Page 31 of Prosecco with My Professor
Bell folds her arms. “I was wondering if you had plans for Thanksgiving? There is an exchange program at my university, and the American students are hosting an event. They are calling it a potluck?”
“Oh. That’s such a nice offer. Um, I have plans with Shonda. You remember her, Professor Offredi? She was in your Business Analytics class with me. But I can ask her if she’d rather do something bigger.” I swivel my gaze back to Abelie. “Um, would you be going too? Of course, I mean, wouldbothof you be going?”
“I have never been to a Thanksgiving before; have you, Santo?” My neighbor shakes his head. “Yes, we will come. They are roasting quite a few turkeys, and there will be many pies and some stuffing.”
I smile. Having someone else do it sounds much better than making stuffing from scratch. “That’s all the good stuff. Can I let you know?”
Abelie and I exchange WhatsApp numbers, and I thank them for the invitation. That night, I check with Shonda, and we both agreed that Thanksgiving is typically a the-more-the-merrier situation. Thursday, after class, I scurry home to grab my cranberry sauce and green bean casserole—turkeys were being provided, so I saved the chicken for a later date. I meet Shonda outside my apartment, and a few moments later, Santo pulls up in his car. It’s a red sedan, and I notice a cute little shamrock logo right by the door. Is it an Irish car? I don’t know anything about cars, but I’ve never heard of a car made in Ireland.
Santo gets out. Nerves flutter in my stomach. God, he’s good-looking. He’s still dressed as he was for class today: a fitted jacket and dress slacks.
Shonda jumps in the backseat, so I take the front seat and buckle the seatbelt. “Thank you for driving us,” I tell Santo. Abelie’s school is on the other side of the city, so she’ll meet us there.
“Yeah, and sweet ride,” Shonda chimes in from the back. “I’ve never been in an Alfa Romeo.”
That doesn’t sound Irish. I bite my tongue, not wanting to sound stupid. It is a nice car, and I smooth the black leather under my thigh with my finger. It’s soft.
“You are welcome.” He shifts the car into gear and on to the street. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a manual car, and Santo’s hand is right there on the gear shaft, just a few inches from my thigh as he zips through traffic. “Your food smells good. What are you bringing?”
I look down at the cold green bean casserole in my lap. I doubt he can smell it at all—I can’t. We were told there will be microwaves to reheat food, which is not ideal, but it’s better than a cold meal. I catch Shonda’s eye in the back seat, and she snickers.
“It’s a green bean casserole.” I explain the ingredients and Santo repeats them back to me slowly, as if learning a foreign language.
“French…fried…onions?”
“Yes.”
Santo looks skeptical but then Shonda leans forward and points toward something ahead of us. She diverts attention from the food and asks Santo about construction traffic in the city. After a few harrowing near-misses and what I can only assume is colorful cursing in Italian by Santo, we arrive at the architecture studio where the Thanksgiving potluck is being held.
I put my green bean casserole on the pre-microwave table, leaving it to the students, who have several microwaves plugged in around the room. They scurry back and forth, heating dishes up. There’s a table with drinks—a suspect-looking punch and cases of Dreher, a cheap Italian beer—but a moment later, a stranger grabs my elbow and steers me toward the “adult” drink table, where I pour myself a glass of red.
I find Shonda and Santo again. He’s laughing at something she’s said, and this might be the most relaxed I’ve seen Santo since school started. Abelie joins us in a few minutes, kissing my cheek in greeting, and introduces us to some of her friends in the program.
Celebrating Thanksgiving was supposed to be a taste of “normal” life back home. But here, standing with a bunch of students the age of my kids, I find my heart clenching in homesickness. As proud as I am for my acceptance to the MBA program and for coming all the way here out of my comfort zone, I miss my kids. A lot.
There’s a cluster of people over in one corner. I can’t see what they are doing, but occasionally someone shouts out some numbers.
“One seventy-two-point-three!”
“Two thirty-six-point-eight.”
“Abelie,” I ask, leaning toward her. “What are they doing?”
“I am not sure; let me ask.” She calls across the room in Italian, and a male student with a clipboard looks up. He answers, and they go back and forth for a moment before Abelie turns back to me, agape. “They are weighing themselves on a scale and having some kind of contest? Who can eat the most?”
My jaw drops. That is my worst nightmare.
Abelie chuckles at my face. “Is this not something all Americans do for Thanksgiving?”
“No. Oh my god,no.”
Shonda face-palms. “College kids are so weird.”
We all murmur our agreement and watch in fascination.
Someone clears their throat and then a sharp whistle rings out. There’s a man standing over by the buffet set up—white, older than me, and wearing jeans and a polo shirt—who is ineffectively clicking his plastic wine glass with a disposable knife. Instead of theting-ting-tingthat carries, it’s a muffledbink-bink-bink, and he continues it for comedic effect once the room is quiet, and a few students chuckle.
His message is brief—dinner is served. There are about thirty people here, but they’ve got both sides of the buffet going and there is a ton of food. Soon we’re perched at a collection of four drafting tables which have had stools pulled up all around to accommodate everyone. Abelie’s friends and one of the American professors have joined us, completing our table of eight.
