Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [79]
“Avanti dritto,” the American said, taking hold of the front end of the dress and guiding it and the seamstress through the doorway.
“Grazie,” said the Italian woman.
“Prego,” replied the American.
We watched the woman and the dress march down the hallway together, a happy couple who, unfortunately, would soon be parted.
“You speak Italian?” I asked, turning to the American.
She laughed. “No. That’s pretty much my entire repertoire. Except for quanto costa.”
She had an easygoing way about her, the kind of outgoing attitude that often is associated—rightly or wrongly—with Americans. Her appearance matched her manner: long, copper-colored hair casually pulled back into a ponytail and no makeup except a pale gloss of lipstick. I judged her to be in her early twenties. I asked if she’d been in Milan long.
“No. I arrived this morning. At least I arrived at the airport this morning. By the time I found my way out of there and got to the hotel it was afternoon.”
“Ah, yes, the enchanting Malpensa,” I said. “I had the same experience when I arrived there today.”
After a few minutes spent in exchanging war stories about Malpensa, she asked if I knew of a good place for dinner. “A place where I would be comfortable eating alone.”
“Not really,” I said, explaining I didn’t know Milan at all. “But I walked through an interesting neighborhood today. It’s called the Brera and it’s loaded with places to eat. I thought I’d head back there tonight for dinner.” I hesitated, then decided to go ahead with what I was thinking “Would you like to come?”
“I’d like that very much,” she said. “What time did you want to go?”
I suggested we meet in the lobby at 8:30. She agreed.
“By the way,” she said, putting her hand out, “I’m Carolyn.”
I laughed. “I can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself,” I said, shaking her hand. “I’m Alice.”
“The place we’re looking for is somewhere near the end of a little street called Via Fiori Chiara,” I told Carolyn, after consulting my map. The taxi driver had dropped us off in front of the Piazza della Scala, just opposite the opera house. From there we set out to find the Tuscan restaurant I’d spotted earlier that day.
The streets were pleasantly crowded with both locals and tourists out enjoying the evening. Carolyn and I fell into step, strolling along at a leisurely pace, stopping often to peek into a lobby or bar. We were in no hurry to reach our destination. In fact, we almost jettisoned the Tuscan restaurant plan for a piano bar that served pasta. But when we stepped inside, the noise level forced our retreat back to the street. After walking another block or two we arrived at Via Fiori Chiara. Ten minutes later we were seated in the Tuscan trattoria, raising our wineglasses in a toast.
“Cin cin!” Carolyn said.
“Cin cin!” I echoed, clinking my glass of Chianti against hers.
We decided to share several dishes offered on the menu. Each of us was surprised, pleasantly so, to learn the other ate little meat. After much discussion we narrowed down our choices to bean soup with pasta, baked omelet with artichoke hearts, and “Treviso salad,” a combination of two varieties of radicchio. Dinner was a leisurely affair, with each course separated by as much as half an hour. By the time our warm zabaglione arrived, Carolyn and I were exchanging life stories the way old friends do.
Carolyn, I learned, was twenty-four and a graduate student in art history. She had interrupted her studies, however, to join her boyfriend, Rob, in Italy. They were engaged to be married.
“He’s doing a year’s graduate work in Florence, and it was too good an opportunity for me to pass up,” she said. “Finally, after all the years of looking at pictures and reproductions of Renaissance art, I’ll get