Page 8 of My Stepbrother's Wedding
Elizabeth and Dad picked up a spurt of energy but still looked like roadkill. Now relieved, I followed them through a maze of corridors and terminals. The place reminded me of a high-end mall with exotic travelers, foreign signs, and billboards of starved models in sleek, trendy apparel. The Italians had a machismo about their dress that I liked—a welcoming change from Walmart back home. I romanticized about sneaking away from the family and seeing Italy without them.
We had a two-hour layover before our connection to Petrovistan. Elizabeth turned pink with anxiety, certain we’d miss it. We ran through the terminal like cannibals were chasing us. The wheel on my broken carry-on plopped with every step until we came to the gate. When we got there, the plane hadn’t even arrived.
We eyed the empty benches until Dad suggested getting more caffeine. Elizabeth and I wholeheartedly agreed. We stumbled to a kiosk where an olive-skinned man stood beside a silver espresso machine. The delightful smell of fresh brew lingered in the air. Dad ordered three cups, while Elizabeth and I slumped on the barstools. A minute later, our order came. Dad picked up his tiny porcelain mug and eyed it slack jawed.
“I ordered coffee,” he said.
The barista waved his hands like a symphony conductor. “Is espresso coffee.”
Dad frowned and handed the Barbie-sized mug to the barista. “Can I have a bigger cup?”
The man furrowed his brow in confusion. “You wants doppio?”
Dad shrugged. “I just want a bigger size.”
The barista nodded, the puzzled expression still covering his face. He poured the espresso shot into a white paper cup and handed it to my father. Dad looked into the 90 percent–empty drink like a child receiving socks and underwear on Christmas morning.
“Do you have any regular coffee?” Elizabeth asked.
The barista went back to conducting. “No, no, Lavazza coffee. Much good.”
Elizabeth half smiled. “Oh.” She looked at Dad. “What did he say?”
Dad shook his head. “No idea.”
I noticed all the other customers sipping from tiny mugs and realized there was a disconnect in our coffee expectations. “Can I have mine in a big cup with lots of water?” I asked.
The barista snapped his fingers, and his face brightened. “Ah! You wants Americano.” He poured my miniature drink into a paper cup and added hot water from the espresso machine. He handed it to me while Dad stared in wonder. A moment later, we each had a plain white cup of “Americano.”
We meandered back to the gate, enjoying our coffee. When boarding was announced an hour later, we stood in the queue, like in Chicago. As we waited, an elderly woman dressed in all black turned toward Elizabeth and rattled offa question in a foreign language. My stepmother froze, her hands trembling, a look of abject terror in her eyes. The woman repeated herself, clearly expecting a response. Instead, Elizabeth huddled behind Dad like a frightened puppy. I thought I heard a whimper.
My brain searched for a way to communicate, until ninth-grade Spanish class flashed into my mind. “No hablo Español,” I blurted.
“Kako?” the woman said with a confused glare.
I shrugged and stood stiff until the stranger frowned and turned around. The color on Elizabeth’s face changed from white to red, and her breathing slowly returned to normal.
“When did you learn Italian?” Dad asked me.
“Just now, I guess.”
A moment later, we boarded the plane, which was much smaller than the first one. Dad and Elizabeth sat together in the row ahead of me. I sat next to the old woman who had tried to speak to us earlier. She spent most of the flight babbling across the aisle with a dark-haired man in his forties. The man had on a well-worn business suit and showed his nicotine-stained teeth every time he spoke. An hour into the trip, the old woman shook my arm and said something in her language.
“She want to know where you from,” explained the man across the aisle, in an accent reminiscent of a James Bond villain.
“I’m from Chicago,” I said.
“You American?” The man sat up like he was surprised.
I nodded.
He looked up and down the aisle, as if afraid someone could hear us. “Is okay. We no blame you.”
“Thanks,” I said, slightly insulted and wondering if I’d missed something.
“Why you go in Petrovistan?”
“I’m on my way to Malegonia.”
