interest, her curiosity come peeking out from beneath that jaded shell she usually hides behind.
The market isn’t crowded, just a few nonnas perusing the stalls with baskets on their arms, some moms with young kids in tow, and a handful of tourists.
There’s a dreamy sense of contentment over the afternoon.
Everything just moves slower in Italy. I forgot this unhurried pace, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the sense of peace that comes with a lack of push.
On impulse, I buy a bottle of the locally crafted limoncello liqueur my dad always favored.
It’s expensive, but I have such fond memories of it, I can’t resist. As I tuck the bottle into my bag, I suddenly remember what I’m supposed to be doing at the market, making a favorite merenda from childhood.
I wander the stalls with Alex, trying to keep up friendly chatter while my mind races frantically.
I’m quietly panicking a little. What were my favorite snacks?
What did I make with Nonna when I was younger?
I cannot remember. I’m drawing a blank and running out of time.
When I try to recall something, it’s like running into a wall in my mind, a blockage that keeps me from accessing those memories.
Just like all the other times I’ve tried to remember.
It’s so frustrating and thwarting. I don’t know how to fix it.
I check my phone. It’s almost time to return to Lorenzo and the car and I still haven’t managed to come up with anything.