Page 3 of Better Than Gelato
“This is Sofia, my wife,” he says motioning to a slender woman with glowing olive skin and glossy dark hair. I wonder what miracle products she uses to make her hair shine that way. She kisses my cheeks and says, “Benvenuta.” I’m at least four inches taller than her and she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach my cheeks.
“Grazie,” I say back. I probably sound like a five-year-old, but I’m so excited to speak to real Italians, I don’t care.
“This is Isabella, our littletesoro,” Marco continues. Isabella is skinny with straight brown hair that falls past her shoulders. She’s missing a front tooth, but I’ve heard that’s normal for kids her age.
She slips her hand into mine and asks, “Are you a Barbie?”
I have neither the bust nor the accessories of Barbie, but I guess being tall, blonde, and skinny is enough to get lumped into that category. I shrug and say, “Sort of.” She holds my hand as we wait for my suitcases. At one point, she drops my hand, wipes the sweat onto her pants and grabs my hand again. I send a heartfelt plea to my nervous system to take the sweating down a notch.
We step outside the airport, and I let the sights and sounds and smells of Italy wash over me. At this moment that’s a bunch of leering cab drivers, honking horns, and the scent of cigarettes and car exhaust. Still, it feels magical.
September in Milan is chillier than September in California, and I wish I’d grabbed my jacket from my suitcase. Marco leads us to the car, which looks like a child’s toy. The fact that we all manage to fit inside of it seems to bend the laws of physics.
Marco simultaneously carries on a conversation with me, while conversing with the other drivers through his open window. His conversation with me contains fewer swear words.
“This is Isa’s first year of full-day school,” he says. “You’ll be dropping her off at 8:00 a.m. and picking her up at 4:00 p.m. Sofia will go with you tomorrow to show you.”
I nod and look out the window at the city of Milan. Beautiful old buildings, cobblestone streets, Italians nonchalantly going about their amazing Italian lives. I can’t stop smiling.
Oh no, has my smiling crossed the line from friendly to manic?
It’s happened before. I do my best to smile like a normal person who is pleasant and happy, instead of a lunatic who’s broken free of the asylum.
“She looks tougher than the last girl,” Isa says.
Sofia gives Isa a warning look, but Isa turns to me and says, “The last nanny quit.”
Oh. I try to hide my surprise, but I have a terrible poker face. Sofia flushes in embarrassment and Isa giggles in delight.
“Why did she quit?” I ask Isa in a super casual, not-a-big-deal sort of way.
Isa looks at me with wide innocent eyes, and I know before she even opens her mouth that the next words she speaks will be a lie.
“I have no idea,” she says. She maintains strong eye contact, daring me to ask a follow-up question.Are all six-year-olds this intimidating?
“Sofia and I will be home by 6:00 p.m.,” Marco continues in a rush. “You’re welcome to eat dinner with us, but when you meet your friends, I’m sure you’ll want to go out in the evening, and that’s fine too.” He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a black cell phone and hands it to me.
“The phone is on us, you can just pay to put more minutes on the card as it runs out. It’s already full of numbers. There’s a nice group of friends our previous nannies have spent time with, and I’m sure they’ll be calling soon.”
Marco pulls into a tiny parking lot full of tiny cars just like his. There are four tall apartment buildings surrounded by trees. With Marco’s help, I lug my suitcases to apartment building C. The elevator is too small for all of us to go up at once, so Marco brings me up first and Sofia and Isabella follow.
As soon as Isabella walks in the door she gives me a tour, pointing out doors and windows, as if being American, I might not recognize such things. The Rossis’ apartment is small, but bright. The couch is the dark red of sundried tomatoes, and the curtains are a sheer, sunny yellow. I catch a balcony to the right and a kitchen to the left before Isa drags me down the hall to my room.
It’s perfect. Small and cozy, with a wardrobe tucked in one corner and bed and nightstand tucked in the other. The bed has a turquoise comforter and two giant pillows with striped pillowcases. Isa settles onto the bed and offers commentary on each item in my suitcase as I unpack. Marco is a fashion designer, and Isabella has strong opinions on clothes.
“That’s a lot of jeans,” she says. “Why do you have so many?”
“I wear them everywhere,” I say, and Isabella furrows her brow.
“Do you work in construction?” she asks.
I laugh and shake my head. “No.”
“Then you’re wearing the wrong clothes,” she says straight-faced. “You’ll be the only one at school pick-up wearing jeans. But don’t worry. I will tell you all the clothes you should be wearing instead. You’re lucky to have me.”
I laugh. “I think you’re right.”
I like this girl. She’s funny and smart. This nanny gig is going to be a breeze.
