“Sometimes, love doesn’t give a crap whether you want it or not.” Lou punctuated her love speech with a giant bite of pasta, which I watched her chew while a frown settled onto my face.
I had two thoughts stewing. One: I really didn’t want to fall in love—with Jean-Luc or anyone. And, two: Lou had said “crap”, which in her world was a swear word. She must have really meant the whole “love doesn’t care” thing.
To quote my friend Lou, crap!
Chapter 13
The rest of our time in Rome was wonderful—harried and action-packed, but I loved it. I definitely wanted to return and I wondered if there was some brass somewhere that I was supposed to be rubbing. Then I realised how superstitious that was, and I am not the superstitious type.
I made a vow to stop wishing on coins and throwing them into fountains and to stop rubbing brass all over Europe. If I saw a black cat, I would pet it and I’d happily walk under any ladders propped up against buildings.
Although I really did want that Isabella Rossellini wish to come true. I still couldn’t believe I’d seen her in person.
Lou and I had a funny moment as we were walking to the Spanish Steps—they were just steps, by the way. Nice steps, sure—people seemed very happy to sit on them and while away the time—but really, they were steps. I digress. As we passed a department store, there she was, Isabella Rossellini, her face twelve feet tall. I stopped and pointed. “That, Lou, is her.”
She looked at the exquisite photograph. “Sorry, it’s who?”
“My second wish.”
“Ohhh. Yeah, I think I’ve seen her before.” I rolled my eyes. How could she not have?
Spanish Steps
From the Spanish Steps, we walked north to Piazza del Popolo and climbed the hill to the massive park which overlooks the city. “I’m beat,” said Lou as she took refuge on a park bench.
I joined her. “Yes. Lots of walking the past couple of days.”
“Well, at least it burns off the pasta.”
We hung out there for a little while, resisting the urge to buy gelato from a nearby cart. How good can cart gelato be, anyway, even in Rome?
“Where are we meeting Jaelee and Dani again?”
“Not far. Via del Corso. It’s down there somewhere.” I pointed in its general direction.
“I don’t know if I can handle shopping today. It’s just walking that costs money.”
“Hah! Hilarious. I could text them and tell them to meet us at a wine bar or something. Jaelee did say shopping then prosecco.”
“Text them. Say, ‘prosecco, no shopping.’ Then we can find somewhere to go.”
“Jean-Luc took me to this great wine bar yesterday, but it’s a bit of a walk from here.”
“Don’t say the ‘W’ word.”
“Sorry.”
“Honestly, I’ll go anywhere—close. There must be some place down there.” She pointed to the Piazza del Popolo below us.
“I’ll look.”
And that’s how we ended up tipsy at four in the afternoon. Dani and Jaelee met us laden with bags—seriously, how were they cramming this stuff into their luggage?—and caught up to us soon afterwards. “Another bottle, por favor,” Jaelee called out, speaking Spanish to the Italians. The calling out part was unnecessary. It was a very small place.
By the time we got to Anna’s restaurant to meet the guys, we were completely sloshed. Thank goodness for the pin I’d dropped on Google Maps the night before, or it would have been a minor miracle if I’d found it.
Carlo and Anna greeted me like a long-lost friend and though I wasn’t usually the sort of person who liked to clock up social karma, I was well chuffed.
Carlo squeezed together two tables and the six of us clambered around. Knees pressed against knees, but I knew they’d think the meal was worth it. As the veteran, I told them how it all worked.
Surprisingly, my meal was completely different from the previous night, though, not surprisingly, every bite of it was delicious.
As we were leaving, Anna herself came around the counter to kiss me goodbye. I made a mental note to invite her and Carlo to the wedding, which made it official. I was off my trolley and just plain drunk.
Craig took charge and got us to the pick-up point ahead of schedule. Lou was cognisant enough to clap her hand over my mouth as I started spouting not very nice things about Georgina when the coach pulled up.
I was put to bed and shaken awake with enough time to down some headache tablets, grab a very quick shower in the hideous concrete ablution block, and get on the coach with all my belongings by 8:00am.
“Have I mentioned how much I love you, Lou?” I said as we took our seats.
Her tight lips told me that the feeling wasn’t mutual at that particular moment. This was confirmed by what she said next. “I’ve had a lot of experience putting a drunk person to bed.” Oh dear. I was really going to have to make it up to her.
***
The drive to Venice was five hours. Sorry. You can’t drive to Venice. The drive to Fusina, where we were staying, was five hours. Then we’d catch a water taxi to Venice.
After enduring the day song, which Georgina played every morning right before she got on the microphone to tell us the day’s itinerary, I fell into a deep sleep, my face pressed against the window. I should say that it wasn’t a bad song, but after the tour, it was going to be a long time before I could listen to Pharrell Williams’s “Happy” without cringing.
I slept until the mid-morning rest stop.
“Lou, seriously, I do love you.”
“Uh huh.”
“Can I buy you a tea? How about a pastry? What can I get you? Morning tea is on me.”
I could tell she was trying to stay miffed, but Lou was one of those people who got cross and almost instantly forgave, so she was doing a poor job of it. And, I can do pretty amazing puppy-dog eyes, especially when I want my bus bestie to forgive me for being drunk.
She pointed to a pastry in the glass cabinet and muttered, “And tea.” I ordered. Sipping my tea as we settled back on the coach, I started to feel more like myself.
“I had fun in Rome,” I said, feeling the waters.
“Mmm.”
“Did you?” I was half-turned in my seat watching her and she honoured me with a sideways glance and half a smile that told me she was giving in to my charm.
“Yes. I had a good time in Rome.”
“I’m really sorry I got so drunk.”
“It’s okay.”
“I forget sometimes that I’m only five-foot-one-and-three-quarters. In my head, I’m six-foot-two, so I tend to drink like a man—a big one.” She snort-laughed and I think a little tea came out of her nose. I handed her the napkin from my pastry. “I really am sorry. And thank you for looking after me.”
“No problem. By the way, I really needed this.” She held up the tea. “I have a huge hangover.”
“Oh, my God, Lou!” I started digging around in my bag. “You should have said! Here.” I found my stash of ibuprofen and paracetamol and popped two of each into my hand. “Take these.” She eyed them dubiously. “I know. It seems like a lot, but they work together, and it’s totally safe. Trust me.” She must have, because she tipped them into her mouth and took a sip of tea.