Page 83 of Better Than Gelato
“But the deadline for your application is tomorrow?”
“Yes!”
“Was there something in there about coffee? Have you had some coffee tonight?”
“The guy who’s buying the place is turning it into a coffee shop. I haven’t had any coffee tonight.”
“Really? Nothing?”
“I think it’s adrenaline. My heart has been pounding for the last five hours. That’s normal, right?”
“Maybe take some deep breaths.”
“Ooh, that’s a good idea.”
We breathe together on the phone, and it sounds silly, but just hearing Jake’s deep breaths calms some of the panic rising in me.
“You can do this,” Jake says. “You deserve this. You deserve every good thing.”
* * *
By the next day, my nerves are shot. My application is due in less than twelve hours, and I’m missing two photos. I stayed up crazy late writing an essay on What Photography Means to Me and filling out all the questions on the application.
I drag myself out of bed and bring Isa to school, then call Maggie and fill her in on everything. She’s known about my secret dream of being a photographer for years, but we never talked about it openly. She knew, like I did, that it wasn’t really an option for me. When I give her the news, she whoops and hollers like she’s just won the lottery. Then she listens while I read her my essay and go over every application question.
By the time I get off the phone, Maggie’s hyped me up so much I feel like I could conquer a small island nation. Or at the very least take two photographs. I hold onto that feeling as I take the tram downtown, fighting valiantly to keep the doubt from crashing in. When we reach the piazza and I step off the tram onto the worn cobblestones, Il Duomo is waiting for me like a gothic fantasy.
I can’t imagine a better subject for an architectural photo. The tension in my neck starts to ease.
I can do this.
It takes a while to capture il Duomo in all its colossal glory. I remember the frustration I felt the first time I tried to photograph it. Eventually, I find an angle that allows me to get the whole thing from the steps filled with people to the spires filled with gargoyles. It involves lying on my belly in the middle of the piazza, but it turns out so well it's worth it.
One down, one to go.
From what I learned, photojournalism is about telling a story. All the examples of photojournalism I could find online were about war or natural disasters. I sit on the steps and wait for an earthquake to hit. Nothing.
I watch the people in the piazzago about their mornings to the soundtrack of downtown traffic. There’s some honking and commotion at the corner of the piazza.I watch an old Italian man climb out of his car and wave his arms at a young man on a Vespa who cut him off. It’s the kind of scene you see at least twice a week. I remember telling my mom the story of an especially funny incident my first week here. I thought it was going to come to blows, but in the end, the two men drove off.
The thought of storytelling triggers my brain. I grab my camera as fast as I can. I’m not sure if I’m close enough. I focus the shot as close as it will go and then zoom out a little to capture a wide view of the scene. I take shot after shot of the old man yelling and the young man looking away. I snap until both men drive off. I’m not sure if it’s what the photography department has in mind, but I think it tells a pretty good story of Italian road rage.
I ride a wave of triumph all the way to Isa’s school. I got my shots. I can feel it. I’ll need a few hours to make my final decision on the photos I took today, plus edit all the photos I chose yesterday and review the rest of my application and essay. But I should be able to get it all done in time.
I’m feeling so good it takes me a minute to register Isa’s sour face.
“Failed your calculus exam?” I guess.
She shoots me a dark look. “I forgot my caterpillar project.”
“Tell me about your caterpillar project.”
“It’s a big project that shows the life cycle of a caterpillar, from tiny egg to big butterfly. They were due today, and I didn’t have mine.”
“Because you forgot it at home?”I don’t remember seeing this thing.
“Because I forgot to do it.”
“Oh.”
