Page 2 of Better Than Gelato
“So, why are you going to Milan?” I ask. The plane picks up speed.
“Work.” He looks down at the runway flying past.
“What do you do?”
“Business consulting.” He takes a couple of fast breaths.
“I’m a business major myself!” I say. “I was supposed to take a bunch of obscenely dull classes this semester but fate has intervened. An opportunity fell right into my lap. Like it was meant to be, you know?”
I look at his blank face. He doesn’t know. I continue undeterred.
“I heard about this nanny gig from my Italian professor. I called the family that very day, and they hired me and bought me a ticket to Milan.”
I’m waiting for him to cheer at my good luck, but he doesn’t. He just stares at the back of the seat in front of him as sweat trickles down his temple.
“So now, instead of dying a slow death from human resources management, I’m going to wander down cobblestone streets taking pictures and eating gelato.”
The plane has leveled off now and the shaking is mostly over. He turns to look at me.
“If you hate business classes, why are you majoring in business?” His face is still flushed, but his breathing sounds better.
“Doesn’t matter,” I reply. “The point is, I’ve miraculously escaped all of that for a year.”
He tips his head to the side. “And what about when the year’s over?”
“Then I slog through two more years and graduate.”
“And then?” he presses.
“Then I move back to my suffocatingly small hometown and run the family dry cleaning business.” The thought is so depressing my toes curl up, but I try not to let it show.
“And who came up with this plan?”
“My dad.”
His lips dip into a frown. “I see. And do you always let other people make your choices for you?”
This guy sounds less like a business consultant and more like a therapist.
“It’s not like that.” I reply automatically.
“If you say so,” he says, with an annoying shrug.
This conversation is the worst. I should have just let him puke on me.
I spend the flight reassuring myself that my seatmate doesn’t know what he’s talking about. After all, I made this decision, didn’t I? And sure, I’ve never worked with kids, or been to Italy, or even left the US. But I have afeeling,deep in my bones, that I’m meant to do this.
After what feels like days, the flight attendant tells us to prepare for landing. Even over the scratchy intercom, the Italian sounds incredible. I hang on every vowel, get lost in the up and down cadence. I know she’s telling me to fasten my seatbelt and put my tray up, but it sounds like she’s telling me to embrace life and live to the fullest. And also that she likes my hair.
When our plane lands, I walk down the narrow hallway and out into the main airport. I’m in Italy.ActualItaly. I close my eyes and soak up this feeling-this certainty that the best year of my life has officially started.
I follow the crowd of travelers and make my way to baggage claim. I’m trying to walk normally, like my carry-on isn’t that heavy, but the truth is, itisthat heavy. My hands are sweaty, and I’m trying to make them not be sweaty, but that’s not a thing I know how to do. I arrive at the baggage carousel and feel a moment of panic. How will I find my new boss?
I look frantically from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face, feeling more anxious by the second. Then I see a man holding a sign that says Juliet Evans. He has wildly curly black hair and a full face. Next to him is a woman and a little girl. The three of them look just like the photo Marco sent me.
Relief washes over me and my whole body tingles with excitement. I walk over, grinning like an idiot and say, “This is me.”
“Julietta! So happy to meet you! I am Marco Rossi.” He’s speaking faster than my Italian teacher, and it takes my brain an extra moment to match his words to their English counterparts.
