Free Wish You Were Italian by Kristin Rae Page B

married a fisherman, Zio Sandro, and moved to live with him in Riomaggiore. She worked in a little restaurant and eventually took it over, so now she owns it. My uncle died a year ago in an accident.”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry. How awful. What happened?”
    “I am not certain. They never found him, just his boat. My aunt believes he went straight up into heaven.”
    I’m unsure how to react.
    “She is the only one that thinks this way,” Chiara says with a small but knowing smile. “My cousins, Bruno and Luca, live with her and they help out. After the next school year, Bruno was to go away to university, but I am not certain he will be ready even then. His father was his world. He has, ah, what you call issues now.”
    “What sort of issues?”
    “Wrong crowd, bad choices. I am worried for him. He has great promise, though I feel he will waste it.” She stares out the window.
    “You’re close to him,” I guess, handing her a stray napkin from my backpack for her tears about to spill over.
    She still doesn’t look at me. “We were closer once. We spent many summers together in New York. But things are different now. We are different. My parents are alive, both of them. I am happy, planning to go away to university. He is … stuck.”
    “Is this trip going to be good? I mean, are you excited we’re visiting them?” I ask.
    Her eyes widen. “Oh, for certain! I love my family— amo la mia famiglia . And it truly is my favorite place on earth, though I have not seen many places yet.” She covers a yawn with theback of her hand and peers out the window again. “This is my first summer not to go to New York in several years, so that will be strange.”
    I fight back a yawn too, but they’re contagious. “You said you’re going to school there soon, right?”
    “ Sì! Can you imagine? Me, going to university in gli Stati Uniti! ”
    It seems crazy that people back home dream of going to places like Italy, and people in Italy dream of going to the United States. Is no one happy where they live?
    We finally step onto the platform in Riomaggiore as the sun starts its descent. Pulling my bag behind me, I walk over to a low brick wall and look out at the water. I’ve never seen a color quite like it. It’s the most delicious mixture of blues and greens, shimmering in the bright sunshine.
    “Clear and bright,” I whisper.
    “The Ligurian Sea!” Chiara exclaims, linking an arm through mine and snapping a picture of us with her cell phone.
    After dragging our luggage through a crowded tunnel that cuts through a hill, we have to practically hike up the steep street—Via Colombo—toward her aunt’s building. As I struggle to keep up with her fast pace, I have to remind myself I’m going to be living here for a while, and resist the urge to get out my camera to document every single market and patio restaurant we pass.
    We stop at a gated entrance, and I sit on top of my rolling bag, huffing and puffing. I gulp down half a bottle of water, looking up in wonder at the apartment building.
    “It’s pink.”
    Chiara giggles. “Look around you.”
    I stand and turn, taking in my surroundings now that I’m done being a pack mule. Boxy buildings hulk over us on both sides of the street, nearly every third one not quite Pepto-Bismol pink, but close. Some are white, mint green, orange, bright yellow. Most of the windows have dark-green shutters, open to the world outside despite the heat. Lines of laundry stretch in front of them and across balconies. It’s like I’ve been transported to a simpler time.
    “I’ve never seen anyplace like this.”
    “Wait until you see it from the sea,” Chiara says, dialing a number on her phone.
    Less than a minute later, a busty woman I assume is Zia Matilde opens the gate and pulls Chiara close to her, tears in both of their eyes. Matilde places a hand on the back of Chiara’s head and strokes her hair.
    “ Zia , this is my friend Pippa.”
    “ Sì! Happy you are here!”