Bonus Chapter- Better Than Gelato

I should have known. After a month of devouring every delicious morsel Italy had to offer, a wardrobe malfunction was inevitable. But who expects to split a giant hole in their pants in the middle of a crowded pizzeria?

The day had started out promising. I’d spent the morning taking pictures of an old church by the apartment, and when I picked up Isabella from school she was angry at someone besides me.  

 “You will never believe what Senora Zonta made us do today!” she began.

“Overthrow the government and demand higher salaries for kindergarten teachers?” I guessed. 

“No,” Isa said, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes and looking at me like I was a lunatic. It was a look I got from her a lot. “She made us put all the lids back on all the glue sticks.”

She scowled at me, dumped her backpack in my arms and stomped outside. I buttoned my coat, reminded myself how lucky I was to be here, and followed her onto the crowded sidewalk.  

Cars honked and city buses rumbled by as Isa continued sharing the outrageous demands of her teacher. I nodded sympathetically, unsure what exactly I was supposed to be outraged by.  Was it the request to leave all frogs outside the classroom? Or the reminder not to bite each other?

We squeezed into the pizzeria on the corner, fighting the mob of kiddos and caregivers to make it to the counter.  The warm, yeast-scented air was a welcome relief from the fall chill. I ordered two large pieces of focaccia bread, and we  maneuvered through the sea of bodies to a high table by the window. 

“How was art today?” I asked, spotting a splotch of green paint on Isa’s chin. 

I took a bite of my focaccia and sighed with pleasure. If I had any musical talent, there would be love ballads about focaccia’s perfect blend of garlic and olive oil, and the way the crust crackled slightly under my teeth. 

“I made a black cat with green eyes.,” Isa said. “Federica tried to copy me, but mine turned out better. Take it out of my backpack and I’ll show you.”

Not waiting for the ‘please’ I knew would never come, I bent to unzip Isa’s backpack. 

And that’s when it happened- a tear so loud and devastating it sounded like fabric giving up on life. 

I froze in place and closed my eyes, offering a silent plea to the universe to undo the last three seconds. It didn’t work. 

“Julietta.” Isa said slowly, voice trembling with amazement. “Did you just rip your pants?” 

I stood, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, brain frantically trying to fix this. Would it make this situation better or worse if I pulled the fire alarm?

“Wow, your face is so red.” Isa’s voice seemed to get louder and more delighted with each word. “You look like a blonde tomato.”  A dozen people turned to look.   

I tried to downplay it, shaking my head and shrugging one shoulder. “A small hole. These are old jeans. Not a big deal.” 

Isa was having none of it. 

“Small hole?” she cackled, hopping off her chair to investigate. She peered at the damage, her grin widening. 

“That’s a BIG, HUGE TEAR!” Her voice cut through the after-school chatter, sharp and clear. “I can see your underwear! They're blue!” 

Her face was the happiest I’d seen since I’d gotten here. Like a child taken to Disneyland for the first time. 

Someone walked out of the pizzeria, letting in a draft of cold air, and I felt it in my bum. Not sure what else to do, I unbuttoned my coat and tied it around my waist. 

“Your coat looks ridiculous like that,” Isa commented. Her dad Marco was a fashion designer, and Isa shared her opinions on fashion frequently, loudly, and with no regard for a person’s feelings. 

She was right, of course. It was a wool peacoat, and looked absurd tied around my waist. But it looked slightly less ridiculous than walking around with my blue underwear showing. 

I took a breath. This is not a big deal. It’s just a pair of pants. 

But it felt like more. Or maybe I was over sensitive after yesterday’s email from my college advisor.  My dreams were ripping apart just like my Levis. 

Embarrassment threatened to morph into tears and I took another deep breath. It was fine. 

The email wasn’t anything new. We’d known for a long time that I would take over the family business. And now it was time to register for a bunch of obscenely dull business classes, no big deal. 

It’s just that… Over the last few weeks I’d been taking photos like crazy- old buildings, beautiful parks- and I’d forgotten how much I loved it. And I was good at it. But being good at photography felt like being good at juggling. A cool novelty, but not that relevant to day to day life.

I sat back in my chair and picked up my focaccia bread, trying to muster the casual air of a young woman who hasn’t exposed herself, and who’s dreams weren’t being crushed. 

Isa’s eyes zeroed in on the focaccia in my hand and her grin turned wicked. 

“It’s because you’re eating so much! You’ve gotten fat!”

My cheeks flamed and I closed my eyes. Yes, I’d grown a little rounder. But after 19 years of being “the skinny girl” I didn’t mind this new me. I just hadn’t expected the force of my expanding butt to rip apart a pair of jeans. In a public place.

I needed to get home, and then I would… What would I do exactly?  These were the last pants I had that still zipped, and they’d just sacrificed themselves in a futile attempt to cover my big, round bum. They deserved a plaque, or some kind of touching speech, but there was no time for that.    

The whole gang was going dancing at Calypso tonight- because foreigners got in free on Wednesdays- and I promised Paolo I would be there. Plus I’d spent the last three evenings playing board games with Isa, and I was tired of losing on purpose to keep her from going on a stuffed-animal hurling rampage. 

I needed a night out. Which meant I needed some new pants.

I grabbed my phone and pulled up my bank account. 27 Euros. Not enough to buy a pair of pants from the designer shops in our neighborhood. But if I could make it downtown, I could snag a pair of black pants at the market for 20 euro. 

The last ninety seconds would undoubtedly fuel my anxiety nightmares for weeks to come, but I did my best to shake it off and fixed Isa with my most serious look.  “Are you willing to embark on a mission of dire importance?”

Isa narrowed her eyes, wary of being tricked into helping someone. “What kind of mission?”

“A mission for pants.” 

I used my fingers to tick off the various elements of our quest. “We have less than two hours to hit the ATM, pull out all the money I have, catch the tram to Piazza Duomo, find the market, buy a pair of pants that are big enough to cover this beautiful bum of mine, and then zip back home before your parents get off work.” 

Isa wore the “bored and annoyed” expression most often seen on teenagers, but her tiny body leaned forward in interest. I almost had her. 

“And if we’re successful, I’ll treat us to gelato,” I added.

Her delicate lips curled into a smile. “And if we’re not successful, you’ll have to wear pants that show your underwear!” Her tone suggested the second outcome would be equally satisfying.  

“Are you in?” I asked. 

“In!”

Outside the fall air nipped at our cheeks, carrying the aroma of car exhaust and too-strong cologne. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant smell, but it was the smell of Milan, and I loved it.  A year from now, when I was back home, I would pay good money for a Milan-scented candle if I found one.

I cinched my coat tighter around my waist, and led Isa to the ATM on the corner. After checking for bad guys like my dad taught me, I stuck my card in the machine, punched in my pin and waited. And waited. 

“Why is it taking so long?” Isa whined. 

“The racoons must be tired today.”

Isa’s eyebrows scrunched together. “What racoons?”

“The ones in the machine. Counting out our money on their adorable racoon fingers and toes.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not how these machines work.” But she stared at the ATM for a long time, like she wasn’t entirely convinced.  

Finally the machine beeped and a message appeared. 

Insufficient funds for this transaction. 

But I just checked my account. 

I read the message a second time, translating each word carefully, and realized the machine had insufficient funds to give me my money. 

“Well, Isa, it looks like we found the one ATM in this city that has less money than I do.”

“So what do we do now?” she asked, whine back in full force. 

“We’ve got two options: Quickly choreograph a super awesome song and dance routine that we perform on the street for money.” Isa’s eyes widened. “Or go to another ATM.”

“ATM,” she grumbled.

“All right, have it your way. But you’re denying the world the chance to see these killer dance moves.” I shook my hips and shimmied my shoulders like a drunken hula dancer. Isa rolled her eyes so hard I saw nothing but white. 

According to Google there was another ATM 10 blocks away. It was on our way, but getting off the bus to use it and waiting for the next bus would eat a chunk of our time. My palms itched with anxiety, but I shook it off and grabbed Isa’s hand. 

“Look, the 27 tram is just pulling in!” 

We raced down the black to catch it and snagged two seats near the front. I checked the time. We were okay. 

Isa filled me in on the latest kindergarten gossip and a mean but hilarious impression of her teacher explaining the color wheel. 

“It’s like she thinks we have no concept of complementary colors!” 

Carrying on a conversation with Isa was easy because she liked to do all the talking. I nodded along as the city of Milan zipped past my window. Historic buildings, winding cobblestone streets, and elegantly-dressed Italians going about their day. In less than a month this place had stolen my heart. And ruined my jeans.  

I smiled, already picturing the gang’s reaction to this story when I told them tonight. As much as I wanted to keep my public humiliations to myself, it was a good story to tell and my friends would eat it up. Valentina and Carmen would be sympathetic. Diego would laugh so hard he snorted. Paolo’s commentary would be brutal, but then he’d say something kind to make up for it.  

Jake sauntered into my head, all smiling eyes and messy brown hair, but I shooed him away.  This was not the time to wade through all the mixed emotions he brought to the surface. 

Tires squealed and the bus driver yelled out his window at a pedestrian. From the language he used it would be fair to assume that in addition to crossing the street outside the sidewalk, this pedestrian had also murdered the bus driver’s entire family. I wanted to cover Isa’s ears, but she chattered on, unfazed. 

The next stop was ours and we leapt out as soon as the bus doors opened. 

Okay, I leapt out and Isa followed leisurely behind me. 

“We’re on a mission!” I reminded her. “Every second counts!”

Isa’s sly smile was not reassuring in the slightest. I huffed as she stopped to tie her shoe, paused to look in a store window, and bent down to collect a stick. This child! 

At last we made it to the ATM,  and relief flooded through me as it successfully spit out my money. I gripped the bills in my hand like a pack of street thugs might try to wrestle them from me at any moment. 

“Step one-complete!” I gave Isa a bump with my hip and she bumped me back. 

I resisted the urge to throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and race back to the bus stop. But I did jog alongside her, cheering like walking was an Olympic event and she was in the running for gold. It did not increase her speed. 

As we reached our stop I spotted our bus three blocks away. 

“Perfect timing!” I said, and held up a hand for a high five. Grudgingly, Isa complied.

My excitement faded as I noticed that our bus wasn’t moving. None of the cars were. Peering through the stalled traffic, I identified the reason for the delay. One block down from us the driver of a small truck and the driver of a small car had gotten out of their vehicles and were facing off in the middle of the street. 

It was a scene I’d witnessed twice since I’d been here. The first time an older man had punched a younger man in the face and then they’d both gotten in their cars and driven away. The second time the drivers had just yelled at each other for a long time. These two today had the appearance of yellers. One stood hands on hips, while the other waved his hands like he was conducting an angry orchestra.

“What do you think they’re saying?” I asked Isa. 

She shrugged, a bored look on her face.

I dropped my voice as low as I could and said, “I know you stole my cat, you dirty hooligan. Now give him back before I smash my tiny car into your tiny truck.”

The man with his hands on his hips started pointing furiously. 

I switched my voice to a falsetto and answered, ”I’ll never give Mr. Whiskers back! He’s my cat now. We eat tuna and take bubble baths together.”

Isa giggled and I smiled with victory. 

We continued to watch the scene unfold, making up more outlandish reasons for the conflict, until finally all the other cars started honking and the two drivers climbed back into their vehicles and drove off. 

At last the tram pulled into our stop and we climbed on. I checked the time and grimaced. We had less than an hour to make it home, and we weren’t even there yet. Plus I wasn’t entirely sure where the market was. 

Carmen and Valentina and I always went to the market by San Ambrogio, but it only opened on Saturdays. According to Google, there was a smaller Wednesday market not far from Piazza Duomo. We needed to find it fast, grab some pants and zip back. I wasn’t sure what Isa’s parents would do if they got home and we weren’t there, but I doubted they’d be thrilled. 

Our bus inched excruciatingly toward downtown as I weighed the pros and cons of knocking out the driver and driving the bus myself, Fast and the Furious style. In the end I decided against it. Mostly because I had no idea how to knock a person out. Or drive a bus. 

At last we reached our stop and I lovingly yanked Isa onto the sidewalk next to me. On the other side of the street lay Piazza Duomo, a football-field-sized square surrounded by gorgeous old buildings, fancy restaurants and designer shops. At the back center of the piazza stood il Duomo cathedral. 

The enormous gothic church reminded me of the sandcastles we used to build by letting wet sand drip through our fingers to form towers and spires. Stained glass windows displayed various religious symbols while menacing gargoyles lined the rooftop. Rays of late afternoon sun set the whole thing aglow and I itched for my camera.

“Ugh. You alway do this,” Isa groaned. 

“I was literally just standing here.”

“You always stop and get that dopey look on your face when we come downtown.”

“That “dopey” look is awe and appreciation for a spectacular cathedral that took nearly 600 years to build.”

A different day I would have dragged Isa on a tour of the cathedral out of spite. But there was no time.  

“Let’s focus,” I said, taking her hand. “The market is only a 10 minute walk from here.” 

That is to say, it should have been a 10 minute walk. But with my notoriously bad sense of direction, it turned into 25. 

My dad would be terribly disappointed. Not because he was one of those “always-disappointed” dads. He was the opposite- incredibly proud of me and my three siblings no matter what. But he had an exceptional sense of direction, and couldn’t understand how people got lost all the time. 

Kind of the same way I had a great head for numbers, and couldn’t understand how he got them confused so often. If he were as good with numbers as he was with directions, the family dry cleaning business would be doing a lot better. 

Eventually I found Strada Napolitano and gave a hurrah of victory. “See? I knew we’d find it!” I waved a hand to indicate the tables with white tents over them. 

“Are you sure this is it?” Isa asked, disdain mingling with disappointment in her eyes. 

My feelings mirrored hers as I took in the scene. The Saturday market at San Ambrogio had tables of merchandise going down both sides of the street for at least 4 blocks. This market had exactly three tables. And only one of them had clothes. It was like anticipating a seven course meal and getting served two cold chicken nuggets.

“Let’s see what they’ve got,” I said, infusing my voice with all the optimism I had left.

I zeroed in on the tent with clothes, pulse quickening, eyes darting past the hanging sweaters to search for pants.  A gray-haired woman rifled through purses, partially blocking my view of the merchandise. Behind the table a grumpy-looking man sat on a chair, black chest hair sprouting proudly from his shirt. 

As my eyes scoured the table, my brain launched a runaway train of thoughts. I’d never find the pants. I wouldn’t go out dancing tonight. I’d spend the night in my room rereading the email from my advisor. I’d think about my parents and the family business and resign myself to the inevitable. I’d register for every mind-numbing business class I had to. And my soul would shrivel up like an apple left out in the sun. 

I’m just not ready yet. 

A row of neatly folded black pants caught my eye and I sprang at them like a lion after a gazelle. The first stack was all Smalls. Those definitely wouldn’t work. The next pile was Mediums. I’d bought two pairs of medium pants on my first market trip with Carmen and Valentina. That had been a month ago and they no longer zipped. It was time to move up to Large.  

But where the pile of large pants should have been, there was nothing but empty table. The older woman who’d been looking at purses a second ago, stood holding a pair of black pants. The tag dangling off them said L. 

Panic zipped down my spine and into my fingertips. 

“Scusi, senore,” I said to get the man’s attention. His dark eyes flashed in annoyance.  “Do you have any other black pants in a size large?”

“What I have on the table is what I have,” he said, then picked up a newspaper and started to read. 

Isa wandered over and looked at the table. “Did you get your pants?”

I shook my head, pressing my lips together in disappointment. “They don’t have any more in my size.”

Isa took in the scene for a moment. “It's for the best,” she said, examining  a pair of mediums. “These are not good pants.” Her attempts at a whisper were unsuccessful and her high voice carried down the block.  “The material is cheap and thin. The seam work is laughable. Save your money and buy a quality pair of pants from a proper shop.” 

The man behind the table looked like he could care less about Isa’s opinions, but my neck flushed with embarrassment. And yes, I would have loved to buy a quality pair of pants from a proper shop, but with my nanny wages, market shopping was all I could afford.

“Isa,” I whispered. “You’re being rude.”

She shrugged. “I’m just saying, unless you want to look like an ignorant tourist, I’d choose something else.” 

I couldn’t take this child anywhere! 

Ready to make a hasty retreat, I reached for Isa’s hand. And that’s when I saw the woman behind her lay the pants back on the table. My whole body stilled. A triumphant grin spread over Isa’s face. We waited until the woman moved onto the tent selling household goods and then Isa snatched the pants and handed them to me. 

She smiled, and for a moment she looked like an innocent child, not the Machieavellian mastermind I knew her to be.

I cradled the pants to my chest with a love and tenderness usually reserved for newborn babies.

“Isa, you sweet liar,” I told her. “You saved the day.” 

“I wasn’t lying. Everything I said about those pants was true.”

Oh.

“But I knew you wanted them anyway,” Isa continued, “so I helped you get them.” 

“Well... I appreciate your help.”  She wandered over to the shoes without acknowledging my comment. 

Victory thrummed through my veins, and I turned to the grumpy man still reading his paper. 

“Scusi, senore. I’d like to purchase these pants please.”

The man dragged himself to his feet, scowl deepening as he assessed me. “30 Euro,” he said, like he was naming my ransom. 

I stared at him in disbelief. The pants at the market were always 20 euro. I knew because I’d bought two pairs. 

“I’m sorry, aren’t the pants 20 euro?”

He shook his head. “30.”

I had exactly 27 Euros. The panic started again, this time leaking out of my palms. 

It’s fine, a reasonable voice in my head said. No need to get worked up. Who cares about missing one night of dancing?

I do! I yelled at that stupid reasonable voice.  

Next year I would be a dutiful daughter and take over the family business, and even pretend to like it so my parents wouldn't feel guilty. But this year was a year of freedom. And I didn’t want to miss a single night of it. 

I looked in my purse like maybe my 27 euros had magically transformed into 30 euros. They had not. 

The temperature had dropped quite a bit in the last hour, and I would have liked to put my coat on but I couldn’t because…why was it again? Oh, right, it was keeping the world from seeing my bright blue underwear!

Isa wandered to the next tent over, and I took a step back from the table to keep her in my sights. A cardboard sign on the ground caught my eye, and careful not to enlarge the hole in my jeans, I bent over and picked it up. Black hand-written letters spelled out “Pataloni 20 Euro”. Hope and annoyance leapt inside me.

“This says the pants are 20 euro,” I said, waving the sign at the grumpy man, accusation ringing in my voice. 

He looked at the sign then looked at me. “Those are different pants.”

“Liar!” I blurted before I could stop myself. The man shrugged as if that wasn’t the worst thing he’d been called. 

My hands trembled, making the cardboard sign shake. This wasn’t fair.

The frustration and rage coursing through me was about more than just getting cheated out of a pair of pants. It was about feeling powerless in my own life. 

“Did you pay for the pants?” Isa asked. I hadn’t noticed her sneak in next to me. Her pleasure at outsmarting the other shopper still showed in the upturn of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes. My heart twisted. I opened my mouth to tell her I couldn’t get the pants, but stopped at the last second. 

The grumpy man sat back down in his stupid chair, with a stupid look on his face and something in my heart clenched.  I would never study photography. I would return to my tiny home town and dry clean people’s clothes. But as Milan was my witness, I would be wearing these black pants when I did.  

The cardboard sign had grown crinkled in my sweaty fist, and I flung it like a frisbee at the man’s feet. His head jerked up as it crashed into his ankle. 

“I am buying these pants!” I told him, staring him down. “And I am paying you 20 euros.” I slammed my money onto the table with such force it rattled. 

He stood, startled, and for a moment we stared at each other, tension flowing like a river around us. I thought he might try to stop me, and I wondered how far I would go to keep these pants. Would I bust out some of the Tae Kwon Do moves I’d learned in middle school? It seemed far-fetched, but adrenaline crackled through me like electricity, and I wasn’t sure what I would do. 

The man didn’t move and after one more charged moment I gave him another glare, then grabbed Isa’s hand and stormed off. If he wanted to chase me down, let him. I would make sure he regretted it.

“Wow,” Isa said when we’d walked a block. “You were kind of scary.”

With shaky hands, I slipped her backpack off my shoulder and shoved the pants inside.

“Sometimes you have to make sure you get what you want. Even if it’s not what other people want.” 

“I do,” Isa said, eyebrows squinching together in confusion. The idea that life could be anything other than exactly what she wanted seemed to puzzle her. 

I laughed out loud. 

“Perfect.” I gave her hand a squeeze. “Now let’s hustle home.”

We made it back to the main piazza without getting lost, which felt like a victory. Unfortunately a block before we reached our bus stop, the 27 tram pulled away from the curb. We’d missed it. 

The next one wouldn’t be here for another 15 minutes. I checked my phone. Catching the next tram would put us home after 6pm. Depending on traffic, it could be way after. I looked at the cars. They were barely moving. The tram hadn’t even made it to the end of the block. 

Hmmm… 

I looked at Isa. “Are you up for a little more hustle?”

She grinned in response, and holding hands we sprinted down the block. My coat billowed out behind me like a cape and the brisk fall air whipped through the gaping hole in my pants. I giggled at the absurdity of it all, and when Isa noticed she started giggling too. By the time we caught up to the tram we could barely walk straight. 

After much arm flailing and shouting, the tram driver opened his door. 

“Grazie, senore,” I sputtered, giggles still bubbling up inside of me. “Can we board?”

Behind me Isa began flapping my coat and squawking about blue underwear.  The driver looked like he wanted to close the door and drive off, but traffic was at a standstill. 

I tried to give him a look to let him know I wasn’t a crazy person. And also convey that if he didn’t let us on the tram I would jog alongside it yelling until he did. 

Eventually he muttered “Si,” and we clambered on. 

“Made it!” Isa said as we slid into two seats in the back. 

“Success!” I agreed and gave her a quick hug. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“True.” 

The traffic cleared up as we moved out of downtown, and we got to our bus stop near the apartment with time to spare. 

“I think we’ve earned our gelato,” I said, helping Isa off the bus and onto the sidewalk.

“Are you sure you want to be eating more?” Isa asked, staring pointedly at my bum. 

I gave her my best scowl. “I will walk through this city naked before I give up gelato.”

We pushed through the doors of the gelateria, and just seeing all the flavors, lined up like watercolors, eased the remaining tension from my shoulders. Isa chose fresh strawberry and I got pistachio and paid with the last seven euros I had. 

Maybe I wouldn’t have the career I wanted. Maybe my future held nothing but small-town, dry-cleaning misery. But today I’d fought for what I wanted, and I’d gotten it. It was a new and heady sensation. Like anything was possible. I had ten more months in a magical city filled with delicious gelato and great friends and -

“Are you going to see the guy with the pretty eyes tonight?” Isa asked, stealing a spoonful of my pistachio.  I knew exactly who she meant and smiled. 

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to tell him about the date you went on with that tall guy on Friday?”

“Nope.”

“And where’s the one who took you on a boat trip? Is he still around?” 

“Isa. Just eat your ice cream.”

The city lights flickered on as we walked back home. Isa leaped over the sidewalk cracks and I followed behind smiling. Yes, life was messy and unpredictable—full of ripped jeans and uncertain futures. But it was also filled with small victories and pistachio gelato. For now, that felt like enough.